Page 32 of Somewhere Without You

Thirty One

Now

The Old Mill Tavern hadn’t changed much over the years. The brick exterior had grown more weathered, and the roof sagged slightly in the middle. The hand-painted sign out front still displayed the same familiar brushstrokes, and the parking lot remained riddled with potholes.

Inside, a bandI’dneverheardofwassetting up on what passed as a stage.

Itwasreallyjustan open patch of floor a few feet away from the restrooms. A banner reading, The Quiet Revival hung overhead, and the soft strains of a fiddle drifted through the air as a woman and two men took their places.

“They’re from my hometown.”Dani said, sliding a cold beer across the table.“I used to date the singer’s younger brother.”She gave a quick wave to the woman at the mic, who returned the gesture with a smile.

“Andwhere’sthatat,exactly?”I asked, eyeing the beer in front of me. Icouldfeelthe weight of curious stares from nearby tables—regulars whoclearlyknewwe didn’t belong here.

“A little town called Gretna, Nebraska,”she said, lifting her glass and taking a long sip.“God, thistasteslike shit.”

I hesitated before tasting mine. Itwaslike drinking stale waterthathadbeen left to bake in the sun.

“What brought you all the way out here?”I asked, fighting the aftertaste as I took another reluctant sip.

“The thriving nightlife,”she joked, waving a hand over the dim bar around us. On the makeshift stage, the bandhadstartedplaying—a soft, bluesy tune layered with a bluegrass rhythm.

“Obviously,”I grinned.“Butseriously, why the hell would you come here?”

Dani took a long pull from her beer before setting the glass down.“I didn’t have anywhere else to go.Both my parents died when Iwasa kid, and as far as Iknow,there’s no family left.”

I didn’tknowwhat to say. Part of me couldn’t believe how similar our storieswere—two people shaped by loss, stumbling through a world we never asked for.

“I got into some. . . bad shit,”she confessed.

“Started out selling weed, but whenthatdidn’t cover enough I started hitting medicine cabinets.

Sometimes from friends, sometimes not. I kept telling myself Ijustneeded to sell enough togetby.

ButthenI stole from the wrong person. Turned out, hewasa cop.

The judge gave me two options—a year in jail with probation after, or pay back every cent andgetthe hell out of town.

Needless to say, itwasn’ta hard decision. ”

“So where are you staying now?”I asked, leaning back into the booth.

“The shelter,”Dani saidcasually, like shewastelling me whatshe’dhadfor lunch.“There’s a couch in the breakroom and a microwave.Honestly, it’s not a bad setup.”

I blinked, trying to hide the ache creeping into my face.

“It’sjusttemporary,”she addedquickly, a faint flush rising to her cheeks.“UntilIgetthings sorted. Youknow. . . until I land on my feet again.”

I couldn’t help it, Iwasspeechless. Shewasbrokenin a way I understood. Different wounds,maybe, but broken things always have sharp edges, and they cutjustthe same.

“Iwasafraid ofthat.” Dani pointed her finger at me. “You’ve gotthatlookon your face—like you’re judging me.”

I shook my headquickly.“No. No judgment. I’mjustsurprised by how much we have in common.”

Her eyebrows lifted.“You used to deal too?”

“No, of course not. I mean. . .”I winced.“I lost my mom at a young age and I neverknewmy dad. After she died, my sister and I moved here to live with our grandmother.”

Dani ran a hand through her hair. “Damn. Yeah, that’ll do it.”

I nodded, unsure what to say next. “Gran had her quirks, but she took us in. Kept us fed and put a roof over our heads.”

“That’s more than most,” Dani replied. She leaned back. “I bounced around a lot. Group homes, foster families. No one really stuck. Eventually, I figured out it was easier to rely on myself.”

I met her gaze, the quiet between us suddenly charged—like we were both tiptoeing around a shared ache neither of us knew how to name.

“Guess we both learned early how to survive,” I admitted softly.

Dani raised her glass. “To surviving first and trusting later.”

Our glasses clinked, and we both drank quickly, trying to catch the beer before it spilled over the edge and onto the table.

“Pretty sure I broke the seal way too soon,” she winced, suddenly rising from her seat. “Be right back.”

Asshe made her way to the bathroom, I let my gaze drift over the unfamiliar faces, scanning the crowd for someone Iknewwouldn’t bethere. Logan would never set foot in here, and yet, his absencewaslike a small hole in my chest—one Iwasn’tready to admitwasthere.

