6. Chapter Six

This was a bad idea. As soon as I see him, leaning on the counter and chatting with the bartender, I absolutely know. A very bad idea. One of the worst.

He's wearing a dark-gray T-shirt that's just tight in all the right places and dark-wash jeans and that same old baseball cap he'd had on at the diner. I think I've decided it's the sexiest baseball cap ever. Because holy shit, he's just... hot. And god, he's smiling at something the bartender says, and that's even hotter.

I think I'm staring, but it's only been a second, right? Totally not gawking. Because that would be weird. The door shuts loudly behind me, and both Coop and the bartender look in my direction.

There's a second, maybe—I'm probably imagining it—where I see a flash of something in his eyes. It's like what I saw yesterday when I told him I'd be in town for a couple of weeks. Maybe. Probably not. No, it can't be. It's gone too fast, and his guarded smile is back—that forced, tight one that makes me nauseous to see.

Yeah, this was a bad, bad idea.

"Hey, you made it," he says, waving me over. All casual-like. Except for that tension I can see in his jaw.

Somehow, I convince my feet to unstick from the ground, and I make my way through the small, dimly lit bar, the smell of cigarettes and beer thick in the air. Maybe that's why I'm nauseous. That's reasonable, right—that I'd be uncomfortable in a bar like this?

Yeah. And that's just another reason why this was a terrible idea. I'm not sure why I'd agreed to it, really. Actually, that's not true. I know exactly why. I need this chance. Just like Brenna said. I need the chance to apologize, to explain.

I glance around as I walk toward him. It feels likesomething straight out of a TV show or movie—this "small-town bar" vibe that seems almost too cliché. Neon beer signs hang in random places, there's a row of barstools along the counter and a few high tables pushed up against the wall, and a single pool table sits under a brightly lit set of billiard lights sporting a Budweiser logo toward the back of the room. There's also a dartboard along the back wall, and a jukebox plays some classic rock song.

"What'll you have? Sarge, put whatever he wants on my tab, will ya?" Coop picks up his beer bottle, which looks to be half-empty already, and motions to the barstool next to him. "Wanna have a seat? Or we can play a game of pool or whatever you want."

That's somehow too many things to think about all at once, at least given how my mind is not quite working right now, and my eyes dart from Coop to the bartender and then back to the pool table.

"Uh..." A drink. Right. What do I want? And Coop's paying? No, that doesn't sound right. I shake my head and pull out my wallet, shooting Coop a grin. "I got this. It was my idea after all." Sort of, I mean. It was my suggestion that we hang out, and I'd fully expected a clear "Fuck, no." But he'd said yes. For whatever reason.

Coop's expression tightens a little, but then he nods, and I hand Sarge my credit card.

"Um, just a Coke for me. Thanks," I say, to which Sarge gives me a look.

It's that look. I know it all too well, even though I don't frequent bars. I'd gotten it all the time hanging out with friends in college. Even when I'd try to play the "designated driver" card. I'd even gotten it just last night, in fact, when everyone at dinner had been drinking wine and I'd just had tea. Brenna's parents are great; they just don't know how growing up with a raging alcoholic for a father made me vow to never ever have even a drop of the stuff.

Sarge frowns again and almost maybe rolls his eyes a bit. But then he nods, puts my card somewhere under the counter, and starts to get my drink.

I can feel Coop standing next to me. I can tell he's watching me, and I sort of don't even want to risk looking at him right now. I don't want to see that same skeptical, slightly judgmental expression in his eyes as well. For some reason, I think it would feel different coming from him. And, I mean, I get it. Who comes to a bar with no intention of drinking? He's the reason I'm here, though, and so I turn toward him anyway, preparing myself for the worst.

But that's not what I get.

He is watching me carefully, but there's a gentleness in his eyes. And it's filled with understanding and acceptance. Because god, if anyone would understand, it would be him. Unlike Sarge and unlike Brenna's parents, Coop knows. Even more than Brenna, Coop knows. He lived through it with me, after all. And he was there for me. A rock—solid and unwavering—helping me get through countless days and nights when I'd been scared shitless of my own father.

The look in his eyes disappears quickly, although I'm sure I didn't imagine it, and he hooks a thumb back toward the pool table as Sarge sets my Coke on the counter.

"Wanna play? Just like old times?"

He seems to attempt a smile, but it still has that same wariness to it—that wariness that's all my doing. My stomach reminds me to be nauseous, knotting itself up again. God, the biggest apology in the world won't be enough to fix what I did. And somehow, I have to make this however-long-we-have-here count for something.

I grab my drink and grin at him. "So I can beat your ass just like I always used to?"

Oh, god. That got me something. A twinkle in his eye and something more to his smile. My chest feels tight, and there's an odd heat in my cheeks. My heart feels like it might burst right out of my chest.

"I think you might find my pool game has improved a lot in the last ten years," he says, still grinning.

I force a laugh. "Mine really . . . hasn't."

"No?"

We start back toward the pool table, Coop grabbing his coat off one of the other barstools on the way. It is warm in here. I mean, I'm warm at least. Very warm. I shrug off my coat as we walk, careful to not spill my drink.

"Nah. Dad got rid of the pool table when we moved. And I haven't really played since..."

I trail off. Why the hell had I mentioned my dad? I don't even like to talk about my dad. And I sure as hell expect Coop doesn't want to hear about my dad. It was stupid, and I wish I could just take it back and make some other comment instead. But I can't.

