Page 6 of The Bad Brother
Just another Saturday night in Barrett.
Halfway across the lot, I stop and against my better judgment, turn around to look at the two-story brick building behind me.
Seventy-five years ago, it was a mill. Built on the banks of the river it’s named after—both named for the man who founded the town—it served its purpose until there was no more purpose to serve and the mill was shut down in 1983. The building sat empty for nearly a decade until Tank Barrett decided enough was enough and turned it into a bar in 1991.
I wasn’t even born yet.
This place shouldn’t belong to you. It should belong to Cade or Sera, or fuck—even their stick-up-his-ass brother because evenif they don’t carry the name, they’re a thousand times more Barrett than you’ll ever be.
Most of the time I can keep my imposter syndrome down to a whisper. Tonight it’s howling at me.
I blame my brother for sending his shitty friends across the bridge to poke at me and I blame River for opening the wound that gave them something to poke at in the first place.
It’s not River’s fault I got left and it’s sure as hell not her fault that I got cheated on—and as much as I hate to admit it, it’s not Ethan’s fault either.
I can blame him for a lot of things, but not that.
He may have opened the door but Hanna stepped through it all on her own.
The splash of headlights draws my attention away from the family legacy I inherited when I was twenty-three—toward the narrow bridge almost directly north of it.
The Greyhound that runs its route along the I30 like clockwork between Dallas and Texarkana, making its weekly 10:15 detour through Clearwater and into Barrett before continuing on its way.
Watching it crest the bridge, I catch the flash of something in the corner of my eye. Lights flickering on and off before going dark. Turning, I stare at the large, dark mass hurdling down the two-lane FM road that intersects the bridge. It takes a few seconds for my brain to register the shape of it.
By the time it does, it’s too late.
“Hey.” I say it out loud, even though I’m alone and no one can hear me. As if in answer, the rumble of the semi’s engine intensifies.
The semi’s lights are off. Why the fuck are its lights off?
“Hey.” I shout it again, this time the word catapulting me forward, my feet moving at a dead run across the parking lot, even though I have no way of stopping it.
Finally seeing what I see, the bus driver lays on the horn while jerking the wheel in an attempt to avoid the collision course it’s on with the lightless semi but it’s no use.
Like I said, it’s already too late.
“DR. MERRICK…” THE EVENT COORDINATORsays carefully and quietly, leaning into me just enough to convey her attempt to keep what she’s about to say as private as possible. “I’m so sorry, but it’s nearly ten o’clock. We reallycan’thold off on the dessert course much longer.”
She’s speaking to me instead of my mother because she’s already pleaded her case to her half a dozen times over the last hour. If she speaks up again, my mother will just use it as another opportunity to remind her that my stepfather owns the country clubandits surrounding golf course.
Do youknowwho my husband is?is my mother’s battle cry, second only toI’ll see you fired for this.
For once, my mother is too distracted to threaten the help. She’s exactly where she wants to be—at the center of everyone’s attention.
“I don’t think I’ve ever been prouder of my daughter than I am today,” she gushes while dabbing carefully at the corners of her eyes. “To find a man like Ethan who’s not only charming and handsome but is gracious enough to accept her insistence on continuing her career?—”
And rich, mother. You forgot rich.
Tuning her out, I look at the nervous event coordinator, crouching beside me.
“It’s okay, Denise,” I reassure her, matching her tone while giving her an apologetic smile. “Go ahead and serve the dessert course. I’m sure Ethan will be along any minute now.”
It’s a lie.
I have no idea whenEthan will be alongbecause Ethan disappeared over an hour ago and isn’t answering any of my texts. I sent Amy, my best friend and maid of honor, after him twenty minutes ago when he got up to use the restroom and never came back, leaving me to endure what might be the most sexist mother of the bride speech in recorded history, all on my own.
When I give her the answer she’d been hoping for, Denise gives me a grateful smile. “Thank you, Dr. Merrick.” Straightening herself she flicks a wary glance at my mother before signaling to her waitstaff.
