Page 23 of Loving at 40

After months of sleeping with another woman, whom I’d often roll away from during the night, the desire to curl up against Jenna came as naturally as breathing. She was different than Viviana. Vivacious and vicious, my former lover had been one of the roughest relationships I’d ever experienced. Even though it’s over, the things I had to endure still make me nauseous. My upper leg would throb with the memory if it still had feeling in it. Jenna was in a whole other stratosphere than Vi.

So, after all I did to help her get some rest, she wakes to accuse me of something incomprehensible, and I couldn’t even look at her.

You’re a despicable human. Viviana might have been right, but there were lines I would never cross.

When I saw Jenna this morning in the kitchen, looking contrite and confessing to my sister her fault, I had to get out of there for a while. I was suffocating under the reunion of friends, the notion of family, and the apologetic gaze of a beautiful woman. I hadn’t asked for her apology, but she was giving it to me with those eyes, soft and sweet and sincere. She wasn’t Vi. Jenna was contrite and I didn’t know how to take her being genuine.

In need of escape, I missed my ride—my custom designed Harley Davidson street bike, great for screaming up Lake Shore Drive and barreling down the highway. I don’t trust myself to balance her now. Instead, I drive my unmarked car to a locals’ bar, despite it being ten in the morning, and spend the day shooting shit while watching baseball on the tube. Even though it’s Michigan, there are more Chicago Cubs fans in this community and the television plays the daytime doubleheader.

“Archer? Archer McCaryn.” With surprise, I turn in the direction of the person calling out my name. His face is as surprised as his tone. “No fuckin’ way.”

He looks exactly the same as I remember yet totally different. For one, Noah Weller has aged as we all have. With scruffy fuzz along his jaw, he looks like a young man who hasn’t fully developed facial hair. He wears a baseball cap backward on his head and smiles with the whitest teeth I’ve ever seen, and he’s a welcome face on this day.

“Noah. How are you, man?” I stand to clasp his offered hand and tug him in for a guy hug. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen my teenage best friend. Helping himself to a seat on the stool next to mine, he orders a beer.

“I’d heard you were back,” Noah begins but pauses like he’s got more to say but doesn’t know where to start.

I hold up a hand. “I’m sorry I haven’t called yet.”

Noah tips his head. “You wouldn’t have had my number anyway.”

Eight years ago, we had an awkward encounter in Chicago. I was checking into the hotel Noah managed and needed to cut him off before he came across as recognizing me. Thankfully, he was quick on the uptake, noted the slight shake of my head. He didn’t mention that we were acquainted.

“So, how are things?” He nods at the collection of beer bottles before me. “Woman trouble?”

“What makes you say that?”

“Can’t think of anything else that might make a guy get drunk midday on a Wednesday.” He chuckles.

“It’s not that.” But wasn’t it?

Wasn’t I hiding out from a gorgeous midnight-haired beauty who had my insides flipped upside down and a strong streak of accusing me of shit? It just doesn’t pay to try to be nice.

“Got my own little bird in my life, so I know all about it.” He picks up the beer placed before him by the bartender and takes a drink.

“Oh yeah? Tell me about it.”

Noah sizes me up. Maybe he sees I’m not going anywhere soon. Or maybe he decides bars are good places for confessions. Whatever it is, he digs in to tell me his story about working at the Magellen Hotel and how one thing led to another, eventually bringing him back here. When he finally explains the local inn owner that has his briefs in a bunch, I laugh.

“She’s so full of piss and vinegar, as my dad used to say.” His voice sobers at the mention of his father, and I remember what happened when we were teens.

“Ever hear from the old man?”

“Funny you should ask. He lives around here.”

My brows lift in surprise. “You’re shitting me?” Robert Weller had turned out to be a crook, but as that was more than twenty years ago, his prison sentence must have been served.

“Nope.” Noah purses his lips and shakes his head. I’d love to dig into questioning if he sees him, but something tells me the conversation about his father needs to end here.

“So what about you?” Noah narrows his eyes. “Just what have you been up to?”

When we were kids, Noah and I defined trouble. His mother was my mother’s best friend and they lived here. With high school sports and eventually summer jobs, my stays became less and less frequent. With Noah as the year-round next-door neighbor, though, he had connections in the community when I did visit. Pot. Girls. Parties. I’d tag along and get up to no good with him. I slowly smile at the memory while my stomach burns at the reminder I’ve let this friendship disappear.

“Remember when I saw you in Chicago?”

“Oh, I remember,” Noah says, giving me a look like he wants all the details, and I decide, fuck it. I need to tell someone about all the shit I’ve been dealing with over the last decade.

“I work undercover.”