Now she wasn’t so sure.
‘That’s not true,’ Bobby countered. ‘When have I ever said that? I don’t hate anyone.’
All right, so technically Bobby had never used the word hate. He was nice to a fault. And that niceness had led him into Kirsty’s arms. Somehow. Somewhy.
Bonnie had to get to the bottom of this before she lost two friends, and the hierarchy of the town became irrevocably topsy-turvy. But not now. First, she had to make sure she had enough of her bespelled cocktail mix ready prior to opening, and that she wasn’t going to set off the sprinklers for a fifth time. The hardwoods and pinball machines could only take so much water intrusion.
‘Fine. You’re easily replaceable anyway,’ she snapped, her tone harsher than she’d meant. But once she’d gone off down that track, there was no reeling in the nastiness. ‘I’ll find someone else to do the deliveries. Someone with actual liability insurance. And a backbone.’
Bobby flinched, confused by how this conversation was turning out. Of course, none of this was Bonnie’s fault. He was the one skewering their friendship.
‘I’ll drop the day’s leftovers at your house, though,’ he said. ‘It’s not like it’s out of my way.’
Bonnie gritted her teeth.
‘Don’t bother,’ she said. ‘I’m trying to cut down on my sugar intake.’
Bobby didn’t respond, but she could see the hurt in his eyes. He’d been bringing them leftover pastries for as long as Bonnie could remember. They’d started as his dad’s recipes, and bit by bit, Bobby’s own recipes and additions had crept in. It was a tradition Bonnie had secretly loved, even though she’d always pretended the whole ritual was beneath her.
Treat ’em mean, keep ’em keen.
It was the opposite of what Mom had always preached. Mom, whose personal mantra was more likekill ’em with kindness. But somewhere along the way, watching Mom work those long shifts and give and give andgive, right up until the end, when she had nothing left to give but her spirit, Bonnie had found that kindness became equated with weakness. Especially when you were a woman. Bonnie didn’t want to be steamrollered. And if that tookbeingthe steamroller, then so be it.
Still, watching Bobby climb into his old truck and pull away, Bonnie felt a pang. She’d never known life without Bobby. It was as though the world were conspiring to take the people she cared about away from her. First Mom, then Effie, and now Bobby.
But she didn’t have time to wallow. She had debts to pay and a bar to keep afloat and a hole in her heart that she needed to heal before she could consider the mere possibility of letting someone into it. Besides, Bobby had decided that he wasn’t the one to fill it.
As Bonnie prepared a batch of the Memory Lane cocktail that was proving so popular, a tear trickled down her check and landed in the pitcher. It hissed and steamed, sending a purple cloud of sparkling smoke into the air.
At least it didn’t set off the sprinklers.
‘Are we open for business?’ asked Winston, poking hisbalding head around the front door. Weird – where was his cap? ‘Because I’m ready for a game of, ah, what’s it called? Ooh, I’m having a senior moment. Fancy that.’
‘Reckon it must be the stress of knowing he owes me a chicken and chips dinner if he loses,’ teased Gerald, who was hot on Winston’s heels and ready for his newly spell-infused shandy. It was the Memory Lane concentrate, but mixed with lemonade. Gerald didn’t like to be left out. This was apparently a deep-seated fear that had its roots in New Zealand regularly being left off world map illustrations. ‘Old what’s-his-name here can’t handle the pressure. Anyway, pop one on our tab, and give us a shout when you’re ready.’
With a cheerful arm around Winston, Gerald ushed his friend towards the pinball room.
Bonnie frowned. This was an unusual development. Winston had long been a vocal opponent to the very concept of pinball. The only thing he loathed more was foosball (with oversized Jenga coming in a close second). Darts was a game of both skill and strategy, whereas pinball was, to quote him verbatim, the ‘earliest form of button-mashing’.
‘We might have added some new drinks to the menu, but we haven’t started on the renovations yet. The darts board is that way.’ Bonnie pointed with a sprig of sage.
‘Oops, off we go, mate,’ said Gerald, steering Winston back on track.
Bonnie went to work mixing their drinks, grimacing as she added a too-heavy pinch of pink sea salt, which she tried to offset with a smoked stem of rosemary. But now the entire concoction was unbalanced. She couldn’t quite tell how, but she could feel it. She swore. She’d have to start over.
Thankfully, nothing caught fire this time.
After what felt like an hour, Bonnie carried the drinks, and an extra pitcher for the team members who would be arriving any moment, over to their usual table by the darts board, cursing Bobby for not being around to help.
But what she saw disquieted her. Instead of the usual jovial chatter about Winston’s daffodils, which were fit to rival Freddie Noonan’s, and the rude ribbing they gave each other over their wayward throws, Winston and Gerald were sitting in silence, each quietly regarding the dart they held in their hand.
‘Everything all right, gents?’ she asked, setting down their drinks. She’d never seen them manage more than a moment of quiet. The two were famously chatterboxes. Between their propensity for gossip and their shared habit of narrating their darts games, there was barely a moment of peace over by the darts board. ‘Do you need me to take the first throw?’
Winston blinked, confused. Then realization showed behind his eyes. ‘Oh, right! Just warming up the old throwing arm.’
He stretched his arm back and forth like an Olympian preparing to take on a world record. With a wink, he turned that move into one culminating in a grab at his drink. He knocked back the bespelled cocktail, then wiped his mouth with the back of his wrinkly hand.
Then, without reciting his usual prayer to the darts gods, he turned to the board, aimed carefully, and missed.
