Shooter's was more depressing than Biggie's, if that were possible. The fact that no resorters ventured there despite its walking distance from Biggie's indicated that it wasn't part of the town's charm, but Shooter's probably knew that and reveled in the fact. What real sort of bar catered to seasonal vacationers looking for some misconceived delightful local flavor? Shooter's knew that the "local flavor" was anything but delightful--in fact, it was downright unsavory--and no self-respecting establishment would checker its floors and string-light its walls just to rake in some summertime cash. No, Shooter's had none of the framed photos of friendly and famous patrons, no darts and shuffleboard and pinball machines, no cute condiment baskets with shiny mustard and ketchup bottles and stylized salt and pepper shakers, and certainly no friendly bartenders. Definitely no friendly bartenders.

If ever there were a hole-in-the-wall, Shooter's was it. The bar tunneled back into a narrow brick building, a leftover wormhole, so the grime of the tables, the floor, the bar was as expected as it was necessary to the life of the place. The lighting was terrible, the single-use bathrooms behind their slatted doors were precarious, the pool tables were in desperate need of refinishing, the ashtrays were never emptied, and the smell was a heady mixture of stale beer and cigarettes. In fact, the entire place felt yellow, a combination of the smoke and fluids that pervaded it.

Heather twisted apart the edge of a damp coaster as she sat waiting. She was considering ordering a drink. On the one hand, her stomach was still unsettled from the previous night's bottle-and-a-half of wine. On the other, she was fairly certain she'd need a little help getting through the impending conversation. The thought of talking to him again, after whatever their interactions had been or meant . . . she'd not been sure she'd see him again, whether she'd want to. And she didn't think she did want to, but she had no willpower around him; she'd always struggled to say no to him, and she didn't even understand why. It would've been so easy to ignore his message, to let it hang there, make him wonder whether she'd ever seen it at all, but the compulsion to respond caught her, the morbid curiosity of what he'd have to say, what might occur, if she did see him.

Her phone buzzed. Heather fumbled with the device as she picked it up from the bar, swiped through it to the new text: Where are you?

It was from Kevin. Relief settled in. She'd thought maybe he'd stood her up, was canceling.

Kevin could wait.

"Hey," Heather turned to the bartender, an older tattooed man with a scraggly beard long enough to tuck into his belt should he wish to do so. The man looked at her expectantly. "I think I will order something. A--a bourbon and coke. Diet coke. Thank you." She smiled brightly, but the man hardly noticed and instead grunted something and went about his business of complying with her request.

In a place like Shooter's, her looks didn't mean much. And Heather did look good; she knew that. She knew her beauty had hardly faded in the time since she'd left Port Killdeer. Her skin wasn't quite as glowing as it'd used to be, her hair was an easy crop rather than long and natural, and she had a weariness about her that she felt enough to know others must also see it. In spite of those minor adjustments, though, she'd maintained her lithe figure, and there was now an added air of sensualism about her that her younger self would've never been able to pull off. Heather had never suffered for lack of male attention when she'd been out and about before meeting her husband, and even after they'd been married, she'd caught the eye of a number of other men, but she'd never acted on any of their flirtations, never been unfaithful--not until Kevin, anyway, and he hadn't exactly been interested in her. In fact, she didn't even know why she'd done what she'd done with him. It was a mess, and now here she was adding another layer of complication . . .

She should just go. This was the stupidest thing she'd done, even stupider than sleeping with Kevin. Heather half-rose, but the moment she did, the bartender slid her drink in front of her at the same time a familiar voice from behind sent pins and needles down her scalp.

"What's up, sis?"

Heather didn't turn, couldn't turn, instead waited for him to come up on the side of her. She hadn't seen Danny in four or five years. Since she'd gotten married, she'd come up with a ton of excuses to keep from visiting.

Danny gestured to the bartender, mentioned "the usual," and smiled some sort of greeting. He was still so attractive, Heather subconsciously noted, just a more rugged version of his teenaged self, still that sense of mischief in his dark gleaming eyes. She hadn't expected anything other than that--social media showed him always shirtless and suntanned on boats or sunglassed and snuggled up on ski slopes. He was always smiling in his photos, often with women whose names were never in the captions or tags, and there was always a drink somewhere. He'd never married, Danny, never had even a steady girlfriend as far as she knew. He'd traveled around the US a bit with his job but never actually moved out of Port Killdeer, probably preferring the big-fish-in-a-little-pond experience of it all. But even while his social media posts presented a man living his best life, Heather had always been sure she saw something a bit sad in them, some message to her, even, that he'd never really been happy.

She never commented on his images, never, though in the past she'd shamefully wasted an inordinate amount of time internet-stalking her stepbrother. Only when she'd taken up gardening had she found a way to better distract herself.

"Where's David?"

