“This is her, right?” The driver pointed at the Porsche.
“Yessir.” Jude leaned forward and tugged off the tarp, exposing the wrecked car in all her ugly glory. Not only was it a wreck, but Jude had stripped it of all its useful parts, including the seats and metalwork. It was nothing but a carcass now.
The driver shook his head. “Can’t believe a car like that became scrap metal.”
“Take it,” Jude said forcefully. He glanced at his father. “The end of an era.”
The old man actually chuckled.
“All right,” the driver said. “This is for you.” He reached into his pocket and drew out an envelope.
Jude held up a hand. “You bought Ryson’s Junkyard?”
“Yeah, well, my father-in-law bought it.”
“Keep the check,” Jude said. “I stole parts off that lot to buy drugs when I was a teenager. Mr. Ryson never knew. He trusted me.”
The driver winced. “Awful story, son.” He looked Jude up and down. “Looks like you’re doing okay now.”
“I am, thanks.” He reached over to take my hand. The arm he’d broken at Christmas was all healed up now. And the thugs who’d hurt him had been convicted, too.
The driver eyed the check in his hand. “If you’re sure…”
“I’m sure.” He tipped his chin toward the sky. “I’m sorry, Mr. Ryson,” he said, and I recognized it as a twelve-step apology. But the wrecker driver might have thought it was a little weird.
Jude wouldn’t care, though. He seemed more at peace with himself now than he’d ever been.
The driver put the check into his pocket again and went to work. We watched while he attached what was left of the Porsche to the tow truck. “Hope the back wheels still roll,” I said.
Jude put an arm around me. “I think the rear axle can do a few more country miles.”
It was sort of like watching a funeral. The wrecker driver got in and cranked his engine. Then the Porsche, where I’d spent so many hours of my teen years, slowly rolled away.
“Well,” he said into the silence. “We have a party to go to.”
He shook his father’s hand and wished him well. Because apparently the Nickel men never hugged. Then he got into the driver’s seat of my car and started her up.
The first part of our drive out of town was silent. “Are you sure you’re in the mood for a party?”
“You’re still wearing that dress,” he said. “So yes.”
“It’s at a bar.” That’s why I kept asking. We were headed to the grand opening of Zara’s brother’s bar.
“I know. That’s fine.”
“I don’t want you to be uncomfortable.”
He gave me an amused look. “Baby, if I say it’s fine, it’s fine.”
“Sorry,” I said quickly. I wasn’t usually so protective of him, and he appreciated that. But tonight everything seemed more laden with emotion, and I didn’t want him to be dragged to a party if he didn’t want to go to one.
“Some time soon you should come to a meeting with me,” he said suddenly.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. I want you to see what it’s like. Some of these guys? They have wives who love to party. They get drunk and do drugs and ask these recovering addicts why they’re not fun anymore.”
“Jesus. That’s horrible.” Jude and I were still in the early stages of navigating his recovery. But I knew I was a thousand times more supportive than what he’d just described.
“It is horrible. But you need to trust me if I say I can go somewhere or do something. And with you for company, there aren’t many places I can’t go.” He gave me a quick smile. “You’re not much of a drinker, and the Shipleys don’t really go out to get wasted. So the fact that I’ll be standing in a place where they sell a lot of alcohol isn’t really a big deal for me. It’s all about the company I keep. Not the venue.”
“Okay. But Griff said you never went to the Goat with them last summer.”
“Ah. I was just getting my legs under me. I’m good. I promise.”
“Just love you,” I said, touching his arm. “I never want you to be uncomfortable.”
“Everybody is sometimes uncomfortable,” he said, accelerating onto the highway entrance ramp. “It’s what you do about it that defines you.”
He was right, of course. So I relaxed, sitting back in my seat and stealing occasional glances at his handsome profile all the way to the brand new bar.
Jude
Zara’s brother Alec was going to do well for himself.
I pulled up in front of a gorgeous old brick building with wooden shutters. THE GIN MILL was lit up in neon over the entrance.
Inside were many, many bodies in a groovy space. There was good lighting and the dark orange hue of bricks and old wood. A gleaming copper bar stretched across one end of the room, where several people worked furiously to serve customers.
On the other end were a few booths and a DJ that I doubted would be there every night. But the opening of The Gin Mill was rocking, and people were dancing already.
“Wow,” Sophie yelled into my ear.
“Right?”