Page 8 of Buried in the Woods Below

“Come up to Minnesota. It will be good for you,” she says, her voice casting like a fishing line. “You and I can eat dinner tomorrow and then boat to the Parkers’ for cocktails. The house is gorgeous, and it will give you time to escape the work chaos and recharge your batteries. Plus, their twin girls are absolutely adorable.”

I pull into the overpriced, undersized parking spot outside my building and kill the engine.

“Let me think about it. And I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

“Take that as a maybe.”

“All right, sweetheart, I’ve got to run. Have a wonderful evening. Kisses.” She hangs up.

Summer at the Parkers’? I weigh the pros and cons in my head.

Pro: I would love to see Olivia again.

Con: I’m pretty sure Olivia’s mom, Laelynn, hates me.

Pro: Ending my summer at a gorgeous lake house.

Con: Since I’m hopeless with little kids, any babysitting gig quickly turns treacherous.

Pro: Eric Parker was easy on the eyes. I’d be lying if I said he hadn’t crossed my mind—I wonder how he’s aged.

Con: I prefer running away from my past, not revisiting it.

After five minutes of weighing the pros and cons, one thing becomes abundantly clear: I need a drink.

Chapter 4

As I step inside the bar, I’m temporarily blinded by the darkness. Maguire’s is one of those pubs where time stands still—no windows, no clocks, just walls that reek of alcohol and cigarettes.

The music is always sixties rock played at a volume one notch above a whisper, and no one except me is under fifty. The bar and decor are nothing more than a sea of dark wood and framed Irish cartoons. It’s the kind of place where no one would bat an eye if you drank alone, but they might if you didn’t.

I remember the first time I came to Maguire’s. I attracted some confused looks. What was a lanky yuppie businesswoman doing in a joint like this? Then I ordered a tequila straight, sat at the bar by myself, and they realized I was one of them. Someday I’ll talk to my therapist about why I’m more at ease around sixty-year-old alcoholics than my peers, but today is not that day. And honestly, I know why.

I wave to Phil and Vince, two other regulars wearing trucker hats that have been on this earth longer than I have, and order them two beers on me. Phil, Vince, and I rarely talk, just wave. I slide in three barstools that are sticking out from the railing—no reason we can’t be tidy—and grab my usual seat at the end of the bar, the tenth out of ten. I throw my purse on the barstool next to me so that no one even thinks about sitting there.

“How we doing today, Mami?” asks Carlos, the entirely-too-good-looking-to-work-here bartender. His come-hither voice still carries a hint of Spanish inflection from growing up in East L.A., and an indecipherable tattoo peeks out from underneath his formfitting black T-shirt, stretching across his left collarbone.

He drops a napkin and a double tequila in front of me without asking. I remove the minuscule black straw (as Phil says, straws are for wimps) and straighten the napkin so its top edge is parallel with the bar.

I’ve never understood why Carlos works here. He should be at a Magic Mike–style nightclub where bartenders rip their shirts open and flip vodka bottles behind their backs. I can never picture him doing anything mundane like running an errand or cleaning his house. He seems to exist for pleasure—for the night.

I slam the tequila down and make my best effort not to screw up my face as the burning liquid rolls down my throat, a familiar warmth spreading; the frantic hum in my skull, the electrical storm of my thoughts, quiets, if only for a moment.

“I guess that answers my question,” he says, refilling my glass. He closes his graduate Design Drawing textbook and sticks a highlighter behind his ear. He’s studying to be an architect, though this job gives him more practice as a therapist.

I shake my head and take a small sip of glass number two. “We’re not doing well, Carlos. We’re not doing well at all.”

He runs his long fingers through a mane of shiny black hair and squints. “Why’s that?”

His dark, stormy eyes meet mine, his brow furrowed with a depth that feels more than professional. My face flushes—from the tequila or his gaze, I can’t tell.

“I got suspended. One month.”

A laugh escapes his throat. “Really? You? What’d you do, steal some office supplies?” A corner of his lip curls.

“I wish. No, it’s a long story.”