Five

At first, Shane thought that third beer must be getting to him.

He turned from the bar, leaning back into his regular spot at the hearth of the Stardrop Saloon with the delicious floating lightness of a solid buzz. It'd been—well, it'd been a typical Wednesday. Rough not because the weekend was tantalizingly close, but because Wednesday was Morris' unholy creation: Inventory Day. A whole day spent under the flat light of the storeroom counting the goods he'd have to load onto the shelves tomorrow never left Shane in a positive mood. The trade-offs for not having to deal with customers—the weary eyes, the hunched back—lingered with him into the saloon, where he could finally wash them away.

Another thing about Wednesdays: Jen didn't frequent the saloon on Wednesdays. An observation he wasn't even conscious of until he found himself staring, surprised, at her corner table across the dim room.

But it wasn't the beer conjuring fantasies to life. In Shane's fantasies, the saloon would be empty except for the two of them. And Jen definitely wouldn't walk in on Sebastian's arm.

Shane tensed, pressing his shoulders into the rough stone hearth so the bricks' hard edges etched into his skin, and sipped his beer as Sebastian took the chair opposite Jen. It was hard to read her mood, to tell whether this was a chance meeting, or some sort of plan. Her eyes sparkled the way they always did, but despite her smiles, she seemed somehow deflated, her movements depleted of her normal energy. Sebastian lit a cigarette and took a long drag before settling it in the corner of his smirk. Neither of them ordered a drink.

Jen shrugged out of her winter coat, clearly using the movement as an excuse to lean away from the smoke of Sebastian's cigarette. Shane looked deliberately away as Sebastian leaned intimately forward and said something that made her laugh. If Shane focused hard enough on the bell over the saloon door, maybe he wouldn't glare a hole into the back of Sebastian's perfect hair. Though the younger man was slender and pale, as he settled back into his chair, his puffy winter jacket blocked Jen from view.

Jen, the woman he'd kissed—or who had kissed him—not even a week ago. He clenched his fists as he remembered holding her waist, and the way she'd pressed against him, how it all had felt…

And now he was watching her make friends with confident, successful Sebastian, and—Shane was such an idiot.

He stood abruptly, feeling as though he ought to be doing something, but butting into the conversation between Jen and Sebastian felt, somehow, too possessive. Like a move he might have brazenly pulled off when he was young and full of first-string swagger, but when looking back was definitely the mark of an asshole. He bailed to the bar, leaning hard against it with his back to Jen's table. Damn it. He ordered another beer to settle the sinking feeling dragging his heart into his gut.

Emily frowned from the working-side of the bar, tilting her head at him in a way that meant she was evaluating his aura. She didn't comment on his color or whatever it was she saw, only smiled sadly and slid beer number four along the wood top. He downed half of it in one long chug.

"Any dinner tonight, Shane?" she asked, filling a glass with seltzer water and a sprig of mint. "We've got salad, soup—" A crash from the back store room made her wince. "Had to rearrange the store room due to a leak and Gus keeps—" She sighed, and pushed the glass of seltzer water toward Shane. "I need to check on that. Can you bring this to Jen for me? She looks like she needs it."

She didn't give him a chance to refuse. Shane lifted the glass, staring at the bubbling water as though it was some mysterious potion that might devine whether what had happened the other night in the chicken coop had been a fluke, no matter how good it had felt. Of course, it revealed nothing. He finished his beer for courage, took a breath, and headed toward Jen's table.

She said something with a tight smile as Sebastian laughed, dashed out his cigarette, and stood. The bell over the saloon door sang when Sebastian left, hands thrust into his pockets and a bounce in his step.

She hadn't noticed him yet, so Shane continued trying not to stare as Jen slumped in her chair, sliding the smoking ashtray to the edge of the table. As Jen rummaged in her Joja bag, pulling out a paper pharmacy bag and two pill vials. As she counted out the dose of whatever meds she was taking and held them dully in her palm as though she'd forgotten what steps to take next.

Tried not to stare… and failed.

"Bad date, huh?" he said with a forced laugh, taking Sebastian's vacated chair. Again, idiot. "Um. Emily asked me to bring you this. She had to deal with a crisis in the back."