“Are you expecting someone?”Dani asked, returning a few minutes later.

I shook my head, clearing Logan’s face from my mind.“Nobody important.”

Dani slid back into her seat, eyeing me curiously. “Good,” she said, taking a sip of her drink. “Because this place doesn’t exactly scream ‘warm welcome.’ Did you know the toilets are shaped like actual buckets? Seriously, who signed off on that?”

I laughed, and for the first time in a long while, I let myself enjoy it.

Itfeltgood. Itfelt normal . Ihadn’thadsomeone to laugh with, to talk to, tojust be with in whatfeltlike forever.

Daniwasn’tthe kind of person I would’ve hung out with back in California—with her messy eyeliner and chipped black nail polish, but I liked her.

Shewasunapologetically herself.Andin some strange way, she reminded me of Gran.

“Thank you,”I said, realizingI’dbeen staring.“Forinviting me out. I forgot what itfeltlike to have a friend.”

Dani gave me a crooked smile, like she wasn’t sure what to do with something so sincere. “Yeah, well. . . you looked like you needed one.”

I looked down at the table, the honesty in her voice catching me off guard.

“I mean that in a good way,” she added quickly, taking another sip. “You just have this vibe—like you’ve been carrying too much for too long.”

I let out an unsteady breath. “Yeah. Something like that.”

Behind us, the front door swung open, and a familiar voice sliced through the music.

“Oh my God. . . I knew it,”came Georgia’s thick drawl.“Allie, didn’t I tell you there was something off about Emily?”

Alabama noddedsilentlybeside her.

“Can we help you with something?”Dani asked, her eyes flicking between the sisters and me.

“What are you doing here?”I asked,justas stunned toseethe Baker twins inside a bar as theyweretoseeme.

“The church potluck’s tomorrow,”Alabama said, gently smoothing an invisible crease from her sundress.“The tavern’s donating some of their famous cornbread.”

“Friends of yours?”Dani asked, straightening a little.

“Oh, I wouldn’t go so far as to call us friends,”Georgia said, loud enough to draw attention.“But Emily and I go way back. In fact, everyone in townknowsthe Harts.”She leaned inslightly, eyes gleaming.“What I didn’t knowwasthatlittle Miss Emily here is a lesbian.”

“A what?”I blinked, unsureI’dheardher right.

Georgia gave a dramatic sigh.“Youheardme. What else would you be doing at the bar at night with the town queer?”She nodded toward Dani.“Iknewsomethingwasoff the minute Isawyou at Hank’s without your wedding ring. This here’s just proof in the pudding.”

“I am not dating Dani,”I said, rising a little in my seat.“Georgia, you are completely out of line.”

“You’re married?”Dani asked, her voice calm butclearlysurprised.

“ Was married. It’s. . . complicated.”

“Oh, I betit is,”Georgia smirked, arms crossed likeshe’djustwon a game no one elsewasplaying. Behind her, Alabama let out a soft, awkward chuckle.

I turned to Dani, realizing she never denied the accusation.“Wait. . . are you? I thought you said you dated the singer’s brother?”

Dani smiled.“What can I say? Life’s better when you have options.”She turned to Georgia.“Notthatit’s any of your business, but Emily and I arejustfriends.Unless, of course. . . you’re interested?”

“I beg your pardon?”Georgia recoiled likeshe’dbeen slapped.“I’ll have youknowI’m a daughter of the Lord, and your kind of lifestyle is—”

“A sin?”Dani cut insmoothly.“Yeah, I’veheardthatone before. The thing is, the Lord’s not here tonight—but the band is, and so is the beer. So unless you’re planning to grab a drink and pull up a chair, I suggest you move along.”

Georgia’s mouth fell open but all she managedwasa dramatic scoff. She grabbed Alabama by the arm and stalked off toward the bar, snatching up the cornbread boxes before heading out the door.

“Thatwasincredible,”I said, turning back to Dani.“I don’t think anyone’s ever told her off before.”

She shrugged.“It’s not my first run-in with a narrow minded asshole. Won’t be the last.”

“I’m sorry,”I said, realizing how this all must havefeltfor her.“Iwasn’ttrying to—”

“Don’t apologize,”she interrupted.“You didn’tknow.”In the background, the band switched songs to something more lively.“So. . .”Dani said, her eyes gleaming with curiosity.“This complicated ex-husband of yours—I’m sensing drama. Spill it.”

I tipped back the rest of my beer, the burn giving me courage.ThenI set the glass down, leaned into the table, and started from the beginning.