The Year of Second Chances by Lara Avery

Author:Lara Avery
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2023-06-02T00:00:00+00:00

15

This year, I’m going to . . .

Finally learn the rest of the words to Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believin’.”

Later that week, in the corner of my mom’s living room, I played catch-up on the restaurant’s books, receipt paper from the Green River’s old-fashioned credit-card machine winding around my elbows like a ribbon. Usually this was a mindless task—even comforting, watching each sum click into place—but since I’d parted with Jake, I craved contact with him like I craved sweetness after a meal. I checked my phone for his name. Nothing yet. The house still smelled of the vanilla candles Mom had burned at Christmas, though February was just around the corner. The fake tree was still up, casting red and green light over the old plaid couch, the piano Theo used to play, the days-old snow piling up outside. I yanked my focus back to the screen. Lunch Sales: $1,857. Dinner Sales: $3,009. Liquor Sales: $986.

As I had predicted, the fancy wine Mom had invested in was not moving. Only two glasses purchased for the whole week, which meant an entire bottle had been opened and wasted for a few cents. I massaged my temples, fighting a headache.

Car doors slammed outside.

As Mom and Theo hobbled in the back door with a gust of cold, I met them in the kitchen. They had gone to get dinner, which from the looks of it, was two pizzas from the gas station and a six-pack of Hamm’s.

“I’m never going outside again,” Theo said.

“Oh pish,” Mom protested. “Ain’t bad for this time of year. How are the books looking, Robbie?”

“Not our best week,” I said, the understatement of the year.

“Ah, well.” Mom set the pizza on the counter. “We’re always slow in winter.”

The I-told-you-so rose in my throat, ready to rant about how liquor sales were below average, no thanks to the wasted pinot noir sitting on a shelf below the bar. But what was the point? I’d highlighted the numbers in red. That was about the best I could do. I swallowed my retort and put a slice of pizza in my mouth instead.

We sat around the kitchen table.

“There’s just something about Casey’s pizza,” I said as I went for a second slice. “Is it the crust? Is it because it sits for hours under a food heater? God, I can’t put my finger on it.”

“It’s not just good-for-a-gas-station good,” Theo agreed. “It’s, like, legitimately good.”

“You know,” Mom said, pointing at Theo, “this might work for the party.”

“Mm,” Theo said excitedly, patting his mouth with a napkin. “Good idea. Just use the restaurant as a space, and you don’t have to worry about making food for all those people.”

“What people?” I asked. “What party?”

Theo and Mom looked at each other. I felt a spike of annoyance in my chest. A bit of envy. The two of them were always close, even closer now that Theo was apparently coming back to Brokenridge every weekend.

“I’ve decided . . .” Mom sounded uncharacteristically formal “. . .

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