I’d never been with anybody in such a primitive way, in a way that was raw and needy, and lacked civility. We took what we wanted from each other.
We never went back to the party. We stayed in the room, and we alternated between talking and sex, a pattern that kept us up until the sun was close to rising. Eventually, exhaustion won and we fell asleep. When I woke up, Wes was gone.
I’d gone to the party with two friends, one of whom lived on the other side of the lake, so I walked back to her house in flip-flops and my borrowed sorority shirt. I was too embarrassed to admit to her that I cared about Wes ghosting me, so I told her it was something we’d agreed on before we’d hooked up. “No strings attached,” I’d said. For what it’s worth, I don’t think she believed me. I may have been a wild child, but there was something about sex that was sacred to me.
But apparently not to Wes. He doesn’t even remember me.
Rolling over, I give the second pillow on the hotel bed one more good punch, then a second for good measure, and stand up. I can’t lie in here wallowing anymore. I’ve already left a Dakota-sized dent in the mattress.
I run a brush through my hair, swipe under my eyes for mascara that ran during my breathing and punching, and pluck my purse from the chair in the corner. On my way down the stairs, I fish my phone from my pocket and video call Abby.
“Hi, what’s up?” she answers, something long and red sticking out of one side of her mouth.
I squint at the screen. “Is that a red bell pepper?”
She nods, pulling it from her mouth and chewing on the bite. “I’m making a snack plate for the girls.”
Of course she is. Because she’s my sister and she’s perfect. Sometimes Abby has cookies waiting for Taylor and Emerson when they get home, but most of the time it’s a fruit and veggie platter with pretzels thrown in for good measure. Usually there is a homemade dip like tzatziki or chocolate hummus. To my knowledge, this snack plate has been her most pinned image and highest viewed recipe on her website, ranking only slightly above Instant Pot coq au vin.
“How are the girls?” I ask, clearing the last step on the staircase and making a sharp right into the lobby. I don’t really know where I’m going, but I’ve got to go somewhere. I don’t need to wait for Wes and that sexed-up realtor to explore Sierra Grande. I have two feet and two eyeballs and I can put them to use just fine.
“Girls are good. Emerson found a turtle today. Don’t ask me how, I have no idea. She wants to keep it.” Abby takes another bite of bell pepper. “I asked her where it would sleep and she said your bed.”
I narrow my eyes at my sister’s laughing face. “Very funny.”
“Thanks, I try.”
I exit the hotel and pause on the sidewalk, looking right and then left. After a second’s consideration, I go left.
“I need to put you down, hang on,” Abby says, and I find myself looking at the kitchen ceiling while I listen to the sound of her sharp chef’s knife slicing away on her butcher block cutting board. “Are you coming home tonight?”
“No,” I answer, pushing off the brick wall I’d been leaning on and looking around. The hotel is on a busier street, and storefronts line both sides. Shading my eyes from the sun, I try to read the names in the nearby windows. “I have some more work to do here. Learn the town and get a feel for the property and what the townspeople want to see developed. You have to go slow in a place like this. They won’t take kindly to us marching in and throwing in a strip mall.”
Abby finally picks up the phone so I’m no longer talking to the ceiling. “Don’t you ever tell me you’re not good at anything. Listen to you, thinking of what people want instead of acting like some corporate raider and shoving your agenda down their throats.”
I look away, pretending I didn’t hear the compliment. After all the hell I put my parents through, I have a hard time accepting that I could possibly be doing something good.
“Anyway, Dad and I won’t be coming home until tomorrow evening, probably. Maybe Saturday morning. We don’t have a return flight booked yet.”
Abby smiles into the phone. She looks like our mother, with fair skin and blonde hair made blonder by highlights. “Proud of you, Little D.”
I frown playfully at the nickname, and Abby laughs.
We say goodbye, and I put the phone back in my pocket. At the end of the street is a sign with a huge white arrow and the words Bar N. A quick glance at my watch tells me it’s not quite an acceptable time to have a drink.
But what the hell? Dad’s taking a nap, and it’s not like I have anywhere to be right now.
Now I get it. The reason for the name Bar N is that the place actually is a barn.
From the outside it looks like a regular barn. If it weren’t for the trucks parked haphazardly in the grass around the place, I’d think it was a place where horses should be. Oh, wait, that’s a stable. What animal goes in a barn?
This one, apparently, I think as I walk in. A makeshift bar runs half the length of the left wall, and folding tables dot the floor in such a way that it leaves a big open space in the middle. I’m assuming this is a dance floor, but without any dancers, it looks a bit depressing.
I go to the bar and order a vodka soda. I almost ask what choices I have for vodka, but think better and hold my tongue at the risk of earning myself a dirty look from the female bartender with the partially shaved head.
“Thanks,” I tell her, throwing down some cash and taking my drink to an unoccupied table. There are plenty to choose from.
I’ve been sitting for no fewer than three minutes when an older, crackling voice speaks up behind me.
“Aren’t you a pretty thing?”
I take a deep, slow breath and turn around, ready to flip the middle finger to an asshole who needs to be reminded this isn’t fifty years ago and I haven’t placed my life’s hopes and dreams on being complimented by him.
Something about him makes me stow my trigger-happy middle finger. He’s an old man, probably somewhere around eighty, but his eyes are bright with life.
“Haven’t seen you around here before.” He points a wrinkled, age-spotted finger at me. “And no, that was not a pick-up line, even if it sounded like one.”
Laughter bubbles up. I lean back in my chair and extend a hand. “I’m Dakota Wright. Here on business.”
“Waylon Guthrie. Here since I learned to walk.”
This is perfect. This man must know everything about Sierra Grande. “Would you like to join me?” I ask, gesturing to my empty table.
It’s painful watching Waylon get up, grab his drink, and gather his lightweight tan jacket, but I don’t offer to help. He strikes me as a man who wouldn’t appreciate the insinuation that he needs it.
I clear my purse off the tabletop and make room for Waylon’s things.
“Well,” he says, huffing out a breath as he settles beside me. “Took long enough.”
I hold up my drink. “To new friends.”
“To new friends,” he echoes, tapping his bottle to my glass. He takes a drink of his beer, wipes the back of his hand across his upper lip, and says, “What kind of business brings you here, Dakota?”
“I’m looking at purchasing some land.”