“Are you insane?” His eyes bugged. “I said no. I gotta accept the offer soon or they’ll walk.”
“Seven days!” I shouted, ignoring him as I turned, leaving the veggies on the counter and walking back to my car.
“Woman! Did you hear me? I said no. Where are you going?” he screamed after me.
“To save your motherfucking bar!” I roared back over my shoulder.
I’d been so lost without Colin. This project was exactly what I needed. A purpose.
You know the best part about Nashville? It’s full of starving musicians, hungry for their big break.
So I had an idea. A wild idea.
I went to the printer shop and had flyers made up, advertising that Wayne’s Place was looking for a new headlining act to play nightly. That we were hosting a showcase audition and the crowd would vote. Then, on a whim, I typed two very dangerous words.
Free Beer.
Quickly adding *While supplies last, in fine print.
Ashton was going to kill me, but if he was selling the place anyway, he’d need to get rid of all those bottles, right? I’d set the date for Saturday night, which gave me five days to work on the menu and other things.
I’d officially started charging things to my credit card. One thousand flyers wasn’t cheap, nor were the ten rolls of duct tape I got to tape them up around the city.
It was at about 1 p.m., when I’d dropped off my last stack of flyers at a local hookah joint, that I admitted to myself I was probably losing my mind a little.
This wasn’t healthy. I felt myself unraveling with each step I took toward trying to save this bar.
Saving Ashton, saving this bar, it wouldn’t bring Colin back.
I was too chickenshit to call my therapist, knowing he would absolutely tell me to fly home, or suggest putting me on meds or something.
Instead, I looked up a local grief support meeting and sighed in relief when I saw there was one in thirty minutes not far from the bar. That would give me time to make the meeting and then quickly shower before the bar opened today at 3 p.m.
Grief support group was my lifeline after Colin. There was nothing like having a roomful of people who knew exactly what you were going through. Personal therapy had helped, but I’d only really healed once I started going to group.
Going today might put things back into perspective for me and help me find my way out of this mess I’d created. Because … clearly … I had more healing to do.
I got a little lost finding my way. I knew I would have to return my rental car soon and needed to learn the lay of the city if I was going to stay here.
Was I going to stay here?
My mind was such a jumbled mess, I was five minutes late, weaving in and out of the hallways trying to find suite number 304.
The door was open and I was going to slip inside and sit down when I heard a familiar voice.
“Yesterday was a year ago that I lost her,” Ashton said, and goosebumps broke out on my arms. I stood there, half in the doorway, half out, peering beyond the support column that hid his face from me.
“Most days I don’t know what the point in living is. I wish I hadn’t gotten this heart.” His voice cracked. “I wish they could have given it to her.”
Holy shit. Holy, holy, fucking shit.
I suddenly felt like this was a huge violation of privacy. Group was only beneficial because no one knew who the fuck you were, and you could spill your guts without fear of ever seeing them outside these four walls. I stepped back and into the hallway, turning tail, and booked it outside.
My hands shook as I processed his words.
Never in a million years did I guess that he might have lost someone that night too. Everything suddenly became so clear. Why he was the way he was, why he was so mean to me and everyone else. He had survivor’s guilt. Bad. And just like that I promised myself I’d stay and see this through no matter what.
Chapter 8
Ashton
The place was dead, no surprises there, but it gave me time to do inventory on bottles and figure out what I was going to tell Darcy.
She texted me this morning that the laundromat had come up ten percent. I’d told her I needed a day or two to think about it. Ten percent more would just barely get me out of this with my head still on my shoulders. But something gave me pause.
Millie.
She was scrubbing the kitchen like Martha Stewart, and after buying all that organic shit and a fridge … I dunno. She bought two box fans too and was singing in the back while the wind whipped her pretty floral dress around. Something I tried and failed not to notice.
She had killer legs.
She had so much energy, and for a chick who’d known me and this bar for all of twenty-four hours, she sure did believe she could turn it around. Problem was, I was so ready to be done with it.
Later that night, she walked over and placed a plate in front of me.
“What is it?” I asked her, as I inspected what looked like mini chicken burgers that she’d passed through the open window to me. After she’d waltzed in with a fridge and a bunch of other shit, and declared she was saving my bar, it sent me into a tailspin. She reminded me of my late sister in a way. Ambitious, headstrong, and clearly didn’t take no for an answer. I’d known this chick all of twenty-four hours and she was asking me to give her time to “save” my bar? I felt like I’d stepped into the twilight zone. Jenna wanted to change the bar, make it more hip. She’d been the one to convince me to buy that
