All That Jazz (Butler Cove #1)(72)

I walk out of the bathroom and open my chest of drawers ignoring the framed black and white print of a kitesurfer in mid somersault over the waves, back muscles bunched and rippling. Drops of water suspended in mid air like an explosion. It’s one of the most beautiful pictures I’ve ever taken. It was part of the portfolio that earned my minor in photography. To think I’d taken it before I even went to college. But my professor hadn’t needed to know that. It’s one of the only reckless things I’ve experienced Joseph Butler doing. The only other one I know of is when he took my virginity. And perhaps watching him ride today.

I drag a comb through my tangles and pull on jeans and a shirt, making it back to Woody’s just as the man himself sets a plate down at the end of the bar. “Didn’t feel like shrimp tonight?” he asks. “Josh scored a massive haul this morning.”

Josh is a local fisherman turn broker who bought and sold the other boats’ shrimp too. Fresh local shrimp. There is nothing like it. “Nah,” I say. “I had my heart set on a steak earlier and this is the next best thing.” I upend the ketchup bottle above my plate.

“So what? Are you a professor yet?”

“Ha ha. No. But you are looking at the first Fraser of Butler Cove to have a college degree.”

“Congratulations. You have to wear a cap and cloak or something?”

I laugh. “It’s a cap and gown. But actually, I won’t be here for the graduation ceremony. It’s a formality anyway.”

“I’m proud of you, kid. You could have gone the other way, you know? Seen too many latch key kids ending up with the wrong sorts and getting in trouble. But you always had a good head on your shoulders.”

I finish my mouthful, feeling oddly choked up. And it’s not from the burger or my earlier break down. “You know, Woody, other latch key kids didn’t have someone like you looking out for them after school every day and making sure they got something to eat.”

“Your momma fed you.”

“No. A lot of the time she didn’t. Let’s be real. If it wasn’t you, it was Nana Butler.” I think about the day of my eighteenth birthday, when he gave me the worst news I could imagine. I’m glad he was there. Not to mention he’d saved my life when the boat went down. “You’re a good man, Woody. The very, very, best.”

“I wish you’d hurry up and make some money so you can buy this bar from me and I can retire.”

I snort. “You’ll never retire. I can’t imagine anything worse than you hanging over my shoulder while I’m trying to measure shots.”

“I miss mini bottles,” he laments. “The perfect amount. That’s why I can’t leave the bar, all the bartenders bleed me dry.”

“Plus, I thought you were leaving it to me in your will,” I deadpan. “Why would I buy it?”

“Hey!” Dirty Harry slaps a hand down on the bar. “He’s leaving it to me.”

Woody chuckles, and grabbing the remote, flicks through several sports channels until he finds the Braves. “In your dreams, Harry. I guess my loser son will be back to claim it when I finally kick the bucket.”

“Playing for the Braves hardly makes him a loser.” Though I know he’s joking. He’s the proudest father I know. “You heard from him recently?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “No, he’s far too busy for his old man.”

“And your ex-wife, how’s she?”

“Ha! Virginia’s getting married. Can you believe it?” He sets the remote down. “Finally found some poor old dude up in Pelzer to grow old with. It’s a load off my shoulders, I can promise you that.”

“What?” Harry laughs. “You thought she was gonna take you back?”

“Well, no, but we ain’t gettin’ any younger. And who wants to be alone in their old age? She coulda decided to come back.”

“You’re not alone. You’ve got me,” Harry reminds him.

“Temptin’”

I don’t offer much more to the conversation as the two old friends talk shit as they always do. When I’m done eating, I thank Woody and say good night.

My phone buzzes and I hesitantly get it out my pocket. Expecting Joey, my stomach sinks as I see it’s Brandon.

“Hey,” I answer.

“Hey,” Brandon echoes. And for the first time, he doesn’t sound like his happy-go-lucky self.

I grit my teeth. “You back from Florida?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Look, Jazz, I’m sorry, yeah? I know I acted like a clown down there.”

“It’s fine, Brandon, really. I’m not mad.”

“You’re not?” He sounds hopeful.

“No, I’m not. But—”

“No, babe, don’t say ‘but.’ You’re gonna break up with me, aren’t you?”

I sigh.

“Aw. Come on, please don’t.”

“It’s really not about you. I really wanted to tell you in person, and I’m sorry. But yeah, we’re breaking up.”

I wince. I’m a shit for doing it over the phone. But I can’t drag this out. And it’s not like we had some kind of epic love.

There’s no reply for a while.