“Do you remember that one time your dad got so pissed off during practice that he picked up the water cooler and threw it?” I laugh.

“And it hit our assistant coach,” Tyler nods as he joins me in laughing at the shared memory. “Knocked him out cold.”

“At least we got out of practice early that day,” I say. “I'd never seen him that mad.”

Tyler takes a sip of his beer, a wistful sense of nostalgia in his eyes. The broad smile on his face actually makes him look a little younger.

“Do you remember what he was so pissed about?” he asks.

I shake my head. “I don't. The team was probably just screwing around when we should've been working.”

“Yeah, probably.”

Tyler and I relive a few more stories about his dad's legendary temper on the football field. Arnold really was the nicest guy you could ever meet. The type of guy who always had a kind word, and would give you the shirt off his back if you needed it.

But, the second you put him on the football field, and his competitive nature emerged, he could rage with the best of them. He demanded the best from his players – and always got it in return. He was exactly the kind of coach you wanted – tough when needed, but full of praise and encouragement at the same time. Coach Simmonds would go to hell and back for his players, and we would have all done the same for him.

As Tyler and I relive the past though, I notice that Emma is sitting quietly in her seat, staring down at the beer in front of her, saying absolutely nothing. She looks up and catches me staring at her, and I see a spark of anger flash through her eyes.

“I guess I never saw that side of Dad,” she says.

“No, I guess not,” I reply.

“Yeah, you only saw the soft squishy side of him,” Tyler says with a chuckle.

Silence descends over the table as we all take a sip of our beers. It feels so strange to be sitting here with them again after all these years. Not bad, necessarily, but strange nonetheless. I mean, these two were pretty much my family back when I was growing up.

Now, I realize I know so little about them anymore. I know nothing. In a way, it's almost like sitting at a table with two complete strangers – one of whom apparently hates me.

“So, Emma,” I say. “Ty said you're a – reporter?”

“Yeah. I am,” she says before looking away again.

She shoots her brother a look and lets out a long exasperated sigh. The expression on her face is one of pure irritation – whether it's because I'm asking a question, or because her brother shared information about her life, I don't know. Either way, it seems pretty clear that she doesn't want to share anything about her life with me.

Tyler clears his throat. “She was recently let go by the paper she was working at,” he says. “But, I'm sure she'll rebound soon.”

That comment earns Tyler another withering glare from his sister, causing me to frown. I honestly don't know what I've done to earn this level of dislike from Emma. It's not like I've seen her in more than a decade, so I couldn't possibly have said or done anything to offend her during that time.

And it's then that I have that moment of clarity alcoholics often refer to. Maybe, her issue is because I haven't seen or spoken to them in so long.

But come on, she was a kid back then. It's not like we were friends back then. She was just Ty’s kid sister who liked to tag along with us. And when you're trying to pick up girls – which Ty and I were usually trying to do – there is no more effective, or annoying, cockblock than a little kid.

That was years ago though. Is she really still holding onto a decade old grudge? Simply because I'd left town and lived my life? Really?

If so, I think it’s ridiculous. Emma was a little kid. I went away to school. It's not like I hatched some evil and malicious plan to hurt her or her family. It's just life. People come and go from our lives all the time. The people in your life as a kid are seldom around after you become an adult. And that she feels this deep of a sense of betrayal is – I don't even know what.

Of course, I'm making a lot of assumptions here. As I look at the sour expression on her face, and the more I let the thought roll around in my head, the more convinced I become. The only way I’m ever going to break down the wall of ice between us is to get her talking. At this point, I don't even know if that’ll help. She seems pretty entrenched in her dislike of me.

I swallow down the last of my beer and signal to the waitress for another round.

“I should probably get going,” Emma says.

“Bullshit,” Tyler laughs. “We just got here. Come on, have a couple more with us.”

The waitress comes by and drops off our beers and a shot for each of us. We pick up our shot glasses and raise them up – Emma, a little reluctantly – and then drink them down, quickly chasing it with a long swallow of beer.

“So, can I ask why the paper let you go?” I ask.

The negative energy coming from Emma is palpable. The frosty look in her eyes even more so. I'm not a man who gives up easily though. I find myself wanting to get to the bottom of this and have her open up to me. Maybe I can find out why she's so upset with me.

She sighs and looks down at her bottle but says nothing. She won't even meet my eyes. Though, I can tell by the color in her cheeks that it's not because she's angry this time – she's embarrassed.

