The calendar was a huge hit. It sold out everywhere and also raised the most money of any other calendar the Beautiful Bartender organization sponsored. Thanks to Preston’s ten thousand dollar donation, of course.

Over the next several months, Preston was home less and less; sometimes only once or twice a month. He spent the holidays at his family’s home in Palm Beach. My Christmas present had been delivered by courier: the latest iPhone and a MacBook Air. I didn’t like accepting expensive gifts from him, but this time, I agreed since I was also frustrated with my cheap-ass phone, and I didn’t own a computer. But I’d accepted the gifts under one condition—that he allow me to put the phone in my name and pay for the monthly service myself. He fought me on that, never understanding why I wouldn’t allow him to buy me things, but he finally relented when he realized it was that, or I’d stick with my old flip phone. I think knowing we’d never be able to Skype if he didn’t give in, finally had him seeing it my way.

When Preston was able to get home, sometimes only for a day or two, I’d take the night off from Blondie’s, have Izzy stay with my mom, and we’d spend most of the time holed up in my apartment. Even though it was over with Suzanne, it still felt like I was some kind of secret that needed to be locked away. Preston’s father was to blame for our current situation. He was the one sending him to South Carolina and Palm Beach. For as much as Preston railed against him, his father pulled the strings, and he did whatever the old man wanted.

Oddly, I was mostly content. Maybe I didn’t really want a serious relationship. Why else was I willing to settle for someone who made few demands on my time or how I lived my life? I hated to think that might be the case, but I was seriously beginning to wonder if I either didn’t want more or didn’t believe I deserved it.

If I had the money, I would invest in some heavy-duty psychotherapy. I bet if I asked, Preston would’ve even agreed to pay for it.

For now, sitting on Diane’s deck, drinking margaritas and watching the sun dip behind the pole barn was therapy enough.

I licked a drop of salt from my bottom lip and stretched until my toes gripped the top rail of the deck, enjoying the warm night air. Summer wouldn’t officially begin for weeks, but it was already off to a great start.

“I think we should declare every Sunday Margarita Night,” I proclaimed.

“As long as you mix ’em.” Diane refilled her glass from the nearly empty pitcher. “I think next week we should switch to frozen margaritas. It’ll be warm enough.” She rubbed a sliver of lime around the rim of my glass and dipped it in the saucer of kosher salt on the table between us, then filled it to the rim. Squinting at the quarter-inch of pale green liquid remaining, she lifted the pitcher to her lips, tilted her head, and drank until it was empty.

She blinked at me, her pretty blue eyes rimmed in pink from a few too many cocktails. “Should we mix up another batch?”

“Nah. I have to drive home. Besides”—I swiveled my foot toward her—“I think the salt is making my ankles swell.”

She stretched one of her legs up next to mine—which wasn’t easy, given my legs are several inches longer than hers—compared our ankles, and then knocked my foot off the railing with a grunt.

I inched my chair beyond her reach and put my feet back on the railing. The sun was completely behind the barn now, and the sky had turned that magical shade of blue between dusk and nightfall.

On a clear evening like this, when the stars would sparkle overhead, I felt closest to my dad. Somewhere, high above, I knew he was watching over me. Always.

Other than the sound of a bug zapper hanging in a nearby tree, it was quiet. Unusually quiet.

“Where’s Wally? I thought after last night’s crushing defeat that he, Bobby, and Dennis would be out in the barn, tearing that damn car apart trying to get ready for next week.”

She made a face. “Oh, they will. They went to a mud hop. They’re drowning their sorrows in mud and beer, watching idiots in jacked-up jeeps with giant tires tear their transmissions apart.” She dragged a nacho through the last of the guacamole. “They’ll be at it again tomorrow night, trust me. He finally found a mechanic to replace Davy, so he figured they could afford to take a night off.” She licked her fingers. “I told him not to get any bright ideas. That money pit on wheels costs us enough as it is. I’ll be damned if he’s going to start racing in mud too.”

The track was bad enough. I couldn’t imagine finding joy getting sucked into a mud pit.

“Sounds horrible.”

“You’re telling me. I went once. Two minutes into the first run, I was covered from head to toe.”

“Boys and their toys.”

“Tell me about it.”

