“At least you didn’t proclaim your brother’s cancer diagnosis to a crowded room,” I offered, cringing.
The clouds in his expression shifted, just a little, and a hint of a smile played at his lips. “I admit, I didn’t see that coming.”
“Neither did he.”
Landon held my door open, and I slipped into the car, sinking back into the seat in relief. The church had been so charged with emotion, I wasn’t sure I could’ve handled much more even without Landon’s outburst. Funerals were supposed to be… somber. Maybe a little bit of peace and quiet as people come to terms with their loss.
“So what do we do now?” I ask, as Landon fired up the car.
Landon glanced at his phone, then flipped it onto silent. “I have a clear schedule, and I could use a drink.”
“Sounds good to me,” I said.
We crossed town, and while I expected Landon to pull in at the martini lounge where he’d celebrated the launch of Prestige, instead we stopped outside a hole in the wall Tavern with a faux hitching post out front. The paint was peeling, and the windows looked dark.
I raised a brow, staring at him.
“What? Sometimes a man just needs a PBR.”
I snorted. “There’s no way you’re ordering a PBR.” Maybe as a teenager he would’ve, but I could no longer picture him drinking from a cheap can. His tastes had… grown since those years.
We climbed out of the car, and he stared at me over the roofline. “You’re right. Believe it or not they have a ton of microbrew on draft, and the taps are covered in ice. That sign’s not lying.”
I followed his pointed finger, to a fading vinyl banner proclaiming coldest beer in town.
He led me to through the front door, into a dimly lit bar. The phrase dive bar pretty much fit this place to a T. I figured any second Guy Fieri was going to pop out from behind the counter and ask how we felt about the pork sliders.
Old tin signs were nailed to the walls, and barely functioning neon signs hung in the windows. Two pool tables with faded green felt took up the back half of the room. The counter was chipped and the seats cracked. But the bar back was old carved wood, with a not-quite-clean mirror behind towers of bottles and glasses.
We sat at the end of the bar, where a series of tap handles were coated in ice.
“How does that work?” I asked, nodding at the taps. “Why doesn’t it just melt?”
“I don’t know,” he said, staring at them. “Magic. I don’t question the deliciousness of an icy cold the beer.”
I snorted. “And to think you own a multi-billion-dollar company.”
He turned, taking me in. “Sports medicine I understand. You’re the chemist, you ought to know how they get the ice to grow like that.”
“You say grow like it’s a plant.”
He stared me down, challenging me to come up with a better answer.
“The actual tap is probably a tube, right? So the reason this is so big,” I said, pointing to the taps, “Is that they surround the tubing with something else. Probably ethanol glycol.”
“See, told you you’d know.”
I elbowed him in the ribs. “I’m going to go use the restroom. Order me whatever you’re having.”
I left him at the bar, navigating a tangled path of stools and tables and ducking into a bathroom at the back.
Inside, I stared at my reflection. My swept back hair and cardigan were too much outside a funeral. I slipped off the sweater and then pulled my hair out of the French-twist, letting it tumble down my shoulders and fluffing it up a bit. I stepped back, taking in the tight curves of the dress, and had to admit that it looked pretty good on me.
I might not have looked as good as Alexa had, but I dressed up okay.
Besides, he didn’t want her. She was nothing more than a roadblock—still his wife—but I was now confident he held no feelings for her.
I still wasn’t sure what was supposed to happen now that the funeral was over. Would I go back to Texas? The thought made my heart twist. I was glad it was Saturday—I could always take a red eye back on Sunday night, if it came to that.
I washed my hands and then headed back into the bar. A glass was sitting on a paper coaster at the bar in front of where I’d been sitting, a thin layer of slushy ice floating on top.
“Hope you like IPA,” Landon said, taking a swig.
I followed suit, the liquid almost cold enough to give me brain freeze.
“Dang,” I said. “That’s good.”
He clinked his glass to mine. “To building a future and forgetting about the past.”
“To the future,” I repeated, not quite sure what he was getting at. Was it our past, he meant, or Landon’s past with his father? I didn’t want to think about him trying to forget me.
More importantly, what future did he even picture for himself? Was I beside him?
I wanted to ask. I wanted to push. But Landon was lighter now than he’d been at the funeral. He was relaxed on his bar stool, as if relieved it was all over. It wasn’t the right time to push for answers.