"That obvious, huh?" Jen rolled her eyes, face turning red as she accepted the drink. "Remember how I… got sick the other night?" She knocked back the medications, swallowing them with a long sip of soda water. "Finally caved and went to Doctor Harvey today. Then nearly passed out walking home from Joja." Abruptly she curled over the table, resting her forehead against the battered wood as though she wished it could swallow her. "Thankfully Sebastian saw me and helped me here, or I might still be sitting in the snow. It's so embarrassing."

A strange elation, a mixture of victory and relief, gripped his throat. Shane coughed, trying to think of what to say, and finally settled on, "You sound more embarrassed about needing help than about puking on my shoes."

"Things were going pretty well before that whole getting-sick part."

He flushed, wishing he still had his beer glass to hide his smile behind. "Yeah, they were."

"Next time I'll try not to mess it up."

Next time. So she'd enjoyed herself, too—enough to want to spend time with him, like that, again. The alcohol, and the uncommon triumph coursing through his veins, loosened up his tongue enough for him to ask, "Want company walking home?"

She tilted her head, flattening her cheek against the table so she watched him out of one eye. And didn't answer for so long that he was half-convinced he hadn't actually had the courage to ask. But then she took a long breath and said, "Yes. I do. And if you promise not to call me a damsel in distress," she said, twisting her lips into a sneer, "like Sebastian did, I promise not to throw up on you."

Shane stood, scooping up her bags. "Deal."

They hiked slowly out to her property, forcing a path through the wet and heavy ankle-deep snow. Despite the chill, Shane was in no rush. She'd let him carry half her bags, insisting that she was fine, but judging by how she sagged against him, her shoulder rubbing his, her strength was flagging. Without comment, he slipped the remaining bags from her gloved hands, and she flashed him a brief smile.

"Thanks. Full disclosure: I'm probably the most stubborn person you'll ever meet. I'm trying to get better at asking for help."

"Seems like a good trait for a farmer to have."

"Which, stubbornness or asking for help?"

Shane shrugged. "I meant being stubborn, but both, I suppose."

"Yeah. But it's gotten me into trouble, too. I think that's partly why I didn't leave the city sooner. Grandpa left me the deed for this place when he died two years ago. I could have quit my job and moved out there then. But I didn't."

He glanced down at her. The chill flushed her cheeks, bringing life back into her face. He remembered how determined she'd been in Marnie's barn, dead-set on learning all she could as though she never considered failure as an option. She wouldn't have just given up on the city without a good reason. Before he could stop himself, he asked, "What changed?"

"I was up for a promotion, actually. Hadn't been happy in five years and as my boss was congratulating me I just felt sick, knowing that he was sucking me in, that I'd be stuck there for the rest of my life if I didn't do something about it. My debts—the reasons I took the job in the first place—were paid off. So I walked out."

"Brave."

She shrugged. "My parents prefer the term reckless. But one day they'll see what I built here."

There was that stubbornness again. Shane grinned, and she nudged his shoulder, suddenly bashful. "What? You know how it is. You moved out here, too."

He barked a bitter laugh. "You make me sound too damn noble. I was broke," he said, wanting to tell her even as he could no longer meet her eyes. Instead, he looked out across the snow-covered field near the bus stop. "I was barely scraping by, there was no way I could afford to raise Jas after Steph died. My old man never liked me, never liked Steph, and made it clear he wanted nothing to do with Jas, but Marnie… she cares for things, you see how she is. When we showed up on her doorstep, she didn't even blink. I got a job at the JojaMart, full-time and enough for the court to finalize custody. And…" he blew out a breath that misted on the air. "Now here I am, rambling my life story. Sorry. Beer loosens my tongue."

Her grip tightened on his arm, and he thought he heard her whisper, "You were brave, too," but before he could speak, the racket of hammer-on-nails echoed down the lane. Even that warning didn't fully prepare Shane for the skeletal frame of the new barn rising high behind the house. Robin perched on the roof, installing a row of tiles. Nails glinted from the corner of her mouth, reminiscent of her son's cigarette.

"Impressive," Shane said, following Jen up her front porch. Nugget barked a welcome from her post beside the chicken coop, then launched herself toward the porch, her wagging tail making her run sideways until she'd thrust her soft muzzle into Shane's hands. "The whole barn will be done in a few days?"