A mosquito landed on my wrist, and I flicked it off. “So who’s the new mechanic?”

She made a show of fanning herself. “Oh. My. God. What a hottie! Tall, built like he was carved out of stone. Dirty blond hair he wears pulled back into a ponytail. He’s quiet, serious. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him smile, to be honest, but I gotta tell you, one look and he could incinerate your panties.”

“Diane!”

She laughed. “Hey, I’m married, not dead. Wally told me to stop bringing drinks and snacks up to the barn when they’re working. I figure he’s on to me.”

“Since when do you schlep drinks and snacks up to the barn?”

“Exactly.”

“I’m trying to picture this smoldering hottie you’re describing, and I’m pretty sure Wally hasn’t brought anyone like that into Blondie’s. In fact, he doesn’t sound like anyone from around here.”

“That’s because he just moved here. Wally knows him from the track and they hit it off. He was a pretty highly ranked driver, but he wrecked last year. Wally said it was so bad, they couldn’t believe it when he climbed out of the car on his own. Nothing but cuts and bruises, although that was it for him. He gave up racing.”

“Who could blame him?”

She shook her head. “Not me. I’d kill Wally myself before I’d let him kill himself behind the wheel.”

I snorted. “That makes no sense, but I get it.” I stared into the remnants of my glass. How was it already half empty? “I think I might be drunk.”

“Yeah, me too.”

“So this guy went from a track rock star to mechanic?”

“Pretty much. You know Dylan Holgate?”

I grimaced. “Lorraine’s husband? I didn’t know he raced.”

“Not him. It’s his brother, Chase. Wally says he bought half of Dylan’s Sunoco station.”

Given my intense dislike for Lorraine Moynihan, which went all the way back to tenth grade, I didn’t frequent her husband’s gas station. Likewise, neither she nor Dylan ever came into Blondie’s or my mother’s restaurant. Lorraine probably wouldn’t let her husband within ten feet of me, especially after what had happened back in high school.

“I still hate that bitch,” Diane muttered, as if she were suddenly the one with psychic powers and could read my mind. “And Skanky Stankevich.”

Callie Stankevich, or Skanky as we used to call her, had been Lorraine’s best friend in high school. They were seniors when Diane and I were sophomores. Callie hadn’t taken it very well when Jeff, her boyfriend of three years, had dumped her for me.

“I still can’t believe those two besmirched my high school record.” Diane said, slurring her words.

I laughed so hard I almost fell out of my chair. “Besmirched? I think both our records were besmirched long before Lorraine and Skanky got us suspended.”

“Maybe yours was, but I’d never been caught before. I thought my mother was going to kill me. Although even now, the feel of my fist connecting with Lorraine’s cheek . . .” She curled her hand and held it up as if it were a prize. “Those were the good old days.”

“You are drunk. That was only six years ago. But I’ll never forget how you came to my aid,” I said. “For barely clearing five feet, you’re pretty scrappy.”

“Damn straight. Lorraine called you a whore. She had it coming.”

We’d been in the girls room after school, where I was checking the piercing I’d just gotten on my tongue—I still can’t believe I’d done that. Diane was sitting on the sink watching when Lorraine, Callie, and two of their friends had come in.

I don’t remember who said what to who, but it got ugly fast. Unfortunately, since I’d already been in trouble several times that year, the principal believed them and not us, and Diane and I got suspended for fighting. Turned out my high school record was pretty much toast, anyway. By the end of the summer, I was knocked up, and Jeff and I were through.

I leaned back and took in the night sky. Venus was shining brightly. Either the conversation or the alcohol was making me melancholy.

“You ever regret some of the things we did back then?”

“Nah. You?”

“Nope. I wouldn’t trade Izzy for anything. And yanking out a handful of Skanky’s frizzy brown hair was worth the three-day suspension.”

Diane’s chuckle was pure evil. “Totally worth it.”

She raised her plastic glass in a drunken toast, clumsily hitting the rim of mine, and sloshing much of what was left of my margarita onto my hand.

“Here’s to my partner in crime. May we keep kicking ass and taking no prisoners.”

I giggled. “Damn straight.”

She drained her glass and tossed it off the deck.

“A-fucking-men.”