MY FATE FOR YOURS

Chapter 2- RACHEL

Rachel

The first thing I see when I round the corner with that damn bucket of ice is Eamon, hunched over at the bar looking a little pitiful. That’s not like him. Crap.

I’ve known Eamon since I was five. Back then, our mamas formed a playgroup and determined that we were destined to be friends. They said it was so, and it was. Knowing him for that long means I know when he’s had a worse night than me.

“Hey, Eamon,” I say. A couple of months ago, the night I’d broken up with Brett to be more specific, I sort of  screwed everything up when I threw myself at Eamon. It was an uncomfortable time to say the least, but it’s been okay lately. It has to be. We’ve known each other forever. I’d be torn up if things stayed weird.

“Rough night here?” he asks.

“Just a bunch of guys who don’t look like they ever plan on leaving, even if I’ve been here sixteen hours already and my feet are killing me. Not any different than usual I guess.” I shrug and the strap of my tank top slides down my shoulder. I slip it back up, and can’t help but notice Eamon’s eyes are trained on that tiny strip of fabric.

“Anyway,” I clear my throat, trying hard not to let on that I saw him watching me. He notices every girl, but I already know where he and I stand. “You want anything else? I’m about to make last call.”

He shakes his head. “No thanks, I actually just came by looking for Tobin. You haven’t seen him the last couple of days, have you?”

I slide the ice drawer open, then dump the contents of the bucket into it. Ice clinks together and a few pieces jump out onto the counter. Eamon doesn’t pay any attention to the stragglers in front of him. He’s biting his lip like he’s thinking hard.

“Now that you mention it, no. Tobin hasn’t been in. I don’t know if that’s a good or bad thing,” I say with a smile, hoping it curbs his obviously frayed nerves. When he doesn’t acknowledge me, I yell out into the bar. “Last call!” The place has basically cleared out, but the few guys left scramble to the bar to get their last drops of alcohol to carry them through the rest of the night. I pop the tops off of beer bottles and fill mugs. Once they’ve stepped aside I dare to speak again. “He’s really not doing so well, is he?” Still. The sick part is that some of me wonders what it would be like to love someone so much that being away from them tears you apart the way he’s torn.

“Eh, he’ll be okay,” Eamon says. His voice is noncommittal and doesn’t match his demeanor. I hope like hell that’s the truth and that Tobin hasn’t gone off and done something stupid. Something that can’t be reversed.

“Where do you think he went? I mean, you’ve checked around town, right?” I wipe down the bar top and empty the dishes of peanuts into the garbage--the start of the routine that says I’ll see my bed soon.

“I’ve looked everywhere, Rach. He jumped out of Dad’s truck the other night when I was driving him home, and ran off. I haven’t heard from him since.” Eamon shakes his head, like now that he’s said it out loud, it sounds even worse. Saying things out loud always makes them more real. He whispers the next words.  “Damn you, Tobin.”

I don’t know whether I’m supposed to hear them or not, so I sit in silence for a moment.

“Wait,” I finally mutter. “Do you think he went to see her? I mean, could he have gotten there with nothing on him?”

“Hell, I don’t know if I’d put anything past him where Delia is concerned. But I don’t know. D.C. is a helluva walk, that’s for sure.” Eamon always was baffled with Tobin and Delia. He loves her to pieces, we all do, but not a one of us expected that Delia Gentry would stick around Crawford—not even for a LeJeune boy.

I run my finger along the edge of the bar and don’t look up at him. It’s been close to a year since Delia left, and about eight months since they both called the split. Eamon’s done a lot of taking care of his brother in that time. I know Tobin will repay him when he can, but he’s still got some serious damage over the situation.

“I could call her, you know. I mean, if you want, I could just check,” I say.

He tips his head to each side, his neck popping with the movement. I know it’s the last thing he wants me to do—call Delia. If Tobin isn’t there with her, all I’d be doing is opening up a whole new reel of drama between the two of them. Tobin and Delia were known for their drama. Fighting, making up, screaming matches, massive displays of PDA. Shoulda' stayed apart from the beginning, but they just couldn’t do it. Sometimes I get the feeling there was a lot more to their split than her moving away, but I don’t know Tobin well enough for him to share stuff like that with me. Eamon was quiet enough about the whole thing that I knew to leave it alone.

“I don’t know, Rach. It could be a bad idea. We both know Delia, and she wouldn’t be able to stay away if she thought Tobin was in trouble. Right now, she needs to stay away.  At least a little while longer. Tobin needs to get his shit together and stop pining away for something that was never meant to be.” Eamon runs a hand through his messy brown hair, and I try not to watch.

Eamon’s right of course. That Tobin needs space. And I know more than anything, he wants to know his brother is okay—safe. And if that means calling Tobin’s ex, it has to be done.

Tobin’s the only thing Eamon doesn’t mind being tethered to. He won’t move out on his own, too final. Doesn’t stay with girls for more than a weekend, too restricting. Won’t take the supervisor job his boss keeps offering, too much responsibility. Even though he could handle all of it easily. It’s just who he is, which is why I have to find a way to let the idea of him go.

“You sure? I could be vague, not let on that he’s…sort of…missing,” I suggest thinking that’s probably the best way to do this.

Eamon rubs the scruff of his cheek and slowly nods. “Okay. But he’s not missing. Don’t say that. I’m sure he’s fine. He’s just… He’s just being an asshole.”

I pull my iPhone out of the apron that’s tied around my waist and scroll for Delia’s number.

“Scotch. Neat.” I look up from my phone and there’s a guy from the group that was in here earlier. His arms are covered in tats, he’s got a bandana around his wrist and an eat-shit look plastered across his face.

“Sorry, last call is over,” I say purposefully not making eye contact. I press a few buttons then put the phone to my ear.  “It’s ringing.” I mouth to Eamon, who’s peering over his shoulder at the man.

“Scotch.” Bandana man repeats, sliding the glass toward me.

I pretend to concentrate on my phone call as Eamon cuts his eyes toward him.

“Braden, let’s go!” one of the guys calls from the door to Bandana.

“You go on. I’m still waiting on my drink.” I ignore the way his eyes bore into the side of my head and hope Delia picks up.

“No answer,” I say, feeling myself deflate a little, even though it’s the middle of the night and I should have expected it. Delia is probably snug in her bed, sleeping sound without a damn care in the world. I’m not bitter, just a little envious, maybe. Mostly, I was hoping we could talk and we’d have an answer to at least one mystery—whether Tobin had high-tailed it to D.C. or not. I was also hoping Braden with the bandana would walk away while I was busy. He hasn’t.

I press my hands to my hips and cock a brow.

“I said last call is done. We’re closing up behind you.”

I move to drop my phone back into my apron when Braden reaches across the bar and grabs my wrist. His fingers press deep into the skin with a searing pain. He’s so close I can smell that he must have chased the single scotch I poured him earlier with a fifth of his own.

My heart starts racing just as I catch Eamon moving in out of the corner of my eye.