Page 35 of Mr. Brightside
He answers without hesitation.
“I will. I promise,” he vows. “You win,” he mumbles as he nods toward the table. It’s not until I glance down at the paper that I realize he’s right—I just unknowingly won the game.
Chapter 16
Jake
Ispentthewholedamn day doing everything I could to prepare. I’ve been to the bank. Half the bedroom closet has been cleared out, and I rearranged the bathroom so he has a drawer and a shelf. I even reprogrammed my coffee machine so it would brew a full pot tomorrow morning.
Because it’s not just me anymore. At least not for the next two years.
I spent the last few hours reading over the title and sale paperwork for the businesses. It was a futile exercise, really. Mike and I already agreed to the terms, and my lawyer is combing through the details now. I just needed the distraction—the reminder about why this is happening, and how it will all go down.
I needed to keep myself busy—to resist doing the thing I’ve wanted to do all week. I don’t need approval. In fact, I’m pretty sure he’d be the first to challenge me and push back against this whole idea. But any time I’ve faced something like this, he’s been my first call. Now, he can’t be. Cory and I agreed to tell everyone about us at the same time, so that means I haven’t talked about any of this with Rhett.
We’ve exchanged a few texts about normal, random things, but that’s it, which is weird for us. Now that he and Tori are both in Virginia, I talk to him on the phone at least three or four times a week. But if I call him now, he’ll call me out. I could simply breathe into the phone and he’d know something was up. No one can read me quite like Rhett.
It sucks shutting him out and keeping this from him. Even knowing he wouldn’t approve, and that he’d pick apart my plan—I still want him to know. I want someone to know what I’m about to do. And why.
“Uh, pretty sure that section is going to be a different color and texture if you don’t cool it.”
My head snaps up at Dempsey’s words. I look from him to the cloth in my hand, just now realizing I’ve put some serious elbow grease into wiping down the same spot of the bar for several minutes.
I chuckle, then throw down my bar rag in defeat.
“Thanks, man,” I nod appreciatively.
“You know, I’ve got this covered.”
We’re fully staffed, so they don’t need me here. Dem’s scheduled as the manager tonight. I’m sure he’d prefer if I didn’t hover. But I have nowhere else to go. Home doesn’t feel right anymore—everything’s shifted, and it looks empty without Cory’s stuff to fill in the newly created space. I’ll be okay once he joins me. But right now, I’m standing on the edge of a cliff, just waiting to make the jump.
“Yeah, I know,” I finally respond. “I’m just wasting time and trying to get my head straight.”
Dem assesses me for a moment, then looks down along the bar. We’re busy, even though it’s only dinnertime.
“You want to talk about it?”
Do I ever. I pause and think through the consequences of sharing some—or all—of the details about what’s about to happen.
Dempsey and I have grown closer this summer. I used to hang out with his twin brother Fielding just about every day, but that changed earlier this year after Fielding became unhinged and made some selfish, shitty choices.
Now Dem is the Haas twin I hang out with most, both here and outside of work. He reminds me of Rhett in a lot of ways: sharp, responsible, always worried about everyone else. We don’t talk much about what happened—about his brother and how he’s doing now—but I can read him well enough to know it’s not good. He deals with a lot because of his mom, too. Even though he’s a millionaire—hell, probably a billionaire—he holds down this job at my bar and works like he actually needs the paycheck. Maybe he does need something from this arrangement—but it’s definitely not money.
It would be easy to open up to Dempsey. I know I can trust him. And I would probably feel better. But there’s a nagging at my subconscious that pumps the brakes on spilling the beans. I could tell him everything, and no one would be the wiser. But I made a promise to Cory, and I don’t want to break his trust. For the next few years, my promises to him take priority.
“I’m okay,” I reply. Not because I actually am. But because that’s what people say when they want to lock it down.
A hint of rejection flashes in his eyes, but he nods in understanding. “Well, I’m always around if you need to talk. Standing offer.”
He doesn’t give me a chance to respond before he heads to the other end of the bar to check on the patrons.
I trace one finger along the ragged, uneven edge of the natural wood bar top I picked out. In the establishment I helped design. The rustic industrial lighting overhead. The smooth, polished, obsidian-colored bar stools. The old sports photos and memorabilia on the walls featuring decades of teams from both Hampton High and Archway Prep. The blending of old and new, of past and present.
When Mike asked me to help him renovate The Oak Barrel Tavern into the kind of place people would flock to, I wasn’t sure how we’d pull it off. But we did it. We really freaking did it. It’s hipster without being pretentious. It’s equal parts trendy and cozy. It feels like home, because that’s what it is for me. More than my condo has ever been, and a far cry from the house I grew up in. The Oak, and by extension, Clinton’s, are where I feel most like myself. And now they’re mine.
I quietly slink out from behind the bar, intent on heading next door and helping the staff close. Cory’s supposed to stop by at the end of the night so we can head to the condo together. There’s a nostalgia I feel as I walk out of the front door of the Oak, pass the narrow alley between the buildings, and stroll through the front door of Clinton’s.
Chapter 17