Boyfriend Goals

“Will do,” Freddy replied, tying his long hair back in a ponytail. He had a thick beard to match.

Orlando opened the door, and the two of us walked out. We didn’t even discuss where we were going, both of us turning toward the Lighthouse, the local bar and grill that served some kick-ass food. It was built around a lighthouse replica—which wasn’t functioning and wasn’t even right on the water.

Townsfolk looked up when we entered, some saying hello, others offering a wave or a smile. The bar counter was to the far left, crescent-shaped to fit inside, and there were booths and tables on the right. In the back they had billiards tables, an old jukebox, and a stage for when locals came in to perform.

Orlando and I found an open booth and slipped inside just as Patsy, one of the waitresses, stepped up. “Well, if it isn’t the Barlow boys, different as night and day.”

I tried not to grimace. Sometimes I couldn’t believe that was a thing people actually said to us. I mean, yeah, I highlighted our differences, but it was one thing when I was the one doing it, another when it felt like people were saying it’s Orlando and his sidekick—one who just wasn’t quite as good as he was.

“Good evening, Patsy,” Orlando said.

“Ma’am,” I added.

“What can I get you boys?” There were menus on the back of the table, in the clutches of a fake lobster, but neither of us needed them.

We both got beers, and Orlando, being a good New Englander, ordered seafood while I got a steak. I was a bit of a carnivore.

“You hear anything about the building?” Orlando asked when Patsy left.

“Not much. The lawyer said he reached out to the grandson and that he’d be here soon. And he told him Wilma requested that he continue to rent the space to me for at least a year. I understand why she wanted to keep it in her family, but it fucking sucks. She rented to me for cheap, and there’s not a whole lot available if he’s a dickhead.” Which meant I might have to go back to the mainland and work in someone else’s shop. If that was the case, I’d likely move. Maybe that was a good idea anyway. I’d licked my wounds long enough. I’d run from Little Beach, then run away from the city. Maybe it was time I made a plan and moved toward something instead of hightailing it away.

“Whatever happens, we’ll figure it out,” Orlando replied. It was such a typical Orlando answer. “There might be an apartment coming up for rent, I heard, over on Half Moon Bay Lane. If that doesn’t happen, or while you’re waiting, you can always stay with Mom and Dad or me and Heather.”

Because that was every twenty-six-year-old’s deepest desire. Move back home, and then in with your parents. I’d be getting laid even less since I wouldn’t be able to hook up with the guys who occasionally came over from the mainland.

“No offense, but I’d rather die.”

Orlando rolled his eyes. “You’re so dramatic.”

“You’re so dramatic,” I mocked. My brother always seemed to bring out the inner twelve-year-old in me.

“Why so grumpy, Snacks?” He grinned, and I flipped him off.

“I hate you with every fiber of my being.”

“I love you too, little bro.”

I tried not to grin. He was so fucking annoying.

Patsy brought our beer, and we changed the subject, talking about work and life. He asked about Kris and his wife, Megan, as if they didn’t see each other as much as Orlando and me.

I couldn’t stop thinking about Wilma’s grandson, though, the one who hadn’t given enough shits about her to ever be in her life, but he sure was finding his way to Little Beach Island fast enough to claim his inheritance. I hated the fucker already.

CHAPTER THREE

Milo

Chester was odd. I knew I shouldn’t think things like that. People thought I was weird, and while I knew that, I didn’t understand why they felt it, but Chester really was. He kept looking at me funny. And he had a strange mustache that he touched all the time. It curled up at the edges and like…why? What was the point in that? It reminded me of a cartoon character. But what really annoyed me was how he kept asking if I was sure I wanted Wilma Allen’s building, if I thought I could handle it.

“Do you think I’m stupid?” I finally asked, sitting across from him in his office, which literally smelled like old socks and cheese.

His eyes widened as if he hadn’t expected me to ask. People were like that; so many didn’t say what they meant or what they were thinking—again, something I couldn’t wrap my brain around—and every time I did, when I spoke whatever words flitted through my head, they looked at me like I was crazy, didn’t expect it, and oftentimes ended up speechless.