Page 42 of Let It Breathe (The Can’t Have Hearts Club #1)

C lay knew he should stick close to the vineyard. Eric had already told him the fire marshal wanted to ask him some questions as soon as possible.

But here he was parked on a barstool at Finnigan’s, nursing a Coke and picking at a plate of French fries as he replayed the conversation with Eric.

He wasn’t sure which was more upsetting—the fact that he was a suspect in an arson investigation or the fact that his best friend knew he’d slept with his ex.

He took another sip of his Coke and picked up the ketchup, pouring a healthy dollop of it on the side of his plate. He traced a French fry through it and was just about to shove it in his mouth when he heard a familiar voice.

“Clay!”

He turned to see Patrick ambling in, his shirtsleeves rolled to display the misspelled tattoos.

“Hey, Patrick. Good to see you.”

His sponsor raise a hand in greeting. “Whatcha doing?”

“Getting wasted on Coca-Cola and French fries, how about you?”

Patrick glanced at Clay’s glass, looking visibly relieved. “That’s just Coke?”

“Want a taste?”

“No, no—I trust you.”

“Okay.” It’d be just his luck if Patrick kept tabs on him so he’d know if Clay came within ten feet of a bar. “Have a seat.”

Patrick eased himself onto the stool and folded his hands on the bar. Clay tried not to stare at the tattoos.

Your stronger than you think you are.

Strength threw sobriety.

“So how have things been going, Clay?”

“Okay,” Clay said. “I’ve been better.”

“You want to talk about it?”

“I wouldn’t know where to start.”

“Try me.”

“Okay. Turns out I slept with the girl of my dreams fifteen years ago and didn’t remember it because I was a drunk idiot, but I do remember sleeping with her cousin, which I also did because I was a drunk idiot.

Now I’m about to lose the dream girl to a veterinarian who’s such a nice guy I’d probably date him if I swung that way.

On top of that, I’m being accused of arson for a fire I helped extinguish, and the construction project I moved out here to lead is about to go belly up. ”

He picked up a fry and shoved it in his mouth, hardly noticing it was cold.

“Wow,” Patrick said. “Not your best week, huh?”

“No.”

“Is it your worst?”

Clay thought about that as he grabbed another fry. “Probably not. The week my dad died was rough.”

Patrick’s eyes clouded with sympathy. “When did your dad die?”

“My third year of college.”

“How did you handle that?”

Clay looked down at the plate. “I dropped out of school, got wasted for a week on Jack and Coke, and ended up in jail on a DUI charge.”

Patrick reached over and grabbed a fry. “And look at you now.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, you’re sitting here at a bar on what is arguably the second-worst day of your life, and if you’re telling me the truth, there’s nothing in that glass but Coke.”

Clay shoved the glass in front of him. “Taste it.”

Patrick shoved the glass back. “I believe you. My point is that you’re dealing with it. Your life is going to hell right now, and you’re handling it like a mature, sober adult.”

Clay picked up the Coke glass and took a slow sip. Then he shook his head. “I’ve been trying so damn hard to get it right this time. I’ve been working the steps, trying to be a good guy, trying to make it up to all the people I screwed over. But somehow I just keep making it worse.”

“Huh.” Patrick looked thoughtful for a moment. “You ever think you’re trying too hard to earn forgiveness from everyone else and not hard enough to forgive yourself?”

Clay frowned. “No.”

“Good you’re keeping an open mind about it.”

He sighed. “I don’t know what to do.”

“Yes, you do. Don’t drink. That’s the hardest part, and you’ve already got that down.”

“That’s not the hardest part,” Clay said, then stifled the urge to crack a crude joke. Hardest part.

“What?” Patrick asked.

“What do you mean?”

“You got a funny look just then.”

Clay shrugged. “It’s dumb.”

“Dumber than sleeping with your dream girl’s cousin?”

“Good point.” He sighed. “Okay, my best buddy and I used to do this thing where we’d turn everything into a dirty joke. Everything was an innuendo of some sort. It’s stupid. I stopped doing it when I got sober.”

“Why?”

