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I smiled, almost able to feel the stickiness that was our austere base—using the term loosely—this time of year.
I’ll have a beer for you.
I told him, able to see Nate’s expression through the phone as if he were right next to me.
Fuck you
I pressed the laugh response and put my phone back in my pocket, knowing better than to push my luck. Opening the front door of the bar, I was surprised to find it busier than I’d expect for a Tuesday night. One whiff of the place, though, and I figured out why. Sitting at the bar, catching Owen’s eye, I waved.
“Taco night,” I said when he came over to me. “Brilliant.”
“Who can resist tacos?” he asked, holding out his hand.
Shaking it, I replied, “No one I know.”
“One order of the special?”
“What’s the special?”
“Mixed. Two soft chicken and two hard-shell ground beef.”
“Add a beer, and I’m golden.”
Owen was already pouring it before I finished my sentence. Some things about small-town living weren’t so bad. “Done.” Owen slid the beer across the bar to me.
“I wanted to thank you for sending that reporter,” I said, taking a sip of beer.
“No problem. Least I could do for a new, old friend.”
As he took care of other customers, I found myself checking my phone. Again. Nothing.
“Here you go,” Owen said not long after. “Taco night special.”
I reached for the basket.
“What did you miss most when you were deployed?” he asked. “Food wise. I’m trying to imagine going without tacos for an extended period of time.”
“Steak,” I said. “Definitely.”
“The last deployment was Africa, right? How long were you there?”
“Almost a year,” I said, taking my first bite. “Mmmm, these are great.”
“Thanks.” Owen whistled. “No steak for a year. That’s rough.”
Not the roughest part, either, but we wouldn’t go there.
“Yeah. Some food made its way to us, but we’re over there fighting a war. Just give us a damn steak,” I said with another bite.
Owen laughed, glancing down at my phone as it lit up.
No need to look at it. I wasn’t going to rush to pick the damn thing up just because it might be Charlee. After some of the shit I’d been through these past ten years, certainly I could survive one five-foot-three-inch woman.
Except, I looked. It was her.
Can we talk?
Maybe it was just me, but that sounded ominous. Whatever. We weren’t in an actual relationship. She’d broken up with me. Still worked for her father. Would probably break things off again. Most importantly, probably did deserve someone more than a veteran who had been discharged from the Army with an alcoholic father, no mother to speak of, and a tattoo studio less than a week old.
