“She’s single, ya know.”
“Who?” He knew who Rennie was referring to but acted dumb anyway.
All she did was laugh and signal for the bartender. “You’re like an open book. Your hard-on is poking the wall in front of you.”
He adjusted himself on the stool, coyly glanced at his lap, and cleared his throat. He remembered now why Rennie had sometimes gotten on his nerves—she said what was exactly on her mind and never held back.
“You can’t be mad at her.”
“I can do whatever I want.” As he said the words, he felt childish and saw himself as a five-year-old trying to torment Monroe into chasing him around the playground.
Rennie set her hand on his forearm and squeezed. “Trust me, Bowie. There’s a lot that you don’t know. You need to give her some time.”
“She’s had fifteen years to figure her shit out, Rennie.” He lifted his pint and took a long drink, emptying half the glass. Rennie had no idea what she was talking about, none whatsoever. He was certain she knew Brooklyn’s daughter and probably spent a good amount of time with her.
“Look, it doesn’t matter. She’s here to do a job, and then she’ll be gone.” He finished his beer and slammed the glass down on the counter. He pulled his wallet from his back pocket and opened it without thinking. His eyes caught the corner of a familiar picture he had carried with him for years. He withdrew it slowly, taking in every square inch of the faded photo of him, Brooklyn, and Austin.
“Yeah, keep thinking that.” Rennie took her beer from the bartender and stood. Bowie had resigned himself to going home to wallow in his own pity party when he heard Rennie screech and yell out Graham’s name. Bowie’s heart sank. There was no way he was leaving the Whale Spout now.
FOURTEEN
Against her wishes, the woman she called her best friend took the empty stool next to Bowie Holmes. Brooklyn reached for the hem of Rennie’s shirt to pull her toward the empty table, but her friend had a sudden burst of energy that propelled her toward Brooklyn’s foe. Reluctantly, she sat and pulled her phone out of her pocket. She read Brystol’s book report while she waited for her friend to come to her senses. She sent a text to her daughter, telling her she loved her, thanking her for the report, and asking her to let her know if she needed her to come home. As soon as she sent the message, she hoped Brystol would text back and request she return immediately.
She set her phone down on the table and pulled up a home design app to work on an idea she had for the carriage house. As much as she didn’t want to look at Bowie and Rennie, she did. Every few seconds she found herself distracted, whether from a noise in the back of the bar, where people were throwing darts or shooting pool; a chair scraping on the wooden floor when someone stood; the waitress walking by; or the door opening. Each time she would look up from her app only to have her eyes land on Bowie. She studied the way he sat on the stool, rigid and put off by the fact that Rennie was talking his ear off. What she hadn’t expected was the slight lift in the corner of his mouth when he turned and saw Brooklyn staring at him. She focused her attention back on her phone, determined to ignore what was going on not too far from her.
Rennie had showed up days earlier than anticipated. When she and Brooklyn had spoken on the phone, Rennie had said she’d visit on the weekend, not midweek. Not that Brooklyn minded. She needed to have her friend there, mostly to give her comfort. Brooklyn’s rocky relationship with her former friends and town teetered on disaster, and Rennie would be the interference she needed to avoid everything else around her.
After Rennie had doted on Brystol for a bit, she had pulled Brooklyn out of the house, telling her that they needed adult time. Brooklyn preferred they walk along the beach, take a drive, or go down to the docks and watch the ships come in, anything that would allow her to hide behind her ball cap. The moment Rennie made a beeline for her car, Brooklyn knew they were headed for the bar. She thought about begging her friend—the idea of throwing a fit even crossed her mind—but she knew Rennie would call her out on her bullshit and give her one hell of a guilt trip.
Over the years, Brooklyn had thought about everything she would say when she saw her old friends again, how she would apologize and tell them she hadn’t meant to stay away. Those practiced words had failed her when she had seen Monroe at the grocery store. The only person who could possibly understand her reasoning would be Bowie, yet words had failed her when she had almost run him over outside the inn. He was so angry: first when he thought she was trying to kill him with her vehicle and again when he realized she was the one driving said vehicle. Years of pent-up anger and longing for the man she used to call her best friend kept her tongue tied, and instead of jumping into his arms and telling him how much she had missed him or dragging him into the house to see Brystol, she let his anger dictate how their encounter would be. He hated her, and she was going to let him.