“Same reason I stopped drinking, I guess. I wanted to show I’d grown up. That I’d changed.”

“You don’t think not drinking was enough?”

He shrugged. “I’m not sure it’ll ever be enough.”

“Tell me a dirty joke.”

“What?”

“You heard me. Tell me a dirty joke.”

Clay raised an eyebrow at him. “Is this one of the twelve steps I missed?”

“Come on. Do it.”

Clay thought about it for a minute. “Fine. Two guys are sitting in a bar and one turns to the other and says, ‘If I slept with your wife, would that make us family?’ The other guy looks at him for a minute and says, ‘No, but it would make us even.’”

Patrick grinned. “Nice. I like it. Tell me another.”

Clay glanced over at the bartender, who was drying the same beer glass he’d been drying for the last five minutes. He was smiling just a little.

“All right. Two nuns are riding their bicycles down an alley in Rome. One turns to the other. ‘I’ve never come this way before,’ she says. The other one nods, smiles. ‘It’s the cobblestones.’”

Patrick hooted and smacked his hand on the bar. Clay grinned in spite of himself.

“There you go,” Patrick said. “You’re smiling. That can’t be a bad thing, right?”

Clay raised an eyebrow. “Well, I’d also be smiling if this glass were full of Jack and Coke.”

“Yeah, but you’d be puking in an hour. When was the last time you puked from a dirty joke?”

Clay grinned. “Well, I know an old guy in a biker gang who tells jokes filthy enough to make me queasy. He may have learned them in prison.”

“Save ’em for later.” Patrick slapped his hand on the bar again. “You’re going to be okay, right? No matter what happens with this girl or the construction or the investigation—you’ve got this.”

Clay nodded, then stuck out his hand. “Thanks, Patrick. I owe you one.”

“You don’t owe me anything. Pay it forward sometime. You’ll have the chance eventually.”

Clay nodded. “I’ll do that. How’d you know I was here, anyway?”

“Dumb luck. I was meeting friends for dinner across the street and I saw your truck. Thought I’d see if you needed anything.”

“So it wasn’t the tracking device you implanted in my arm?”

Patrick chuckled. “Not this time.” He stood and clapped Clay on the shoulder. “I’d better get going. Be well, okay?”

“Thanks, man. Have a good night.”

Clay watched as Patrick ambled off. Letting out a long, low breath, he looked down at his empty plate.

“You want more fries?”

He looked up to see the bartender holding a plate piled high with greasy goodness.

“This a new thing?” Clay asked. “Free French fry refills?”

“Nah, but the lady in the corner just ordered ’em and now she says she doesn’t want ’em. She’s a little messed up. Not drunk or nothin’—she’s just drinking root beer, but still. I just called a cab to come get her, but now I got these goddamn fries to get rid of.”

Clay reached up to take the steaming plate, daring a quick glance at the table in the corner to see the pitiful soul who’d given up her French fries.

He almost dropped the plate.

“Sheila?”

She looked up, swaying a little in her chair. Her eyes were red and ringed with mascara, her face streaked with dried tears and snot. The top of her table was littered with soggy tissues and a half-empty glass of root beer.

He stood up and took two steps toward her. “Sheila? What’s going on?”

Eric’s wife dissolved into sobs, her shoulders shaking so hard Clay thought she might topple to the floor.

“Oh, Clay,” she sniffed. “This is bad. This is really, really bad.”

“What’s bad? Are you hurt? Did something happen to Eric?”

She was sobbing too hard to answer, so Clay looked at the bartender. “How much has she had to drink?”

“Not a thing. I wouldn’t serve her.”

“I came here to get wasted,” Sheila sobbed. “To forget. Only he thought I was already drunk because I can’t stop crying, so he wouldn’t let me order anything. But that’s not why I can’t stop crying. Oh, Clay. I don’t know what to do.”

He dropped into the chair beside her and touched her arm. Her skin felt ice cold. Dread squeezed Clay’s gut like a fist.

“Sheila? What is it?”

She looked up at him and shook her head, tears slithering down her cheeks. “There’s something I’ve got to tell you. Something awful.”