"I hope so." Jen unlocked the door and pushed it open, giving him a glimpse of her dark, quiet home. She sagged against the door jam. "Thanks for the help. I'd invite you in, but it's a petri dish in here."

He shrugged, setting the bags just inside the door. "If you've got anything like what Jas had, I'm probably immune by this point."

"You think so?" She pursed her lips thoughtfully, then stepped forward to kiss his cheek. Intentionally—with a boldness he hadn't felt in years—he turned his head, letting the quick peck land on his lips.

She pushed him to arm's length, her laughter turning into a harsh cough. "You're tempting fate, Shane. Don't blame me if you get sick."

Just as he was thinking that even if she had the plague she would be worth it, she kissed him again. He leaned into it, wrapping his arms around her in a brief hug that lifted her to her toes and started Nugget barking in excitement all over again. After a moment of indulging in the warmth and feel of her against him, he reluctantly set her down inside the dark warmth of her kitchen.

"Wow." She swayed as she landed, breathing hard as she grasped his fingers in hers. "I really want you to stay. But you really shouldn't."

Heat rose to his cheeks at the gleam in her eyes, and this time he didn't think she was only worried about him falling ill. A smile tugging at his lips, he tamped down the lust, and took a deliberate step backwards onto her front porch.

"Alright," he said, damning the confusing tangle of words all trying to rise in his throat at once. It was so much easier to simply touch her, to let his body express the way he felt without the mess of inadequate words—she seemed to understand him well enough without them. In the end, he settled on, "Feel better soon."

Nugget danced around him, escorting him across the fields, leaping through the snow with a light-hearted freedom that stirred Shane's feet until he was chasing the young dog down the path. The plague would definitely be worth it, he decided as he crossed into Cindersap forest, his heart racing so loudly in his ears that he couldn't even hear the hammering of the barn construction continuing behind him.

Three days later, Shane dragged a hand over the morning stubble still covering his jaw even though it was half-past eleven, and poured himself a glass of orange juice while wishing it was something a heck of a lot stronger.

"How're the waffles?" he asked, turning toward the kitchen table. Jas looked up at him from her half-finished plate of nearly-burned waffles and a side of plum pudding, grinning a syrupy smile.

"Can we have this for breakfast every day?"

"It's more like brunch, this time." Shane ruffled her hair as he took the seat next to her. "If we did this all the time it wouldn't be as special. Pass me the syrup?"

"I want to pour it!"

He let her douse his stack of waffles in way too much syrup and butter before tucking in. The sugar would have to sustain the rest of his day, because he certainly hadn't rested the night before. Nightmares ravaged Jas' sleep as they sometimes did, and he'd spent the night on her bedroom floor because she insisted that only his presence could chase away the monsters. What the monsters were, or where they had come from, Shane wished he knew.

"Hey, kid. Are you sure you're up for visiting Vincent today?" he asked, watching her wolf down the plum pudding with gusto. She didn't look affected at all by her poor night's sleep, but then, she never did. Still he insisted, "It's okay to tell me if you don't feel like going to a sleepover."

She tsked. "I like Vincent. He lets me be Player One, and one day we're going to get married." She frowned thoughtfully, sticking out her lower lip. "And if I can't sleep, Jodi sings and it helps. Like mom used to sing. Remember?"

"I remember." Christ. The simplest words could knife him straight in the heart. How could Shane forget that spring when Steph had announced she was quitting her college courses to focus on writing a demo album? She'd produced it herself, had picked up an agent… and had given it all up for something more reliable with better health insurance when she'd gotten pregnant with Jas.

For all the good it had done her.

Shane carried their sticky plates to the sink to buy time to compose himself before saying, "You never told me Jodi sings. Would it help if I sang to you?"

Her eyes went round as she shook her head. They both knew he couldn't carry a tune to save his life. "No, Uncle Shane—!" but he ignored her and began to croon the one lullaby he knew, his throat thick with syrup. "No!" she laughed, clapping her hands over her ears. "Stop, stop!"

Shane stuck his tongue out at her. "Okay, I'll stop. But only if you go brush your teeth and get your sleepover bag."

She jumped down from her chair. Shane watched her trott to her room, allowing himself to feel utterly exhausted for five seconds before snagging his glass of OJ from the table and draining it.

