7. The Middle Finger

SEVEN

THE MIDDLE FINGER

Garrett

Monday: The sun rays shimmer across the bright blue sky. The air is fresh and crisp. Most importantly, it's a great day to convince Dessa to talk to me. I can feel it deep in my bones. Today is my day. Upon entering Porter's, I spot Dessa behind the bar. Her back is to me while Lach is on a step stool, writing on the menu board under Drink Special. The blue calligraphy reads "Ghost Catcher." My body jolts to a stop as my chest tightens. A part of me wants to believe it's a coincidence, but I doubt it. My confidence meter drops a fraction. I brush my palms on my jeans and will my feet to power forward.

At the bar, I find an empty barstool and take a seat as Lach and Dessa continue to bicker about the drink. A small smile flirts on my lips. She was never one to back down, and I'm glad she hasn't changed because that fiery spirit is one of the many things I adore about her.

The stool next to me scrapes along the linoleum floor as an older man rises to his feet. Dessa glances over her shoulder, her dark hair flowing around her as she says goodbye with a warm smile to the customer. When she spots me, her gaze narrows and her lips curl into a sneer. Her once playful demeanor instantly evaporates. Without saying a word, she stomps to the other end of the bar. She didn't throw anything at me. I'll chalk that up as a win.

Tuesday: As soon as I open the front door to Porter's, all the noise and chatter floods onto the sidewalk. The place is wall-to-wall packed. Damn near every stool and table is full. I scan the entire bar, and Dessa is nowhere. I hang around for a few minutes longer hoping that she's in the back or something, but she never appears. It must be her night off.

Wednesday: I'm determined to get her to talk to me. Hear me out. After that, if she wants to continue hating me, she can, but I'm not going down without swinging. Until then, I'll try a new tactic. One that involves her favorite thing.

As I flip through the worn pages of my mom's recipe book, a pang of guilt hits me. I've lost a lot of years with Dessa. All I can do is pray these cookies will be the perfect apology gift. Or at least a peace offering. She's never been able to say no to my mom's cookies. As kids, whenever Dessa came over, Mom would always have cookies waiting for us. For a while, I was convinced she was only friends with me because of the cookies.

Since my mom isn't here to make them for me, I'll have to bake them myself. How hard can it be? I have the recipe. All I need to do is follow the directions. Anyone can do that. Pulling a white apron over my head, I tie the straps around my waist, making sure it's snug. Glancing at my chest, I see an upside-down cartoon pig holding a butter knife and a pitchfork with the printed words "Don't worry, I got this. I watched a YouTube video." That's right cartoon pig, I got this. I rummage through all the cupboards and drawers to find mixing bowls, measuring cups, and spoons. Once everything is set out in front of me, I go on a hunt for all my ingredients.

With the first batch baking in the oven, I stare at the timer, drumming my fingers on the counter as I count the minutes until they're golden brown. I continuously peer through the small window in the door. Seconds before the timer dings, I yank open the door. The sugary sweet aroma of melted chocolate assaults my nostrils. It's a grand slam on my first try. I pat myself on the back. With an oven mitt covered hand, I pull out the cookie sheet and my heart drops. What started as nine cookies has now morphed into one enormous, rectangular, flat-as-a-pancake cookie. Shit. The cookie sheet rattles as I toss it on the stove.

I try again with a new batch. When they're finished, I let them cool for a minute. They look like cookies and even smell like cookies. This might be the batch. I grab one, break it in half, and toss a piece into my mouth. While I'm chewing, I glance at the recipe, but something tastes off. Almost artificial. Panic sets in as I peer at the counter with my ingredients. It's then when the square, white container labeled baking powder instead of baking soda catches my attention. Shit. Why is there baking soda and baking powder? And why do they do different things? Baking. The first word. The most important word. But no. After some quick research on my phone, I learn one requires an acid while the other doesn't, and these chocolate chip cookies require baking soda, not baking powder. I guess you learn something new every day. Another batch in the garbage .

By the third batch, I'm on the brink of defeat. But I can't quit. This is too important. I triple-check all my ingredients. Follow the recipe line by line. Now I wait and pray to the cookie gods that they turn out. While they still don't resemble my mom's chocolate chip cookies, they're close. Which counts in horseshoes and hand grenades. I grab one and break it in half. A string of gooey chocolate stretches between the two halves. I toss a chunk into my mouth and chew. I moan. They may not be a grand slam but at least a triple, and that counts in my book. Once cool, I grab a plastic tray and place several cookies on it, securing them with plastic wrap. After I clean up my mess, I waste no time and head straight out the door, cookies in hand.

"Well, if it isn't my second favorite baseball player." Jake comes to a halt on the other side of the bar at Porter's.

I take a seat across from him. "Why am I only your second?"

"Play for a better team, or at least learn how to catch a ball."

I huff out a laugh. "Thanks for the pep talk. You really know how to boost someone's morale."

"If you came here for someone to stroke your ego, you came to the wrong place." Jake reaches under the bar, then slaps three darts on the bar top. My gaze drops to the two red darts and one yellow dart with plastic tips. "This time, how about you take it easy on my dartboard, so I don't have to replace all these tips?" His brow arches.

