Burying Water (Burying Water #1)(62)

She bites her lip. “Zoe would be so happy. She’s been crying for days, since I broke the news to her. My name is Teresa, by the way.”

I grab a piece of paper and a pen.

And cross my fingers that I’m right about Ginny.

Amber pulls up to Roadside, a western-themed bar on the side of the highway just outside of town. It’s modeled after an old red barn, and apparently it’s the best place to have some fun around here.

Before I open my door, I smooth my hair down against the right side of my face one last time. Amber helped me style it so both my scar and the short patch of growth on the underside are covered.

“You look great,” Amber assures me as we make our way toward the set of black double doors under the wide covered porch. I don’t believe her, but I bite my tongue.

“Hi, Dean.” She flashes him that wide white-toothed smile that she has perfected. It suits the fat curls in her hair and her outfit. With her tight blue jeans and a fitted plaid shirt and cowgirl boots, she looks every bit like a western-themed china doll.

I’m dressed the same—with Amber’s guidance—but I don’t think I look anything like a doll.

“Hey there, Amber,” the beefy guy offers, one of his cowboy boots settled on the rung of his stool, his black leather hat sitting low on his face.

Everyone knows Amber Welles.

Much like everyone seems to know Jesse Welles.

“And . . . Water.” He scans my ID and then looks at my face, his pale blue eyes sparkling. “Cool name.” He hands it back to me and we step into an all-wood interior—the walls, ceiling, and furniture all made of golden oak—decorated with countless strands of colorful Christmas lights and fake blow-up cactuses. Even the air carries a hint of a woodsy smell, though it’s competing with beer and sweat.

The upbeat twang of a country singer comes from a stage at the far end. The live band is loud and everyone’s voices are raised, creating a buzz of laughter and conversation.

“I can’t believe he ID’d you.”

I frown. “Why wouldn’t he?”

“Because I went to school with Dean and he knows I wouldn’t sneak an under-ager in.” She smirks. “I think he just wanted your name. Don’t be surprised if he comes around later to talk to you. I heard he’s single again.”

I hazard a glance over my shoulder to see the giant bouncer chatting up another set of girls coming in. He’s attractive; I’ll admit that much.

Nothing like Jesse, though.

“Happy birthday, Bonnie!” Amber cries out, reaching out to hug a short blond girl with plump, man-made curls to match hers and a tiara in her hair. I’m assuming because it’s her birthday, and not because she normally wears a tiara. Though, based on what Dakota alluded to about Amber’s friends, maybe she does.

The table that this Bonnie girl is sitting at—a long, solid picnic table of glossy light wood, in a row of similar picnic tables—is full of girls who look like Amber and Bonnie and guys who look like Dean. Many of them ease out of their seats to come around and give Amber a hug, as if they’re seeing each other after a long absence. Given that Amber works more than she socializes, that’s probably true.

Amber reaches out and takes my arm, pulling me into the friend fold. “This is Water.” She begins introducing everyone. I’m lost by the second or third name, though everyone there instantly grabs on to mine with comments about how “unusual” and “cool” it is.

I simply smile and nod and say, “Nice to meet you,” all while trying to keep my hair from falling back off my face. They all take their seats again and someone’s boyfriend hands me a glass of beer.

Do I even like beer?

I quietly watch Amber and the others squeal and giggle and chatter on, their eyes roaming around the bar, pointing out people they know from high school who either still live in the area or, like many of them, decided to come back for the long weekend. Some of their comments are benign; many are laced with gossip. “Remember when she . . . ?” “I heard that he . . .” The kinds of whispers and attention that I don’t want directed at me.

So I stay quiet and drink my beer, the cold, fresh liquid pouring down my throat with relative ease. I do like beer after all.

“Amber . . . you didn’t tell me your brother was back in town.” Bonnie’s eyes are wide as she stares behind me. Like a well-timed orchestra, every head in my row turns to the door—mine included—to see Dean and Jesse facing off.

“He just got back,” Amber says, not sounding too thrilled.

“Who’s he with?” a redhead—Kerry or Terry or Tory—asks, as Jesse pushes through the doors with a guy on his heels. A guy who, even wearing a plain black T-shirt and fitted jeans, doesn’t seem to fit with the sea of jeans and cotton in this place. Maybe it’s the flashy gold watch on his wrist.

“Don’t know. I’ve never seen him before. Must be a friend from Portland.” Amber’s eyes are on her brother’s friend as they head toward our table. “I guess we’re going to find out.”

Bonnie is on her feet instantly—as fast as she was when we approached, if not a little faster. “Jesse!” She throws her arms around his shoulders.

He obliges her with a small smile and “Hey, Bonnie,” his arm curling around her waist.