Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 91783 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 459(@200wpm)___ 367(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91783 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 459(@200wpm)___ 367(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
An hour later, I drive to Ralph’s at Josie’s urging. She had a few things from a PTA meeting to take care of and wanted to do it dressed and without me disturbing her. My feelings were hurt, but I understand.
We bought Ralph’s a few years ago when Ralph’s son, Charlie, wanted to retire. He took my beloved bar—the one that knowingly served me as a minor—and gave me an offer I couldn’t refuse. As a teen, I loved Ralph’s and wanted to make sure Beaumont didn’t lose a once-thriving bar.
The restoration lasted four months. I had a solid crew working to bring Ralph’s back to life. The sign out front is the same one that hung there when I was in high school, only better. The light isn’t dim and it doesn’t blink anymore.
The bartender on shift, Gina, is behind the counter. Three regulars sit at the far end nursing drafts and watching a ballgame on the screen above the top shelf. The jukebox is off. The kitchen closed an hour ago, and the fryer smell is fading.
“Hey, boss.” Gina tosses a bar towel over her shoulder. “Didn’t know you were back.”
“Just today.”
“Want a beer?”
“I’m good.”
I walk the bar giving myself something to do, even though I know Noah would’ve taken care of everything while I was gone. I hired Noah to manage once he moved back here. He retired after the triplets were born, and managing the bar was something easy for him. My staff is competent, which gives Noah a ton of flexibility. He also coaches football and baseball with the frenemy.
Everything is clean, stocked, and where it belongs. I’m mostly here because Josie needed me out of her hair for an hour or so, and where else would I go. Years ago, I’d go to the cemetery and visit Mason. Those trips are few and far these days. I feel like I’ve said everything I could to the man I once called my best friend, and I hope I’ve atoned for the pain and hurt I caused by my actions. Josie, Noah and Katelyn have forgiven me, and that’s all that matters.
There’s satisfaction in owning a place that people love to visit, a place where I can work and the only thing they expect of me is a perfectly poured beer and the best damn chicken tenders they’ve ever had. They don’t look at me and see Liam Page, the musician. They see me as Liam Westbury, a member of their community.
There was a time though, when they saw me as the golden child. The star quarterback who was going to put Beaumont on the map. I failed them then but am always trying to make up for it now.
I tell Gina to have a good night and head to the parking lot. I don’t need to spend time hovering over her and the job she’s doing. She’s more than competent. My whole staff is.
In the parking lot, my phone buzzes.
Paige
Hi, Daddy. Where are you?
My heart warms until my Spidey senses kick in and I wonder what she wants.
I’m on my way home from Ralph’s.
Paige
Okay.
That’s it?
Paige
No, Daddy. We have work to do. You have 2.3 million followers doing NOTHING. Post something. A selfie. A coffee cup. I don’t care. Give me something to work with.
I groan and should’ve known this was coming. Paige and Chandler, whose father plays the keyboards for Sinful Distraction, run the social media accounts for Elle’s bands, and by proxy 4225 West. Paige has been managing my accounts since she was old enough to tell me my Instagram was “a graveyard with bad lighting.” She’s not wrong. I haven’t posted in three weeks. The last thing on there is a blurry photo of Harrison’s drumsticks crossed on a snare head that Paige captioned with a fire emoji and the tour hashtag.
My one assignment was to set up my phone nightly, take a video, and somehow find clips she could use. Also, send pictures. Had 4225 West’s tour been during the summer or while Paige was on vacation, this would’ve been a moot point. Same with Chandler.
I lock the phone without responding because I know this conversation will happen as soon as I walk into the house. Or maybe it won’t. Maybe she’ll wait until tomorrow, after school, to tell me how I’m failing at social media.
When I get home, Josie’s on the couch. Legs curled beneath her, glasses on, a book open in her lap. Her hair is down now, loose past her shoulders. She’s changed into one of my old shirts, faded black, the collar stretched out. She looks up when I come in.
“Ralph’s still standing?”
“Stronger than ever. Asking Noah to manage was the best decision.”
I sit down beside her. Lift her feet into my lap. Run my thumb along the arch of her ankle. She doesn’t look up from her book. Doesn’t need to. She shifts closer, her knee pressing against my thigh. Josie turns a page. Her toes curl against my leg.