In a fit of sober preparation, he'd stashed his swim bag right by their snow boots, so as much as he wanted to ignore it, he still grabbed it before ushering Jas down the snowy lane to Vincent's house. Shane's co-worker Sam opened the door, his guitar hanging from a strap around his neck.

"Hey Shane," Sam said with a nod, then crouched to offer Jas a low-five. "Yo, Jas! Hit me."

She only shook her head, hanging shyly back behind Shane's legs til she spotted Vincent waiting for her on the couch. The little boy held out a game controller to her, and she ran past Sam into the room. He laughed. "Way to leave me hanging!"

Shane raised his eyebrows as he handed Sam Jas' overnight bag. "I didn't realize she was still that shy around you."

"Only when Abby and Seb are here," Sam said with a shrug, hooking a thumb over his shoulder toward a back room, where the melody of a keyboard jingled over an underlying drumbeat. "Not a big deal."

"Oh." Shane peered into the spotless room to where Jas was already curled up on the couch. "See you tomorrow, Jas!"

"Bye, Uncle Shane!" She grinned a goodbye, but her attention was locked on the TV screen. Shane rolled his eyes, grateful that at least she could forget her problems in a good video game.

"Mr. Shane," Vincent said, drawing out the "a" of Shane's name in that sing-song way he always did. He pointed toward Shane's bag. "Are those goggles?"

Shane glanced down, flipping the dangling goggles back into the bag and double-checking that his swim trunks hadn't fallen out. "Yeah. They're swim goggles. I'm going to the spa."

Sam whistled, giving Shane a double-take. He looked impressed. "You swim, man?"

"Sometimes. Rehab for the knee. Hurt it playing gridball."

Vincent dropped his controller, wide eyes on Shane. "You played gridball? That's so cool!"

"Yeah, used to," Shane said, uncomfortable at the attention. Wishing for the quickest way to get himself out of this conversation before the kid asked him for his stats, he asked, "Do you play? We can toss around a gridball the next time you come over."

The little boy shook his head. "No. Dad is going to teach me how when he gets home from the war."

"At least your dad is coming back," Jas said breezily, with that cutting childlike honesty that gutted Shane every time. She didn't notice, and only nudged Vincent's arm. "Pick up your controller, silly, or we're going to lose!"

Sam glanced between Jas and Shane, and seemed to understand Shane's devastated expression. "Tell me about it," he said, before smiling in commiseration and tucking Jas' overstuffed bear backpack under his arm.

Shane swam for an hour straight, double what he'd planned to, but the exertion didn't ease the unintentional sting of Jas' words, nor mute the memory of Steph singing—singing everywhere, even in her hospital bed through lips so chapped they bled. The melody haunted him as he swung by Pierre's on the way home for a handle of whiskey, and as he walked through the silent woods and gathering darkness to his spot on the dock of the Cindersap lake.

He huddled in a blanket at the end of the dock, sitting back with a world-weary sigh. Clouds hung low and threatening over the forest, making the night feel claustrophobic even though the snow was holding off for now. His first shot of whisky chased away the bite of the winter wind and dimmed Steph's song; soon, he didn't hear it at all.

"Shane?"

Jen's bright call blasted through the fog of alcohol, jolting him upright. Glancing over his shoulder, he couldn't help but smile at the sight of Jen picking her way down the icy dock, bundled in that vibrant winter coat. "You're alive."

He'd missed the wry grin she gave as she joined him at the dock's edge and said, "Yes, thanks to the miracle of antibiotics and chicken soup, I somehow managed to survive the common cold." She hugged herself against the cold, shaking her head. "What are you doing sitting still out here? You'll freeze to death."

"Thinking," he said with a shrug, turning back toward the snow-covered ice of the lake. He showed her the bottle before taking another swig.

"I see," she said slowly, then rested a hand on his shoulder. "Mind if I join you?"

"Sure."

She took a seat on the blanket beside him, wiggling close for warmth. His breath caught in his chest as her body brushed against his, and he was certain that the whiskey was the only thing keeping his heart from leaping out of his chest. He turned toward her, letting his back take the brunt of the wind, and offered her a drink.

