He doesn’t say anything else, but he remains at my side until the Brando tattoo on my right pec is completed.
Atticus helps me inside my house, and I finally thank him for everything.
He offers nothing on the topic in return and only says, “see you tomorrow” before leaving.
And despite his best efforts, I keeppukin’ in barsto numb the pain.
Nothing else works.
1
Beau
I was a royal fucking prick.
My temples are fucking pounding. No, they’re jackhammering. They’re fucking jackhammering in the middle of an earthquake while fireworks sound off all around me.
A memory of my dad gripping his head the morning after poker night sweeps behind my eyes, a young me holding a cup full of dice, a Yahtzee sheet spread out in front of me. Back then, I thought the more you shook the dice, the better the roll. He gripped his head so fucking tight I thought it might pop off his body.
He never told me to stop shaking the cup.
“I’m dying,” I mumble, my lips moving through the pool of cold spit on the counter.
My utter agony is divided when all of a sudden, a wave of nausea crashes into me. I peel my face from the Plexi-topped desk just as the door dings the arrival of a customer.
I swipe my hand through the saliva on the desk, and Iknowthey saw me. The entire fucking building is glass. I can’t even meet their eyes and attempt to grovel because I’m knocked forward by a jolt of dizziness. Fuck, I think I’m both hungover and still a little bit drunk.
Not good.
“Delane,” I call out, her name sounding more like a jumble of letters than an actual word. “Delane,” I call again, squeezing one eye shut as I peer toward the receptionist’s seat adjacent to where I’m in my death huddle.
The seat is empty.
Damnit, Delane. She’s off doing her morning tasks in the supply room. Why is she so fucking diligent?
“Umm,” a woman’s voice drifts over the desk dividing us. I am not ready to be all customer service-y right now. All I wanna do is chuck the rest of last night’s booze and crumble into my bed.
But as I peel my eyes open to see the toes of my black work boots, I know that is not my reality or even an option. I take a breath and rise, immediately gripping the edge of the receptionist desk to steady myself.
I am dizzy.
Like an angel coming to save me from last night’s bad decisions, the door to the back storage room whooshes open with a ding. We have bells on all the doors here so we don’t startle each other but as I pinch my temples, I’m completely rethinking those stupid little nerve-grinding noise makers. My poor fucking head.
“Delane,” I call, turning my head so I’m no longer looking at the soft-voiced woman in the shop, nor am I directing my gaze toward the stock room. I can only turn halfway, so I stare at the empty receptionist’s stool and call her name again,and again.
“Delane. Hey, Delane.”
Things slide into shelves, then I hear the familiar sound of her long fingernail tapping against the iPad screen–she’s there, I can hear her. Just as I’m about to call for her again, the customer clears her throat.
“She’s got her Earpods in,” the woman says softly, almost like she’s trying not to embarrass me. Joke’s on her. You have to care about shit to get embarrassed by it.
I don’t look up at her. Instead, I pull myself along the counter's edge, backing my ass into Delane’s chair. I click around the screen with the mouse, but I honestly don’t have any clue why. The login box pops up, and I use one single finger to attack the keyboard, inputting my last name and then the password.
It doesn’t work.
“Fuck,” I mutter, trying it again. What’s my password? 4096. I try that. The box flashes angrily on the screen, prompting me to try again, this time with a warning that if I fuck this up again, I’m locked out. “I thought it was 4096,” I murmur, deciding to try it again. As soon as I’m locked out, I realize that’s my debit PIN, not my POS system login.
“Excuse me.” The soft voice is losing patience; I can tell by the way she enunciates each syllable sharply. She’s angry and has every reason to be, but just like the password, I don’t care.