“I do,” he replied. “But Painter never fought for you. He never stood up to me, never asked if he could date you, nothing. You deserve a man who’ll fight for you, baby girl. You remember that, all right?”
Wow. Didn’t see that coming. I felt sudden tears well up, and I lurched forward into his arms. He wrapped them tight around me, resting his chin on my head and rubbing my back softly.
“Just remember,” he said. “You and Kit—you can always come home. I don’t want you to leave. It’s perfect with you here, but I guess you’ll do fine in Portland. Just don’t sell yourself short. You find what your mom and I had, and don’t settle for less.”
“Painter is definitely less,” I murmured.
“Yup,” Dad said. “He’s my brother now and I’ll stand by him. But I never cheated on your mom. Never wanted to. You need a man who feels the same way, and don’t stop until you find him.”
“I love you, Daddy,” I whispered.
“I know.”
“Hey, you got any Febreze or air freshener?” Vanessa asked, her voice a shrill whine. “I got beer shits. Your bathroom reeks.”
Damn. I wasn’t the only one who could do better.
“This is a new low, Dad,” I whispered. His chest rose in silent laughter.
“Yeah, I’ll give you that. Shit. What the f**k was I thinking?”
“Something to consider . . .” I said, pulling away to look up into his face. He smiled down at me, the blue eyes he’d given me crinkling just a little around the edges. “Moving forward? There is no such thing as sexy produce. Words to live by.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
TWO WEEKS LATER
PORTLAND, OREGON
“ID?” the bouncer asked. Kit rolled her eyes and pulled out the little plastic rectangle. He studied it carefully before handing it back. Then he checked mine and let us go down the stairs and into the bar.
This was my first full weekend in Portland, and Kit had driven down from Olympia to celebrate my new freedom with me. We’d started out by having dinner with Cookie and her daughter, Silvie, at the Kennedy School. Cookie headed home after that. We moved our party across the river to the Pearl District in search of the perfect dive bar.
Looking around the darkened, underground room, I was pretty sure we’d found it. The music was loud, the crowd was mixed, and the pool table was surrounded by a group of guys I’d rank at about a seven or eight on the “I’d hit that” scale, Liam being a perfect ten.
Bastard.
How dare he be all sweet and nice in the moonlight, and then take off and never talk to me again? Of course, I did kick him in the balls . . . The memory always gave me a smile.
“Dad know you have a fake ID?” I asked as we moved toward the bar. Kit smirked.
“Of course,” Kit replied. “He gave it to me.”
I stopped dead.
“No f**king way.”
“Yup,” she replied. “Right after I got caught with a bad fake during high school. Told me that he didn’t want me getting arrested or in trouble, so I needed quality.”
“That is so unfair,” I muttered. “He never gave me one.”
“Did you ask?”
I shook my head.
“No, I guess it never occurred to me that I could . . . I mean, after a certain point he let me drink sometimes at the club and home, but I just didn’t think about bars.”
“Well, that’s the difference between you and me,” she said. “I’m always looking for new ways to get in trouble. You’re always looking to slide by without anyone noticing.”
She had a point. Hell, you could even see it in our clothing. I wore a simple black top. It showed a little cle**age and outlined my curves, but in terms of club wear it was designed to blend in.
Kit, though . . . Not so much.
She’d gone full vintage for the night, a look she’d been developing for a while. Her hair was dyed dark black and arranged in an elaborate style that screamed Bettie Page. She wore a fitted, off-the-shoulder red blouse that matched her bright red lipstick and showed off her tattoos. She’d paired it with ultra tight capri pants that somehow looked old-fashioned and slutty at the same time. The entire outfit was eye-catching and unique, and completely above any particular fad or momentary fashion trend.
Kit had always been that—ruthlessly making her own path, oblivious to other opinions. I loved it.
I loved her, too.
“I love you,” I told her, catching her up in a hug. She giggled.
“You’re drunk.”
“So are you!”
“Not drunk enough,” she countered. “Get me a vodka Red Bull, okay? I’m going to hit the powder room.”
I waited for our drinks, musing about my sister and her unique view of life. Powder room, for f**k’s sake? Who says that? Somehow it was all part of that vintage persona, and on her it didn’t seem artificial at all.
Quite the accomplishment, really.
I got the drinks and found a table in the back. The top was a little sticky, as was the padded bench against the wall. I couldn’t see much in the dim light, though, and that was probably a good thing. When it comes to sticky in a bar, spilled drinks are sort of the best-case scenario.
My phone buzzed.
PAINTER: How’s Portland?
Yeah, right. Like I wanted to talk to f**king Painter. I picked up my drink and chugged it down fast.
Kit slid in next to me, eyes wide.
“Are we not a happy camper?” she asked. I slid my phone over to her and she picked it up, studying the message. “Ah, the amazing Painter.”