“No.”
Without breaking stride, she ignores my refusal and continues. “Just a few drinks and Sarah is making some finger foods.”
“No.”
“We thought we could meet around eight. Since it’s a weekday night, Shaw said we could have the back table and stay as long as we want. He offered to shut it down for us, but I thought that as long as we have a table to ourselves, we should be good.”
When she finally stops, I’m staring at her with an eyebrow quirked. She knows there’s no way in hell I’m going to a party for Shep. Carys knows everything. She knows about the weekend we spent together and how amazing it was and the fact he ghosted me. Like, poof, gone.
I swear, it’s like he erased me from his memory. Even when we’re forced to be in the same room, his eyes always skip over me. He’s only spoken to me a few times, when he has to. I’m constantly feeling self-conscious, like maybe I smell…or maybe I was a really terrible lay. He seemed to enjoy it at the time, but what if he was pretending?
My battered psyche doesn’t need that kind of abuse tonight. All the second-guessing and self-doubt? No, thank you.
“Please come,” Carys begs, turning the puppy dog eyes on me. “And not even for Shep. We’ll just pretend like he’s not there. Come because you need a night out and Avery will be there. We can drink on her behalf and commiserate together. It’ll be good for you.”
“Sarah’s cooking?” I ask, feeling weak and in need of carbs to mask my anguish.
Her smile grows and she nods her head. “Yeah, crab cakes, mini muffulettas, shrimp po’boys…bread pudding with rum sauce…”
“Are you trying to seduce me or talk me into a party?”
“Both,” she replies, waggling her eyebrows. “I mean, you haven’t been laid in like, what? Two years. You’re basically a virgin again.”
“You whore,” I whisper-yell.
Carys’s smile turns into a smirk. “Proud of it.”
After a few seconds, the door chimes and a new customer walks in, ending our impromptu therapy session. “So, you’ll come?” she asks, hopefully.
I smile at the man and woman walking up to the counter and greet them, but Carys is persistent and she doesn’t take no for an answer.
“His grandfather just died,” she whispers, pulling out the big guns.
I didn’t know that and now I feel bad. Even though Shep did me wrong, I would never wish any ill will toward him. Actually, the thought of him in pain or mourning makes me sad, which is ridiculous. I should relish in his pain…maybe have a voodoo doll fashioned after him and use it as a pincushion. But instead, I feel for him and in a moment of weakness, I cave.
“Fine, I’ll be there.”
Carys claps her hands and if it weren’t for the customers, she probably would’ve jumped up and down. “Yay, okay, it’ll be great. I’ll see you tonight.”
Somehow, a few minutes in Carys’s presence and I feel lighter than I have in days.
Chapter 5
Shep
“Really, man, we don’t have to do anything. It’s just a birthday and we can celebrate anytime. Isn’t that what being in New Orleans is all about?”
“True,” Maverick agrees, “but it’s not just any birthday; it’s a big one. You’re fucking thirty! Plus, I know being back in Dallas was shit and I have no doubt you need to blow off some serious steam.”
That would be the understatement of the year.
“Okay, fine. One drink. We can do something bigger later, if you want, but for tonight, I’m taking it easy. You know, because I’m so old and mature now,” I say with a wink.
“What the fuck ever, man.” Mav claps his hand on my shoulder as he opens the door to Come Again, letting me enter first.
“Surprise!”
For a second I worry I’m having a stroke. Not that I’ve ever experienced one before but it’s the only explanation my brain can come up with. For one thing, Come Again is dark inside. If you didn’t already know it was open, you’d probably pass it by. Sometimes I wonder if Shaw, the owner, even wants customers.
Second, there are more people screaming surprise at me than I know here, which is a very odd feeling. I’m sure those I don’t know are customers just being nice, but still…weird. And third, I’ve never had a surprise party thrown for me before and I honestly don’t know how to react.
I’m quite sure I’m mastering the deer in the headlights look, though.
Once my eyes have adjusted to my surroundings, I give my best friend a look that hopefully conveys “thank you” in addition to “I’m going to kick your ass for this”. He just laughs and nods his head as if to say “you can fucking try.”
One drink will not be enough tonight, I can already tell.
Managing to plaster on what, I hope, looks like a genuine smile, I give the crowd a wave before Maverick ushers me to the small group of people who actually know who the hell I am. Carys is here, of course, along with Jules and…low and behold, the Ice Queen, herself, CeCe Calhoun.
Holy fucking hell.
She must’ve been told this party was for my funeral because there’s no way she’s actually here to celebrate my birth. The woman hates me and for good reason, too. I’m sure she assumes I feel the same about her, but she’d be wrong. She just doesn’t need to know that.
Both Carys and Jules greet me with warm hugs and birthday wishes, but all I get from CeCe is a mock “cheers” motion with her shot glass that is immediately emptied down her throat. I watch as she throws her head back, elongating that graceful neck of hers, and making me wish—not for the first time—for a repeat of the weekend we spent together almost two years ago.
Clearing my throat, I tell the group I’m heading to the bar to see what’s on tap.
“Happy birthday, Shep!” I’m greeted by Avery, Shaw’s fiancé, who stops wiping down the bar to focus on me. “What can I get you?” She places her hands on her stomach—her very round stomach—and I’m reminded she’s pregnant. Very pregnant, in fact.
“Thanks, I’ll just have a local dark beer but I can wait for someone else to pour it. Or I can pour it myself, if you’d like. You shouldn’t be pouring my beer in your, uh, condition.” I wave my hand in the general direction of her belly. I’m not sure why I’m acting so weird about this. I know she should be able to work whenever and wherever she wants but it just feels wrong somehow.
Avery laughs but when Shaw walks behind her, I see him nod his head at me while murmuring, “I knew I liked this one.” This causes her to roll her eyes and place her hands where her hips would normally be.
“Are you saying, just because I’m pregnant, I can’t pour a beer?”
The corner of Shaw’s mouth quirks up slightly and I can tell he’s amused by her challenge. “No, my love. You can do anything you want. I’m simply appreciative of Shepard’s manners, that’s all.” He kisses the tip of her nose and rubs his hand across her stomach before walking off, leaving his wife a virtual pile of goo.
That’s a man who knows what he’s doing, to be sure, and as much as I’ve come to know and respect Shaw O’Sullivan, I still feel strange about witnessing their interaction. I’m not used to most forms of affection, public or otherwise, and I find myself caught between wanting to observe the moment closely and wanting to run far, far away.