“Her boss caught her sleeping on the job,” Tyler finally says. “Again.”

“Tyler!” she snaps.

If looks could have killed, Tyler would be dead right now. Incinerated. Nothing but a pile of ash on his chair.

“What?” he asks, shrugging. “It's true, isn't it?”

I chuckle and take another swallow of beer. She rounds on me quickly, fury burning in her obsidian eyes.

“I'm so glad you're amused,” she hisses.

“I'm really not,” I say. “Not in the way you mean it. I'm just curious, is all.”

“What other way could you have meant it then?”

I sit back in my seat and take another swallow of beer, my gaze locked onto hers, saying nothing. She's so upset that it's only a matter of time before she opens her mouth and starts to let all her feelings – her genuine feelings – out. It's a common tactic I use in negotiations – you just let them fill the silence while you sit back and observe.

Emma's face is flushed, and her eyes are narrowed. It's an expression I'm familiar with from her. I remember that even as a kid, she'd look much the same way whenever she was upset or embarrassed about something.

“She caught me sleeping because I had to work two jobs just to pay the bills,” she seethes. “I was only an intern at that damn paper and didn't make shit. I had to work at the bar at night to make ends meet, but it left me exhausted. Not all of us had the good luck of having life handed to us on a silver platter, Brice. Some of us have to work hard for what we have. There, now you have the story. Happy now?”

A few of the people at tables around us look our way as Emma raises her voice. She seems to notice the unwanted attention and settles down a bit, sitting back in her seat, and taking a quick swallow of beer. I cast a glance over at Tyler, who just raises his eyebrows in response.

What irritates me the most is her implication that I haven't worked hard to get where I am. That I haven't put in the hours or the work to be successful. That upsets me more than anything else she said. Yeah, I had some advantages growing up, I can't deny that. But, rising to the position I'm at now required an untold amount of sacrifice and soul-crushing work.

“You think you've got me all figured out, don't you?” I ask.

“I've got a pretty good idea, yeah.”

“Listen, guys –”

“Let me be the first to tell you that you don't know shit,” I hiss, cutting Tyler off mid-sentence in his attempt at playing peacemaker. “You don't know the first thing about me or what I've been through.”

“Oh, poor little rich boy,” Emma mocks. “I'm sure it's been such a struggle.”

“Guys,” Tyler interjects. “Can we –”

“What is your fucking problem, Emma?” I ask. “You've been acting like a frigid, jilted bitch since I got here, and you're walking around with this giant goddamn chip on your shoulder –”

“A frigid bitch?” she hisses. “Fuck you, Brice.”

“Truth hurts, doesn't it?” I snap.

By now, everyone in the bar is looking straight at us, and they're not even trying to hide it. Things have gone off the rails pretty damn quickly, and they're rapidly spiraling downward. I suddenly feel like we're a couple of teenagers having a stupid lover's spat and feel more than a little foolish. But, not foolish enough to back down.

“Guys, keep your fucking voices down,” Tyler growls. “Jesus Christ. Do we really need to make a scene here? I still have to live here, you know.”

Emma doesn't acknowledge him, but when she speaks again, her voice is lower than before. “Maybe I just don't like hanging out with entitled, arrogant assholes who think the world revolves around them? Ever consider that?”

“Might be better than hanging out with an uptight bitch with a persecution complex.”

Tyler slams his fist down on the table, rattling our assortment of empty bottles. Every eye in the place is on us once again, and there's a hushed tension in the air. Tyler gives us both a long, menacing look, then turns his attention to everybody else in the bar.

“Mind your business,” he calls out. “This doesn't concern any of you.”

Everybody quickly turns back to their drinks and their respective conversations. Since this is one of his favorite bars, Tyler probably knows most of the people here. I'm sure this little scene is going to be talked about all over town. With a population of just over ten thousand, Morro Bay is like most other small towns – everyone knows everyone else's business. It's one of the things I liked least about living here.

Satisfied that the other barflies are no longer staring, Tyler glares at me and then his sister. He takes a long swallow of his beer and sets the bottle back down on the table with a hard thump. The air around us is saturated with his anger and disgust.

“Has anyone ever told you that you look like your dad when you're pissed?” I ask, trying to lighten the mood.

“Shut up, Brice,” he snaps.

“Sound like him too.”

