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“Huh?”
“Maybe you don’t go to work and you stay home.”
“Are you having a stroke? Smelling burnt toast?” I ask.
Jesse clicks his tongue. “For once, take my advice and just go home. Don’t go to work today. Let’s meet up at the Heartstopper right now. Grab some breakfast. I want to talk to you about something, Cash, it’s serious.”
“God forbid.”
“Brother, I need to talk to you.”
“Not now, Jesse. Catch up with me this evening. I’m driving, I’ll call you back.”
“Cash—”
I hang up.
What the hell was that about? Not go into work? Why? June and Alex are fine at home, and as much as I’d love to spend the day with them, I’ve made a commitment to my father. That’s another thing Taylor men don’t do. Go back on their word.
The way Jesse talked about the bar has me suspicious.
I start the pickup. As I pass cars, their drivers raise a hand over the steering wheel in greeting, and pedestrians or folks opening up stores on Main Street wave at me from the sidewalk.
Heatstroke is our town, and as much as coming back here felt like a death sentence, I can’t picture leaving now.
Not even for music?
I grit my teeth and park outside the bar.
The doors are shut, the inside is dark, and there’s a For Sale sign in the window.
I involuntarily grasp the steering wheel so hard it creaks. “Fuck,” I say.
All the hard work for nothing. Trying to piece together the family, trying to make it so that the Taylors mean something in this town. Gone. Gone because he can’t lay off the fucking sauce and deal with his problems.
And you’re so fucking great at that, aren’t you?
I start the engine again. I tear through town, not bothering to greet anyone, ignoring the view of the bay, the sand, the happy people starting their day. It all blurs into one mocking tableau.
Ten minutes later, I’m parked outside Ganny’s house. The car ticks and cools as I sit there, staring up at her grand house that’s been in our family for generations. I open my door and charge up to the porch, balling and releasing my fists.
Ganny’s in the living room crocheting, and she smiles up at me as I walk in. “Cash, honey pie, what are you doing here?”
“Where’s Dad?”
“Not here. He went out to some business meeting earlier.” Ganny pats her fluffy white hair, and I’m struck by how much older she looks. She’s still spry, even though she’s well into her eighties, but I worry about her more and more. Part of the reason Dad moved in with her was to make sure she was all right, and now he’s the one who needs the fucking babysitting.
“Ganny, he’s selling the bar.”
My grandmother sighs and sets aside her piece. “Oh, honey,” she says, “I’m sorry.”
I don’t reply. Sorry won’t cut it.
“Your daddy’s always had a mind of his own when it comes to the business,” Ganny says. “I talked to him about it. I told him how much this means to you, but his mind is made up.”
“We can’t let—”
A car door slams outside, and my father emerges from a sleek black sedan.