She turned the half-empty bottle over in her hands, looking at the label with an eyebrow raised. "I usually only drink this stuff mixed with cola," she admitted, but unscrewed the cap and knocked back a slug. She shuddered at its taste.

"Keeps you warm," he chuckled, slipping the bottle back into his pocket. "What brings you so far from the farm?"

"I came down to pay Marnie back for those bales of hay," she said. "Then I ran into Leah and she invited me for supper. It was amazing! A salad made entirely from things she'd either grown or foraged. The winter variety was a lot greater than I expected. Did you know Leah is an artist? And she bottles her own wine?"

"I knew about the wine," he said, and when she shivered again, he draped an arm around her shoulders. "Is this okay?"

Jen nodded, and Shane felt himself relax. He didn't want to push, or rush—or, worse, scare her—but something in him simply ached for her closeness. As she settled against him, he continued, "Leah likes to trade bottles of wine with Marnie for eggs and milk and stuff. The spice berry one is pretty good."

"That's the one I tried!" She glanced mischievously up at him. "I might have had a glass or two."

Shane suppressed a smile. "So I'm not the only one imbibing tonight, huh."

"I'm celebrating finally feeling better."

He raised the bottle in toast. "I'll drink to that."

They lapsed into silence for a long while, but that was the nice thing about Jen: with her, he didn't feel pressured to make conversation. The moon shone brightly overhead, gleaming off of the ice and glimmering where it reflected off the snow-laden boughs of the surrounding trees. It was just them, and the lake, and the bitter cold. With Jen hudling against him for warmth, Shane was content to sit there for as long as she liked, watching the clouds slip over the stars.

Wordlessly, he offered her the whisky and she drank another mouthful with a wince. "This stuff is awful. What's got you out here thinking so hard?"

He took his time screwing the cap back onto the bottle before sighing, "Jas."

"Oh?"

"She had nightmares last night. Pretty common. So either she crawls in bed with me, or since she's getting big now, I spend the night on her bedroom floor." He'd meant simply to explain what had him feeling so drained, but found himself admitting, "I think she's happy. But sometimes she says these things that make me wonder if I'm giving her what she needs. I don't really know what I'm doing."

Jen drew her knees to her chest, hugging them thoughtfully. "I've been told that all parents feel like that."

"Sometimes…" he paused against a lump of undefinable emotion rising in his throat, and took another sip of whisky to wash it down. "Sometimes I wonder what Steph was thinking, thinking I could raise her kid for her? I was probably her last resort, but—Christ, part of me was furious when she asked to put that burden on me. Fucking cancer. It threw me into this hole I can't—I feel like no matter what I do I can't climb out of it." He rubbed a hand across his face, but it did nothing to banish the itch of weariness from his eyes. His mind spun within his skull. "Aah. Sorry."

"Shane." Her voice was far too gentle than he deserved. "You don't need to apologize to me for being honest."

"I'm apologizing for being a selfish asshole. Who gets mad at their best friend for trusting them?"

She twisted to look at him, letting his arm slip off her shoulders. "As far as selfish assholes go, you're pretty tame."

He blinked at her, surprised, then choked on a laugh. "What?"

"No, really," she said, looking like she was trying damnably hard to keep her expression serious. "If you want full asshole credit you're going to have to do more than be upset your friend is dead, and do your best to raise her kid."

He couldn't tell if she was actually pissed at him, but based on her wide eyes, he judged she was at least a little drunk. Playfully he challenged, "Do you have a check list?"

She snorted, and leaned her head on his shoulder. "I'll tell you later." She slipped her mittened hand into his, gave him a comforting squeeze. "You're doing the best you can, Shane. You care. That's all anyone can ask."

He blew out a breath, tilting his head back to look at the stars, but she wasn't done.

"You keep going. You keep trying. You have to."

She wasn't talking about him, not any longer; her eyes had that faraway, sad look about them that she'd gotten during the Fair. He slid his arm back around her shoulders, half-hugging her closer.

"Jen?" It took him what felt like eons to to dredge up the courage to meet her expectant face, to bare his soul enough to admit, "You being here… it makes me feel better."

She slipped her hand from her mitten and touched his cheek, faintly smiling. "It makes me feel better too."

Author's note: Happy New Year! May your 2018 be bright and happy. -twinsuns