No Gentle Giant (A Small Town Romance)

I tell myself I’m the picture of composure as Alaska parks and I get out of the Jeep.

Very funny. I’m most definitely not composed as we step into the noisy, crowded pub, especially when I’m not expecting the attention.

It’s like a bad rom-com movie.

Every freaking eyeball in the bar whirls toward us.

Argh.

I freeze at the threshold.

I can hear the whispers, little hints of my name and his, the word dating, and a few other choice words I’d rather not repeat.

Oh, but believe me, they douse my face in flames.

Hello, paralysis.

Then Alaska’s at my side, just standing there. Oddly tense, stock-still, his face an unreadable stone.

His hand brushes mine, the backs of his knuckles coarse. Without thinking, I do it.

I grab on and squeeze for dear life.

This is all part of the façade, right?

Letting everyone think we’re a thing.

Including certain folks who think the girl who’s never had a proper boyfriend has slept her way through half of Heart’s Edge.

How does it feel? This soft voice croons in the back of my mind.

It doesn’t feel fake as his hand goes loose in mine, tightens, and locks our fingers together, his rough skin grazing mine. The sun-fire heat of his palm envelops my hand.

It feels like he’s squeezing my heart into a little clay knot.

I can do this.

Oh, God.

I can do this.

But I can’t stand here with townsfolk daggering me with dirty looks, and I cast about quickly, searching for the back of Flynn’s head.

I say the back of his head because that’s all I’m used to seeing, Flynn parked at the bar and bent over whatever his poison is for the night.

Looks like tonight’s no different.

There’s a noticeable radius of empty stools around him, like no one wants to be near his slumped, stoop-shouldered figure. His rangy body bows over as if he’s forgotten how to sit up and his wispy grey-white hair sticks up in little tufts from the top of his head.

I can smell the liquor on him before we close in.

Bourbon, tonight, by the stench of it.

My heart wrenches as I slide onto a stool next to him, Alaska taking the seat on my other side.

Flynn’s eyes are rheumy, filmed, lost. He stares into that tumbler of whiskey like he just wishes he could break its hold on him.

I know that look.

And I feel like I’m seeing my dad resurrected as I take in his sallow skin and the signs of addiction pockmarking his face.

“Hey, Flynn,” I murmur.

Can he even hear me? I’d meant to come on friendly, firm, but I just can’t.

This hurts.

The plan to offer him a drink to loosen up flies out the window.

No flipping way. I can’t stand being the one to feed another drop of death down his throat.

He blinks slowly, like it’s taking time for my voice to filter through his fog, and he lifts his head, peering at me like he just can’t quite see me through some cloud in his mind.

A minute later, his vision clears, and he offers me a smile with slack lips.

“Little Miss Flissy,” he slurs. “Well, I’ll be damned. Feels like I haven’t seen you since you were barely knee-high.”

That’d be back when my dad was alive.

Back when the two of them were friends.

Even though we’ve both lived in the same town for the decade since.

“How’s Morgan?” he asks, and that hurt inside me turns into a hot lance.

I search his watery eyes.

“Flynn,” I say softly. “Dad’s been dead for ten years. You know that.”

“Huh?” His face wrinkles inward before he sighs heavily. “...oh. Shit. Yeah, you’re right.” Slowly he looks around. His eyes sharpen as if he’s just realizing where and when he is. “I forget things sometimes. Sorry, Felicity.”

“It’s okay.” Even if the fumes of alcohol rising off him hurt my nose, I reach over and rest my hand on Flynn’s wrinkled fingers. “Dad’s actually what I came to talk to you about, Flynn.”

“Yeah?” He puckers his lips together oddly, smacking them, then pulls his hand away from mine and curls it against his tumbler, his fingers shaking. “Don’t know what you want me to say. Morgan was a good guy. Loved shooting the shit out here with me. And man, we had some damn good fishing trips. Great fucking fishing trips.” He sighs so hard it puffs his cheeks. “Really didn’t deserve to go the way he did, Little Bee.”

Arrow, meet heart.

My eyes flutter shut just a second too long at a nickname I haven’t heard forever.

Why does this hurt so much?

I’m angry at my father, damn it.

I don’t miss him.

I don’t.

...but I do.

I miss the man I knew before he was hollowed out by his demons, before he always had this haunted, hungry look in his eyes, like a vampire desperate for one more taste of blood.

I miss when he started calling me Little Bee with his hand on my shoulder, always so gentle.