Great. All the stools free all along the bar, and someone’s just gotta park down next to me like they want to be friendly.
But I breathe out a sigh of relief when I look up and see Justin, sinking down next to me with his movements heavy and tired, his face haggard. There are dark circles under his eyes, and he’s a bit of a stubbly mess.
“Hey, Chief,” he says wearily, folding his arms on the bar. “Mind if I join you? Can’t sleep.”
I give him a friendly smile. Here’s one problem I might be able to make some progress with tonight.
“Sure,” I say, lifting my glass in salute. “Been meanin’ to talk to you anyway.”
“Yeah?” He looks at me quizzically, even as he lifts one hand to the bartender. “What’s up?”
“Nothing to worry about,” I say. “But, say, how do you feel about dinner at my place sometime real soon?”
* * *
Okay.
Maybe I drank a little more than I meant to last night. The wicked hangover settling in tells me plenty in loud shouts of pain.
Still, I’m feeling pretty good about my decision to invite Justin over to dinner.
Whatever weight was bearing him down last night, it seemed to lift a bit when I made the offer. He’d relaxed as we’d sat and drank in near silence.
Lost in our own thoughts, each of us.
Sometimes it ain’t bad to have a drinking buddy.
And I’d walked him back to his apartment, just to clear my head and make sure he got home safe. Something about his place still bugs me. It’s too damn barren.
It seems so lonely, just him and those photos all lined up along the walls.
Kid like that needs company.
Maybe I ain’t his family, no, but I can at least remind him he’s part of something. Being with the fire team is no small feat.
You have to trust a man in the middle of hell with your life.
Once I saw him home, I wandered back to my dark house and collapsed into bed.
Tried hard not to think about Peace, sleeping just a little ways away, only a thin wall between us.
Fat chance.
I can’t not think about her. Morning brings the smell of frying bacon and the sound of clanging pans drifting up the stairs.
I don’t know if the smell makes me want to throw up or makes me hungry. That hangover messed with my senses something fierce.
One thing I know: that noise is gonna kill me.
Snarling, I crack one eye open.
Someone’s been in my room.
There’s a water bottle on the nightstand and the bottle of Tylenol that belongs in the medicine cabinet. Andrea didn’t leave that.
Shit.
She’s probably still holed up in her room, hoping I’ll oversleep long enough for her to sneak out with her friends before I can say boo about the next week.
No can do.
I’m due out on a welding job at the Potter farm. Just a quick private gig, but not many others have the qualifications. They’ve got some framing that needs to be done up proper and safety-checked for a new well tank.
Welp.
Dragging myself out of bed, I grunt as my body protests with creaking bones and a throbbing in my thigh that matches the pounding in my skull.
Goddamn, what kind of rotgut did I drink last night?
The sound of Peace’s soft singing echoes below, prying my mind off the pain.
I pause mid-reach for the water bottle to have a listen.
She’s singing something sunny, something sweet, lyrics about California waves and tans.
Even with my skull splitting fit to blind me, I can’t help but grin.
And with a bit more energy, I wolf down several pain pills, chug the water, throw some clothes on, brush my teeth, and go clattering downstairs.
It’s a good morning. An easy morning, like Peace just fits into the house in some odd little way. With nothing more than a good morning smile, she reveals another talent.
Knowing the perfect cure for a hangover: a big greasy breakfast, bacon and sausage and cheese and mushrooms and onions all slammed together into the largest, gooiest omelet I’ve ever seen.
Girl knows the way to a man’s heart, all right.
“You’re a lifesaver, darlin’.” I toss her a wink as I settle at the dining room table and tuck in to the food.
Andrea even comes down, still in her pj’s—girl’s sixteen and still sleeps in a big purple fuzzy onesie, and somehow I’m just not surprised that Peace loves it.
That’s another thing Broccoli’s good at. Making Andrea light up as they chatter over breakfast.
I might as well not even be here, listening to Peace yammer on about the massive sapphire-blue waves people surf off the shores of Oahu and Maui with a glimmer in her eye.
As much as she swears she belongs to the continental US of A now, there’s a part of her that’ll always call that far off paradise home. And who can blame her? My ears prick up as she talks about the palm trees and big sea turtles and some wild story about this former SEAL dude taking down a modern-day high seas cartel for a very forgetful lady.