Just ahead of me, Coop stops and sets his beer and coat down on a small table next to the rack where the cues sit. There's tension in his shoulders now. He glances up, and his eyes dart back toward Sarge very briefly before shifting to me again.

It's painful. Because I see him. For just a moment, he lets me see him. And there's hurt and uncertainty and something else—something deeper—in his eyes. But it's gone in an instant; he blinks it away and turns to the billiards rack.

"Coop—"

"Here, you take this one." He hands me a cue and then adjusts his hat with his other hand as he regards the remaining cues on the rack. "Uh, that one's the best. Sarge really needs to replace the rest, but..." He shrugs and then grabs one for himself.

Let's not fuckin' talk about it. That's what he's trying to say. His eyes almost plead with me as he fakes another grin and then heads over to the pool table to rack the balls.

So much for my apology.

I step up to the table next to him. And I shouldn't be noticing how good he smells—some fresh, deep, citrus-based scent—and how his biceps ripple as he scoots the rack back and forth a bit to settle the balls in place and how his tongue flicks out of his mouth to wet his lips.

God, his lips.

Warmth spreads from my chest deep down into my belly, and I quickly blink and look away as he straightens back up. Drink. Where's my drink? In my hand. Right. God, what am I doing?

I take a swig, set it down on the table next to his, and then lay my coat on the back of the closest chair.

"You still living in Omaha?" he asks. He pulls the rack off of the balls and hangs it up on a hook on the wall.

"Uh, yeah, yeah. I, uh, just finished school in May, and I'm working at one of the hospitals in downtown now."

He raises his eyebrows at me. "A hospital?"

"Yeah. I'm a physical therapist. Brenna is too."

His expression shifts from curious to unreadable, and he reaches over and picks up his beer, then motions toward the table.

"After you," he says.

I slip past him around to the end of the table. "Prepare to be stunned."

I hear a huff of a laugh, and I glance up at him with another grin and then lean over to take my first shot. It's predictably terrible. Even if I hadn't been distracted by his closeness and his intoxicating scent and his muscles and... everything else, the shot still would have been pretty bad. I barely manage to break up the balls.

"That was impressive," he teases, and he sets down his beer and moves around the table a bit, studying it. There's a gleam in his eyes now. He adjusts his baseball cap again—god, it's really much too sexy for a plain old baseball cap—and he chalks the tip of his cue before settling in to take his first turn.

"So..." He hits the cue ball, banking it off the edge of the table to knock the number two ball straight into the corner pocket. "Physical therapy? Do you like it?"

"I do, yeah."

He sinks his next shot as well, then lines up for a third. He glances up at me briefly before focusing on the game again.

"Weren't you interested in, uh, what was it, neuroscience? Or neurobiology?"

"Yeah, yeah, but"—he takes his next shot and misses, so I line up to take my turn—"when I was in my second year of undergrad—"

"University of Nebraska?"

"Yeah. I did some volunteer work at a senior center." I totally miss my next shot. Again. I look up at Coop, who's shaking his head.

"That should have been an easy shot."

I roll my eyes and scoot back to watch as he sets up for his next go.

"Anyway, um, I did some volunteer work at this senior center, and what stuck with me the most was how much mobility affected quality of life."

Coop's paused, although he's still leaning over, poised to hit the number three ball into the far corner pocket. His eyes are on me, but I can't read what he's thinking.

I shrug and give him a small smile. "So I did a bit of my own research and found that older adults who receive physical therapy are significantly less likely to experience a fall. And they also maintain mobility and independence for significantly longer than those who don't receive physical therapy. So—"

He straightens up, and his expression shifts again to something a bit more serious than I'd have expected, given that I'm just telling him why I chose my career path.

I raise my eyebrows. "What?"

"Ah, nothing, nothing, just..." He lifts his hand and rubs the back of his neck. Then he shakes his head and leans over again to take his shot, angling a different way on the table this time. "My mom probably could have used someone like you her last few months."

There's a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. "Y-your mom? What...?"

He hits the cue ball, and it actually freaking bounces right up over one of the striped balls and then knocks the number five ball right into one of the side pockets. Without looking at me, he straightens up and studies the table as he moves around to the other side.

"Yeah, she got sick, uh, just after you moved, actually. Osteosarcoma. It was diagnosed stage four." His jaw is tight now, but he leans over and easily sinks the number six ball, then continues. "It got really difficult for her to do even just normal things. Walking, driving, cooking. She had to stop working after only a few months. You remember how she loved gardening?"

"Yeah. She loved her roses," I say.

His expression flickers briefly to something of a smile, as though he's remembering her. But the smile is very short-lived.

"It was probably only, um, a few weeks after her diagnosis... Uh, she couldn't even work in her garden anymore. It got too difficult for her to bend over or crouch down. Or, um, if she got down on the ground to work, she couldn't get back up. I—" He stops and shakes his head, then looks up at me with a forced smile. And tense shoulders. And that deep pain in his eyes again. "I didn't even think about that, and none of the doctors mentioned it. But maybe physical therapy could have helped her? Fuck. I mean, I know it wouldn't have cured her cancer. Nothing could fucking do that. But to, uh, give her maybe a little something, let her hold onto some things that gave her joy for just a little fucking longer before—"

I can't imagine what my expression looks like right now. But I know how I feel. Fresh guilt—and a lot of it—builds up in my chest. Dammit. How had I missed this? How had I not even known his mom had died?

He shifts his focus back to the pool game, but this time when he takes his shot, the cue ball completely misses its target.

"Fuck. Your turn."