Page 2 of Wine & Dine

“And then there’s Magnolia. She doesn’t know what to do with herself now that Mama’s gone.”

“Already working on that as well.” He winks, actually winks, as though he knows a secret, but he isn’t sharing with me.

My head tilts, and my hip juts out. I stare at him again. He fought so hard to be nothing like our father. In many ways, he isn’t him, yet all I know of my brother relates to his fame and fortune as a rock star success. He looks like our dad, but not exactly. We look like siblings, but only if you look closely. His once black hair has specks of silver while mine is dull and almost a burning-charcoal color. I don’t have the energy for my typical dye job, the one that gives me a hint of blue mixed with glossy black. We share similar facial bone structure, but while his is more model worthy, mine is because I forget to eat. Our eyes are the biggest difference. His are midnight while mine are a daytime blue—my mother’s eyes, everyone tells me. I view the world just like her: loveless.

As if magnetically attracted to his keys, my fingers stretch as the tips tap on the countertop. My eyes focus on the metal strips with crooked teeth. Could I do this?

In answer to my unspoken question, my brother slides the ring within my reach. The metal hasn’t touched my fingers, but they twitch as the pull grows stronger.

“Do it, Dolores.” He dares me. “Run away for a while.”

“I’d need to go home. Get some clothes. Close my house. Say good-bye to Magnolia.”

Denton reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his wallet. My eyes widen at the wad of cash stuffed in it. He pulls two bills and then fumbles with a card. Two Benjamin Franklins and a gold card.

“I can’t take your money,” I admonish. I’m not some charity case. I have my own income, and my own home paid for by said income. I’m an independent business owner, for heaven’s sakes.

“Consider it a loan then. I don’t want you stopping as you pass go. Here’s two hundred dollars and a card to get what you need.”

I chuckle because he can read me. As if he knows I might take his offer but then second-guess myself when I get home to pack my things. My hand smooths down my hip, the feel of my waitress uniform suddenly constricting me. My podiatric-approved shoes with instep support weigh heavy on my feet. Sensing my inability to move, Denton pushes the keys the final distance, and I curl my fingers around the cool teeth. He stands and walks around the counter to envelop me in his arms. I’ve hugged a hundred people since my mother’s death. The people of this town respected her as the former mayor’s widow, even if they didn’t respect the previous mayor.

Denton squeezes me, and I want to feel what he’s offering, but I don’t. I learned long ago to distance myself from physical affection. I can give it easily because it has no effect on me.

Yet.

The comfort of my brother’s arms and his praise in my ear—“I believe in you. You can do this.”—do something to me. I blink, but I won’t cry. I haven’t cried since my mother’s funeral, since even before her diagnosis. I don’t cry. It shows emotion, which I don’t allow myself to feel.

I weakly pat Denton on the lower back. “Thank you.”

He pulls back, his hands framing my face so I’m forced to look him in the eyes.

“This is going to be good for you,” he says, his voice encouraging.

“I’ll be fine,” I reply quietly, giving a nod in agreement. I’m always fine.