Page 104 of Thirst For Me
She pauses, considering that.
“Of course you can. Your family has deep roots in this community. Maybe I’ll even sell your products at my new restaurant. It’s more than you’ve ever done for me.” And with that, she leaves me on the pier.
I find my grandpa sitting in a lawn chair in the middle of Water Street, way at the back of the crowd, alone. People-watching, as he likes to do, and enjoying the music. Layne’s band is now playing a Dirty classic, “Road Back Home.”
I crouch down next to him. “How’s the show?”
Grandpa nods toward the band. “He looks so much like your dad when he plays guitar.”
“I thought I was the one who looked like Dad.”
Grandpa chuckles. “Careful, that sounded like jealousy.”
I watch the band for a minute in silence. “June rejected my offer to buy Pier Seven.”
After a moment, Grandpa says, “Did you expect anything different?”
“Yes. A part of me did.”
He sips his beer. Grunts. “Juniper Spencer isn’t gonna do a single thing you want her to. Not as long as I’m alive.”
“She said she’ll consider carrying our products at the restaurant she’s going to open.”
He snorts. “Believe it when you see it. Until then ... don’t believe a word that woman says.”
How many times have I heard him say that over the years?
Innumerable.
“Grandpa. Is there any way you would ever consider apologizing to her?”
He scowls at me. “For what?”
“I don’t know.” I sigh. “Whatever you did that hurt her so bad.”
He fixes his gaze on the band again. “Yeah.Ihurther. That’s a good one.”
After I lock up at the cider house, I feel ancient. This day felt like it was never going to end. And at the same time, I feel impossibly young. Naive and jaded all at once.
Fucking stubborn old people.
Dealing with Tommy and June is like trying to push a boulder up a steep hill with my bare hands and flip-flops on my feet.
When I walk back over to Water Street, the band is done, the stage empty. The market stalls have closed and packed up, the crowds have thinned out, and the only music comes from Pier Seven.
Sierra set up speakers outside the smoothie bar for the festival, and lights in the windows that twinkle in time to the music. “No Scrubs” drifts down Water Street, making me think of her, in my bar, singing the same song into a cider bottle that first night we met.
I see Sierra, alone, behind the counter at Cutie Fruitie as I approach and nudge the door open.
She looks up as I walk in, and I’m really not sure how to read that expression on her face.
“Closing up?”
“Yeah. I was just about to lock the doors.”
“You watching the fireworks?”
She blinks. “Um. Yeah. I think Sophie was getting a spot for us on the beach.”
