“Damn right,” Brett said from behind her. “Your turn, babe.”
“Oops, got to go,” she said, turning back to me. “I’m beating Brett in cornhole.”
“As usual,” Brett mock complained.
As Harleigh walked away, I leaned against the railing and watched the yard full of friends and family playing and enjoying themselves. A gaggle of toddlers ran around in the fenced-in portion of the yard, safely away from the fire, contained so they didn’t go too far. The parents hovered nearby but still enjoyed themselves with conversation or games. Beer, soda, and water bottles stuck out of coolers full of ice. It was a great scene, and I was struck by how everyone seemed to pair off with someone. Except me. Alone on the deck.
Rebecca was heading toward the porch while Deacon fiddled with the fire. She looked like she was about to burst, and as she gingerly made her way up the steps, I went to the door to open it for her. When she crested the stairs, she shook her head and waved me off.
“I don’t need to go inside just yet,” she said.
“Oh.”
“I just came up here to sit with you for a few minutes and get away from the action,” she said.
“Well by all means,” I said, pulling out one of the chairs for her. She sat down gingerly and sighed as she relaxed into it. She had a water bottle with her that looked brand new, and she cracked it open to take a big sip.
“This is nice,” she said. “How have you been?”
“I’m good,” I said. “Working my tail off. What about you? I heard you went back to work at the diner?”
“Well, I kind of never really quit,” she said. “I sort of did and then went right back the next time they needed someone. I’ve been on and off ever since. But once that Carrie woman came in, they needed me more and more. Plus, people seem to be wigged out by having a pregnant woman in a tattoo shop for some reason.”
“Well, you are a warrior,” I said. “I’m not sure I could do anything but eat and sleep if I were carrying around a bowling ball in my stomach.”
“It’s not so bad once you get used to it. Plus, it’s going to be a real live little baby soon. This part’s only temporary.”
“That’s what I’m saying,” I said. “I’d be temporarily laying in a bed somewhere, moaning all the damn time.”
“It’s not so bad,” she chuckled.
“Are you getting to do any tattoo stuff at all?” I asked.
“Some,” she said and took a sip of her water. “I practice a lot, but since I’ll be gone for a few months once the baby is born, that’s about all I’ll get to do for a while. Practice. But the diner is keeping me awful busy.”
“Yeah, what’s going on with that?” I asked. “The other day I came in and heard someone yelling back there?”
“The whole thing is crazy,” she said, shaking her head. “We have a new boss now, the sister of the one who screwed everything up. She’s been a chef up in Chicago, so she’s coming up with some new menu ideas and it’s got our cooks all excited.”
“That could be fun,” I said, sipping my beer. “As long as the key lime pie stays.”
“I promise, just like I promised Deacon about the pancakes, I will never let them take that away.”
“Thank you,” I said, grinning. “Deacon chose a good one.”
“Damn right he did.” She laughed.
“So, the new boss, she’s okay?” I asked.
“More than okay,” she said. “She’s Dina’s other daughter and could not be farther from Carrie if she tried. She’s got tattoos and short black hair. She looks punk rock, and it sticks out down here, you know? Makes me feel like I’m not the only weird one around.”
“Being weird is not so bad,” I said.
“Said by the war hero,” she scoffed. “You boys, you all think it’s so easy to be yourself in a small town. But that’s because people automatically respect you. You’re men. You’re big, manly men who chop up trees and have literal war stories. It’s a bit different for tatted-up ladies down here.”
“Fair point,” I said.
“I don’t mean to insult you,” she said.
I shook my head, waving her off. “No worries. I know you didn’t mean it that way.”
“It’s just that seeing someone else who looks a little bit like me, it means something,” she said. “Plus, she’s got a wicked sense of humor and seems like she might be the kind of person I could hang out with and talk about stuff other than kids.”
“Ahh,” I said.
“Not that I don’t love talking about kids or being pregnant,” she said. “It just gets old when that’s all that people ask me about.”
“I can imagine,” I sympathized.
I knew I was putting in minimal effort to the conversation, but it seemed like it was what she needed. She wanted to vent a little—and to someone who wasn’t Deacon. I understood that. Besides, venting to me was essentially venting to the other half of Deacon’s brain anyway. Up until I moved out, the two of us had been inseparable, operating as a unit since our days in Iraq.