Since I was seventeen, I've been coming into Porter's to throw darts. Luckily, Jake allowed me to hang out and spend my money on the dartboard. But not without a threat if I tried to order anything but a root beer, I'd have to learn how to throw a baseball with my toes. Jake's a big guy. You don't take his threats lightly. Since he gave me a reprieve from my house for a few hours, I wasn't going to jeopardize the opportunity. Unfortunately, Jake's dartboard took the brunt of my anger the entire summer leading into my senior year.

I reach into my pocket and grab my wallet. "Let me give you some money for those."

"Don't worry about it. If you didn't come here for darts, can I get you a beer?"

"No, I'm good," I wave my hand, "but is Dessa around?"

"No."

Jake has always been a man of few words. "Alright. Can you give her these?" I slide the tray of cookies across the bar.

His gaze drops, then slowly meets mine with a raised eyebrow. Somehow, he can ask a million questions with only an arched brow.

I shrug. "I need Dessa to talk to me."

"And you think cookies will do that?"

"It's my mom's recipe and her favorite." At least, I pray the cookies are a big enough bribe. If not, my next option is dropping to my knees and begging.

He pokes at the extra crispy cookie through the plastic wrap. "Don't quit baseball to become a baker."

"Thanks for that vote of confidence. I'm hoping it's the thought that counts." I drum my fingers on the worn wood bar top. "Speaking of Dessa, I want to ask you about her."

"Oh, hell no. I want nothing to do with that shit." He rises to his full height and crosses his arms over his chest .

"Come on," I plead. "You're the only person I have here. Plus, you've known Dessa as long as I've been away."

"I don't get involved in her relationships, and as long as she keeps it out of my bar, I don't care what she does."

"So, she's not seeing anyone?" I try to keep the desperation out of my tone but fail miserably.

"I don't keep tabs on my employees." Jake rests his palms on the bar and leans in. "Look, I'm well acquainted with your past and frankly, that's more than I want to know."

I lean against the backrest of the stool, twisting to rest my arm on the back. "She wouldn't have freaked out as much as she did if she didn't care. At least a little."

"Fuck." Jake stands to his full height and scrubs his hands down his face. "You know who's really good at this shit? Rylee. You should ask Rylee."

"I don't know Rylee. You're my friend, so I'm asking you as my friend, what do you think?"

He huffs out a long breath. "Talk to her. She likes to talk, so she'll eventually talk to you."

A small smile forms over my lips as I nod. He described Dessa perfectly.

Later that night, I head to Porter's. As soon as I stroll through the door, the lively chatter and clinking glasses fade into the background when I spot Dessa pouring a beer from the tap. She glances up as if she can sense my presence. She holds my gaze for a brief second, her eyes revealing a mixture of curiosity and hesitation, before she averts her gaze, pretending not to see me. Between two other customers, I find an empty stool at the bar and take a seat. The guy on my right flags her over, and she serves him a beer. She then asks the guy to my left if he needs anything.

Before she can walk away, I ask for a beer. Her only acknowledgment of me is her middle finger. As she continues to stroll along the edge of the bar away from me, I jump off my stool and follow her.

"Dessa. Wait."

"I have nothing to say to you, Garrett. I said everything I needed to say before."

"That's not fair. You can't shut me out."

"Watch me," she spits through gritted teeth.

I continue following her, dodging and weaving between customers. "Did Jake give you the cookies? I made them from my mom's recipe. I remember them being your favorite," I say with a hint of desperation. Right now, this is all I have.

"There's a family of raccoons devouring them by the dumpster," she says nonchalantly before stopping in front of a customer.

I huff out a laugh. She's talking to me, so that's a plus. "At least something is enjoying them," I mutter. "But this whole situation… it's not what you think."

She jerks her head up, jaw clenched, as a furious glare burns a hole through me. "Not what I think? So, you're telling me you didn't leave without saying a single word to me?"

I rub the back of my neck. "Well, when you put it that way. Yes. But I had to."

"No, Garrett. What you had to do was at least say goodbye. We were best friends. It's the least you could've done." When she's finished serving the customer, she continues to strut along the bar while I follow until we reach the end and there's nothing separating us .

"It's complicated." I reach out, wanting to touch her, needing to touch her. The warmth of her skin brushes against my fingertips.

She jerks away. "It's not complicated. You saying ‘it's complicated' doesn't make it complicated. In fact, it's pretty simple. You ghosted me."

"Dessa. Please. Give me a couple minutes so we can talk this out?" I plead. At this point, I'm seconds away from dropping to my knees and wrapping my arms around her legs so she's forced to talk to me.

"Fine. We can talk right now. Why did you leave?" Her hands clutch her hips as her lips form a thin line.

My gaze shifts to her coworkers, who are now staring at us along with most of the bar, who's in earshot of our conversation. Leaning in, I whisper, "I'd rather do this in private."

She shoots a sharp glare over her shoulder, and they pivot on their heels, pretending to be preoccupied. Her gaze meets mine again. "Now's your chance." She crosses her arms over her chest and taps her foot on the linoleum floor.

Her brown eyes turn a shade darker as she waits for me to say something. Anything. But words are failing me. How do I sum up ten years of hurt and frustration in a single sentence?

Growing impatient, she drops her arms to her sides. "If you're not going to talk, fine. You can stand there like a fool, but I'm getting back to work. This is done." Her hair twirls around her as she storms past me.

Fuck. I jab my fingers through my hair. "This isn't done," I say to her retreating frame. I'll wait here all night if I have to, and I do exactly that.