“Thanks.” I tasted it, and the flavors took me back years. “Fuck, that’s good. I mean, it’s not whiskey, but it’s good.”
Maren sipped hers through the straw. “Tastes like childhood, doesn’t it? Delicious.”
The guy who’d brought them smiled and nodded. “Glad you like them.” Then he looked at Maren a little quizzically. “You look really familiar.”
She seemed surprised. “I do?”
“Yeah.” He crossed his tattooed arms over his chest. Right away I noticed he wore a wedding band, and he didn’t seem like an asshole, so I wasn’t too concerned I’d have to mess up his face. Still, I sat up taller and listened carefully.
“Do you come in here a lot?” he asked her.
“No,” she said with a shrug. “I’ve only been here once with my sister. She knows the owner.”
He grinned. “I’m the owner. Who’s your sister?”
“Emme Devine.”
“That’s it! You look like her. I’m Nick Lupo, Coco’s husband.” He held out his hand, and she shook it.
“Oh, of course,” she said. “I’m Maren, and this is my friend Dallas. He grew up here but lives in Portland now, so we were on a mission to find him a Boston Cooler.”
Nick and I shook hands. “Glad you came in,” he said.
“Congratulations on the new baby.” Maren clapped her hands excitedly. “What’s that, your fourth?”
Nick’s grin grew even wider. “Yeah. But the first girl.”
“You’ve got four kids?” I asked. Damn. He didn’t look that much older than me. No wonder he had more gray hair.
“Yep.” He looked proud of himself. “I’d have more too, but I’m pretty sure my wife would castrate me.”
Maren laughed. “I saw pictures of the baby. She’s adorable.”
“Thanks.” Nick smiled. “I’m totally that dad who shows off pictures to anyone who comes in here, but we’re a little slammed so I should get back up front. I was just helping out for a few minutes behind the bar.”
“Go on.” Maren shooed him away with one hand. “Nice to meet you.”
“You, too,” he said over his shoulder as he walked away.
“I totally forgot Coco’s husband owned this place,” Maren said. “He seems like a nice guy.”
He did seem like a nice guy. The kind of guy Maren should end up with—successful, friendly, responsible, proud husband and father. More like my brother than me, but with ink.
“They named the baby Frances,” Maren gushed. “Isn’t that cute?”
“Four kids. Jesus.” I shook my head. “I thought one brother was bad. Imagine that poor girl with three.”
Maren sipped her float. “Are you looking forward to seeing Finn this week?”
“Not really.”
“Want to talk about it?”
“Nah.” I shrugged. “Things have always been a little fucked up between Finn and me.”
“Because you thought he was the favorite?” She poked around in her drink with the straw.
“Because I knew he was the favorite. It’s not like it was ever a secret in my family that son number two was not quite living up to the standards set by son number one.”
“But is it still that way? I mean, you guys aren’t kids anymore. And your parents have had years to accept the fact that you are not your brother.”
I finished my drink, trying not to get worked up about Finn all over again. “Pretty sure I caused them enough disappointment to last a lifetime. And even now when they look at us, they see a clean-cut neurology professor at Harvard, happily married to a fourth-grade teacher and the proud father of two. Then they see me. College dropout. No wife, no kids, no house with a picket fence or a pool in the yard. A drifter with tattoos. A failure on their part to make me into someone better.”
“You mean into someone like them. Or like Finn.” She shook her head. “It’s so wrong.”
“But it’s the way it is, and I’m used to it. It doesn’t bother me anymore,” I lied, setting my empty mug on the bar.
“Well, it bothers me.” She sat up taller on the stool. “I can’t imagine what it would feel like if my parents had tried to make me into one of my sisters. Or if they had told me I was a disappointment when I left ABT. Or if they looked down on me for my tattoos or my job or any of my choices. Parents should love their children unconditionally and teach them that it’s okay to be who you are. No, that it’s imperative to be who you are. Otherwise, you’re going to spend your life miserable.”
God, she was cute. “It’s okay, Maren.”
“It’s not.” She sighed and set her half-full mug down. “You should be proud of who you are, Dallas. I’m proud of you.”
I frowned. “For what?”
She tossed a hand in the air. “For lots of things. For staying true to yourself. For becoming a tattoo artist. For coming here after all this time just to say you’re sorry. Plenty of guys wouldn’t have bothered. I mean, you weren’t even eighteen yet. Practically still a kid. What did you really owe me?”