Heather had a hard time getting words out; it was as if gravel were in her throat. "Is that really the first thing you want to ask me?" she finally managed, hyper-aware of her body's placement on its stool.

Danny caught a bottle the bartender slid toward him, acknowledged the man, exchanged a few friendly words, then turned toward Heather, leaned back, and looked her up and down. "You look good."

She tried to hate the compliment. "Why'd you want to meet?"

"Your mom called. Said you guys came in town, but--you're staying in Red Axe?"

Heather nodded. She'd put up at a motel outside of Red Axe after leaving her husband at the resort.

"Why won't you stay at the house? I think it hurt their feelings."

"That's why you wanted to meet? To tell me I hurt their feelings?"

Danny narrowed his eyes slightly, smiled with his tongue barely showing between his teeth. "Where is David?"

Heather considered telling him the truth: that she had no clue where David was and yet also had a pretty good idea that history had repeated itself, that the idiot had gone gallivanting off down the resort road in some ill-conceived machismo. That he was probably in pieces in the lake, somewhere, and that ultimately, she felt the same about him as she had about Ryan--indifferent. But putting those words out there might prompt law enforcement to go looking for David, and she'd been the last person to see him after they'd had a fight. She'd afterward drunk on the beach, glad he was gone. In short, it wouldn't look good for her. And while Heather didn't particularly care how she looked anymore, at least, not in regard to her reputation, she needed to be left alone until she could meet with Cris, until they finished what they'd started all that time ago.

"Why did you really want to see me?" Heather asked, surprised at her own forwardness.

The man studied her, tipped back his beer for a drink yet didn't take his eyes off her as she watched his Adam's apple move. "It was all so weird, wasn't it? We--we were close, for a while, during your senior year." He attempted a smile after his gulp, though there was something too knowing in it.

Heather flushed. She hardly remembered her senior year except for Danny. She'd fallen away from friends, from the social activities she'd once loved, from everyone and everything, just somehow moved through the motions enough to graduate and get out. But she knew exactly what he was referring to. She'd been home a lot. What'd happened once, after a lively beach party--well, it'd not happened again at first, went entirely unmentioned between them, but after she and the others had fallen into the pit of the world and found reality, not much had mattered. She'd begun getting into their parents' alcohol cabinet, doing things in search of forgetfulness, and if Danny had happened to want her around, if his mood and the timing were right . . .

Heather never openly consented but also never declined, either. He'd never touched her, though, not once, not in the way he asked her to touch him. He'd assured her he'd never do anything to her, and he'd lived up to that, at least. And even now, after so much time had passed, Heather thought of their interactions with some mix of distaste and unease, frustration and infatuation. She didn't love him in any kind of way; she absolutely hated him. Well, it was more complicated than hate, really. But he was her brother, and everyone loved Danny. She wanted him to care about her, to obsess over her, and his solitary life, the fact that he threw it all out there on social media for everyone to see how lonely he was--it was a cry to her, wasn't it? That he needed her there. Because she'd done what he asked; they'd had something horrible but special. No one else had been there for him like that. She'd never wanted it, but he'd asked it of her. Didn't that mean something?

". . . kind of met someone," he was saying.

Heather blinked back into the bar. Some people in a booth nearby were laughing loudly, obnoxiously. "What did you say?"

"Jesus, Heather. I said I met someone. Haven't told anyone yet, especially not our parents, but I'm moving. For good. Finally getting out of this shithole. I'm so glad I get to tell you in person."

The space around her became viscous. With her nail, she scraped at some sort of well-established crust on the bar. Say something! "That's nice," she lied. "Maybe I can meet her some time." She never wanted to meet her.

Danny's smile went up a little at one end. Heather was trying not to look at him, but she did, and she saw something almost benevolent in his affect. It was so out of place that she had to stifle her snort. "I'd like that, actually," he offered in the utmost sincerity. "He's a great guy."

Momentary amnesia set in. Heather briefly forgot where she was. A horrible buzzing began somewhere between her ears; one of her pinkies twitched slightly. And then her body moved without her commanding it to. Before she knew how or why, she mumbled something about the bathroom, slipped off the stool, and got halfway down the narrow passage containing the grimy stalls before Danny caught up and grabbed her arm, pulled her toward him.

"Heather, I'm sorry," he said as quietly as he could in his breathlessness. His eyes--they were so sad, so honest. She'd never thought him so ugly. "I was such a fucked up kid. What I did to you," he pled, "I know it was wrong. I--I know my words aren't enough, but I need you to hear it. My therapist--"

"Oh shut up!" Heather practically screamed, the rushing in her brain coming to a sudden halt. Over Danny's shoulder, she saw the bartender lean across his bar to scrutinize them. Conversation amongst the other patrons calmly resumed, but Heather was agitated beyond reason. She had no idea what else to say, whether she could say anything at all, and at risk of crying she instead spun on her heel and hurried out the back door into the merciless summer sunshine beyond.