Emma stifles a chuckle and looks away to compose herself. When she turns back, her expression has morphed into one of indifference, though I can still see the occasional lightning bolt of rage flash behind her eyes.

“You two are behaving like damn children right now,” Tyler says.

“She started it,” I say and shrug.

He turns to me, his eyes wide, and nostrils flared– clearly not amused by my antics. Emma is biting down hard on her bottom lip, doing her best to keep from cracking the smile I can tell is threatening to stretch across her face.

At least she has a sense of humor buried somewhere under all that attitude.

“Here's what's going to happen,” he says. “I'm going to leave. I'm done. I’m going home. You two, however, are going to stay here and work this shit out.”

Emma and I turn to him and say, in unison, “What?”

The problem with Tyler bailing on us is that he drove the three of us over from the reception hall. I can call a car for Emma and me, but it's probably going to take about thirty minutes to get here.

“Look,” Tyler says. “There's obviously something unresolved between you two that needs to be unpacked, and –”

“No offense, big brother,” Emma says. “But, I don't think your twelve-step program is going to work on us. Not with –”

“You'll never know until you try.”

And with that, Tyler drains the last of his beer, grabs his coat, and does exactly as he said – walking out of the bar, leaving us there by ourselves. I look at Emma and can see the fury plain as day on her face.

“This is your fault,” she sighs. “It's a six-mile walk from here back to my place.”

“Maybe if you hadn't been –”

“Oh, so this is my fault?”

I stare at her, my mouth hanging open in disbelief. Does she really not think any of this is her fault? All of the sudden, her entire demeanor changes. Her eyes grow wide, she purses her lips, and her hands begin to tremble around her beer bottle. Emma’s… scared? Of what though?

I turn and follow her gaze to see a man stepping through the doors of the bar. He's tall, maybe six-one or six-two, and pretty lanky. He's got a thick shock of blond hair, and green eyes. He looks like a typical surfer to me. And for some reason, Emma is absolutely terrified of him.

“You know that guy?” I ask.

She doesn't answer me at first, but I turn around again and see the guy's eyes come to rest on Emma. A slow smile touches the corners of his mouth as he makes eye contact with her. And I'm somewhat surprised to find that I really don't like the way he's looking at her like she’s his prey or something. I suddenly feel protective of her.

“Who is he, Emma?” I ask as I turn to face her again.

As if abruptly realizing that her hands are trembling erratically, Emma removes them from the bottle, setting them down in her lap. She looks down at her hands and then back up at me, obviously trying to regain her composure.

“H – he's my ex,” she says softly. “Mark.”

“Why are you so afraid of him?”

“I'm not,” she says, lifting her chin defiantly.

“Sure looks like that from here.”

“Yeah, well, you're wrong,” she says, though her voice lacks conviction.

“Am I?”

She glares at me, the anger smoldering within her eyes almost palpable. “You don't know me,” she says. “You don't know the first fucking thing about me. So, don't sit there and pretend like you do.”

A wry grin tugs at the corner of my mouth. Learning to read people was one of the first things Pete taught me. It’s crucial to be able to read a person's non-verbal cues during negotiations. It helps you find the position of strength to negotiate from.

And whether she wants to admit it or not, I can read Emma like a fucking book. Not even a particularly challenging book at that. More like a “Dick and Jane” kind of book.

“You're right,” I say. “I don't know you. You were a little kid the last time I saw you. But, I don't have to know your deepest darkest secrets to see that you're scared of him.”

Emma's back stiffens, and she sits up a little straighter. “Don't worry about it,” she says. “It's not your concern.”

“Emma, we practically grew up together,” I say. “That makes it my concern.”

“You're right. We did grow up together,” she says. “And then you fucking ghosted us. Left us in the dust. Which means, it's no longer any of your concern.”

She grabs her bag and stands up, slinging it over her shoulder. She gives me a long look that's both furious and – something else. Something I can't quite put a finger on.

“Goodbye, Brice,” she scoffs. “Have a nice life.”

Emma turns, and I watch her head for the door, not knowing if she's going to call a cab or make the six-mile walk back to her father's house alone. I pull my cell phone out of my pocket and call my car service as I watch Emma push through the front door and step out into the night beyond. A moment later, I see her ex say something to his buddies and slip out the door behind her, and immediately, red flags start waving in my head.

My call made, I stand up and throw some bills down on the table to pay our bill. I slip my phone back into my pocket and quickly make my way out the front door, the dread in my stomach growing stronger by the second.