2. Rocky Start

2

Rocky Start

Deacon

Cheery people are exasperating. They suck my energy. And lucky for me, Alice Beaumont is the queen in that department. Everything about her is cute. And by cute, I mean completely irritating. From her colorful clothes to her dorky brooches—who even wears brooches these days?—to the perpetual smile that brightens her face. Except when she talks to me. Her sunny grin vanishes completely, but weirdly, that somehow makes her even more intriguing. More human. Like there's a real person underneath that unhealthy dose of happiness. After all, no one can be that cheerful all the time. Life isn't that great. There's nothing to be ecstatic about.

Glancing at my watch, I groan. With Alice's little visit, I barely had time to exercise before my therapist appointment. Another reminder of how messed up life is.

I hop in the shower, get dressed, and march downstairs. A creaking sound beneath me makes me stop halfway down. I've checked these stairs countless times since buying the place a few months ago. Made sure they were completely secure before we moved in, but the creaking hasn't stopped. I walk back up, then down a few times, until I identify the creaking step. I'll check it again when I get back.

As I'm approaching the front door, something catches my attention through the window facing my new bar. A cat is walking on the counter. Not just any cat. Mr. Larcy, or whatever his name is, from next door. I really need to fix the screen on the back window, or at least remember to keep it closed.

With a sigh, I step into the room, and he meows loudly. I walk to the counter to pick him up, and as usual, he starts purring. I've never met another cat who purrs the moment you touch him, but then again, I never was a big animal person. It's like he has a button somewhere on him that activates the purring when you pick him up.

Rolling my eyes, I stroke him for a little while, taking comfort in his warm body against my chest. Remembering I have an appointment to get to, I carry him outside and drop him on the sidewalk carefully.

Thankfully, our shrink's practice is only a few blocks away.

Today is what people would call a "nice spring day." The sky is clear, there's a light breeze, and the sun is shining. But that also means everyone on our street is outside. I knew moving here was going to be a nuisance. Small pedestrian street equals up-close, nosy neighbors and everything else I hate. I prefer my neighbors a solid mile away, like they were when I lived in New Hampshire. Before my life was turned upside down.

"Hi, Mr. Collier," Mrs. Edibam, the florist, greets me as she's arranging the display in front of her shop. "Nice day today."

I grunt, forcing a smile. "Hi. Right, good day."

Why do people submit themselves to small talk when they see a neighbor? Can't we just cohabit without speaking?

"Oh, hi," Susan, the hairdresser, calls from the other side of the street .

It's a trap.

I wave curtly and speed-walk until I'm out of the danger zone. Thankfully, the end of the street is still either uninhabited or in development.

I reach Dr. Stewart's building five minutes late, thanks to all that nonsense chitchat, and his office door is already open when I enter the waiting room.

"Deacon, come on in," he says in that calm therapist voice of his.

"Hi," I mumble. "Sorry I'm late." I step into the small office and sit down on the brown couch that rests in the middle of the room. The familiar scent of old paper and leather envelops me, probably from the large mahogany bookshelf that takes up two thirds of the room.

"Would you like some coffee?" he asks, pressing the machine's button to pour himself a cup.

"No, I'm good." I lean forward on the couch, eager to get started. I might be late, but I know the hour doesn't start until he's seated and his notebook is open. Unfortunately.

Soon, the bitter scent of coffee fills the room, adding another layer of warmth to the space. Images of my grandmother and me sitting at the table with a pot of coffee between us as she recounts anecdotes from her past resurface, and my heart does that weird clenching thing. I chase the memory away, focusing on Dr. Stewart's diploma on the wall.

"All right, Deacon. Let's get started," he says, taking his seat in the matching armchair across from me. He sets his mug on the end table and finally grabs his notebook. "How are you today?"

"Fine."

He writes something down. "Did you exercise this morning?"

My jaw clenches. "I tried, but I was interrupted."

"What happened?" he asks, cocking his head.

"Same thing as last time."

"Your neighbor?"

I roll my eyes. "Apparently, the music was loud."

He arches his eyebrows. "Was it?"

"Maybe." It definitely was, but if you ask me, it wasn't loud enough. I could still hear myself think.

"Why not use headphones? That way, you can play your music as loud as you want—though I don't recommend it for your ears—and not bother your neighbor. You mentioned that exercising helps with your grief, so it'd be good to keep it up."

I look away. Sure, headphones would help in that department, but then Alice wouldn't interrupt my session. As annoying as she is, arguing with her makes me feel something besides overwhelm and sadness. Sometimes, I wonder if it's more therapeutic than the actual workout.

"How's Lola? Have you made any progress on your relationship with her?" he asks, crossing his legs.

My body tenses the way it always does when I think about my niece. "Why do you keep asking me that? I only come to these sessions so she agrees to therapy. She's the one who really needs this. If she gets the help she needs, I'm sure everything else will fall into place."

"Lola lost her mother, but you lost your sister, Deacon. Your loss is important too."

I breathe out a sigh. I hate coming here. Yeah, losing Amelia was a tragedy for me, but it's nothing compared to what Lola is feeling right now. I have no right to be weak. She needs my strength. Her entire world has shifted. Her favorite person and only caregiver is gone, and now she's stuck with me, her antisocial uncle she used to see only a couple times a year. I know the feeling all too well. When my drunk dad killed our mother in a car crash, Amelia and I were in the same boat. Except we at least had each other, and our grandmother raised us.

Lola isn't as lucky.

"You don't have to talk to me, Deacon. But I encourage you to try. It might help, and I'm sure I can understand. "

I almost let out a laugh. Dr. Stewart might have a degree from Harvard, but I don't think some piece of paper is enough to understand the depth of desolation that is my life. I don't even know how to process it myself.

At half past two, I head downstairs to pick up Lola from the Mercer School of Performing Arts in Lower Manhattan. Taking after her mom, Lola is some sort of dance prodigy, and she got accepted into the program when she started middle school. I listen carefully as I walk down the stairs, puffing out a sigh of relief when I realize the creaking sound has stopped. I spent a solid two hours on that step earlier, and I'm glad it did the trick.

The street is livelier than ever, with shoppers wandering by and store owners busy at work. Thankfully, everyone has already greeted me for today, so I'm in the clear.

Alice is engaged in an animated conversation with Marissa and Beth, the café owners from across the street. All smiles. Ugh .

As they chat, an old lady walks by, dropping the envelope she's carrying. Alice seemingly plunges to the floor, giving the lady her envelope back .

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Does she have to be so annoyingly nice all the time? I swear, she's like a Disney princess, happily skipping around with flowers in her hair, singing her heart out. The only thing missing is the army of animals fluttering and scurrying around her.

Well, there's always the cat.

I lock the door to the bar and steal one last glance, but her gaze lands on me at the same time. Her warm chocolate eyes narrow into slits, like they always do when she sees me. I don't get the same cheerful treatment as everyone else. Though it might be better this way. I haven't decided yet. Saying something to her friends, she smooths down her dress, and I force myself to look away from her luscious body. But that's not easy, considering she's walking right toward me.

Oh, heck no. What does she want now?

My heart quickens with every step she takes.

"We got your mail. Again ."

"Where is it?"

She lets out a frustrated sigh and props a hand on her hip. "Your question should be, ‘Gee, why are you getting my mail?'" She pretends to think, tapping a finger on her pink lips. "Is it because I still haven't put my name on the mailbox? "

All I can do is scowl. She has way too much energy for a person her size. "Can you just give me my mail?"

Her eyes blaze with anger. "I put it in your mailbox. I'm a good neighbor."

"Then why are you over here, bothering me with this, Frenchie?" I spit out, surprised by my tone. I'm not sure what it is about Alice Beaumont, but she always seems to bring out the worst in me. "I don't have time for this. Some of us have real lives, real problems, and real jobs."

With that, I turn and stalk away. Who does she think she is? The girl reads books all day. Of course she has time to organize every single detail of her life. I just moved to the city, gained custody of a teenager who hates me, and abandoned my bar to open a new one here. All against my will.

"Because you're a terrible neighbor," she yells behind me, her pitch rising, and my blood pumps faster in my veins. "Add your name to the mailbox already."

I hold back a growl of rage. Why does she insist on getting under my skin? I shouldn't even care what she thinks. Adding names on mailboxes isn't required by law. So what if our street has an odd numbering system? It's not my fault they numbered the buildings in the order of construction. The postman should know that by now. I have bigger fish to fry .

Thirty minutes later, I'm standing in front of Mercer School, and Lola's curly brown hair comes into view. She notices me, walks over, and continues without stopping.

Yeah, she's not a fan of me picking her up and dropping her off every day, but what am I supposed to do? Let her take the subway by herself? We live in New York City . This may be her home, but it's not mine, and even if she doesn't see the dangers lurking around every corner, I do.

I follow after her with a sigh. Frankly, New York is the last place on earth I'd have chosen to live. It's big, polluted, dirty, and there are way too many people per square foot. But it's the only home Lola's ever known, and there's only one Mercer School, so here we are. As much as I would have loved to bring her back to New Hampshire, I didn't want to tear her away from the last bit of stability in her life. So, we compromised and settled on Brooklyn, which is a little more laid back while not being too far from her school. She and Amelia used to live in lower Manhattan, close to her school, but neither of us wanted to keep the lease on the apartment.

"When are you going to let me go to school by myself?" she grumbles as we sit down in the J train.

I stare into her deep green eyes, and my heart breaks. They're the same as Amelia's. "You're too young, Lola. It's not safe."

She lets out a frustrated sigh. "It's one train ride! And I'm thirteen."

I cross my arms and look out the window, but I'm distracted by a loose screw. "Exactly."

"Argh! I hate you. You're the worst." Grabbing a book from her backpack, she opens it and starts reading, preparing to effectively ignore me the rest of the trip.

I don't mind it. Nor do I mind the nasty words she just threw at me. They're not nearly as cutting as the ones I use for myself.