Molly's Mr. Wrong. Jeannie Watt
flipped through the channels a couple dozen more times, then got to his feet and grabbed his jacket so he could head to McElroy’s Bar. There probably wouldn’t be many people there on a weeknight, but Finn needed to do something other than sit in front of the TV and feel like he’d let himself down.
The lot was almost empty when Finn parked, but he figured he’d have one beer, talk to Jim McElroy and then head home again. He enjoyed getting out, being around people, but when he pulled open the heavy wooden bar door, the usual pleasant anticipation for the evening ahead was replaced with the feeling that he was avoiding the real issue in his life. Probably because he was. He didn’t really want to go to McElroy’s. He just didn’t want to be alone with his annoying thoughts.
Finn walked into the bar and paused just inside the door. The place was relatively empty, as he’d suspected. Wyatt Bauer was there leaning on the bar, staring at the sports news that played over Jim McElroy’s head. His eyes were glazed over and Finn wondered if the guy was even aware of what was happening on the screen, or if he was asleep with his eyes open.
“Hey, Wyatt,” he said as he walked by. Wyatt grunted in return. He was awake.
“Usual?” Jim asked.
“Sure.”
Jim poured a dark beer and set it in front of the stool Finn had settled on. “Haven’t seen you much since you got back,” he commented.
Finn gave a casual shrug. “Readjusting.” Which was true. He hadn’t seen action overseas, but the experience had changed him in ways he hadn’t expected. For instance, he knew now, more than ever, that he did not want to end up like Wyatt—a walking cautionary tale staring glassily at the television screen.
Jim gave a casual nod, then glanced up as the door opened again.
“Look who’s here,” a familiar voice said from behind Finn.
“We thought you were missing in action!” an almost identical voice chimed in.
Finn turned on his stool as the Tyrone brothers came in. “Just lying low,” he said. “You know...avoiding people such as yourselves.”
“I assume you’re buying after insulting us,” Terry, the older of the two brothers, said as he clapped a heavy hand on Finn’s back.
“I hadn’t really considered it.”
“Best reconsider,” Lowell said.
Finn signaled Jim, who nodded before turning to the taps. Terry and Lowell pulled up stools and after Jim set the drafts in front of them, they commenced catching Finn up on who had done what during the time he’d been gone. Not that long of a time really, but it seemed as if there’d been a lot of marriages and breakups and job changes while he’d been away.
Terry glanced at his watch when Jim asked if he wanted another beer, then practically jumped off his seat. “Gotta go. I promised Janice I’d be home ten minutes ago.”
“Trouble?” Finn asked. Terry had never been all that concerned about getting home before, but then Janice was usually there with him.
“There have been some new developments on the home front,” Terry said with a half smile before downing the last gulp of beer and setting the mug back on the bar. “I’m going to be a dad in three months. Got to start setting a good example for my kids.”
“Plural?”
“Twins.”
“Unfortunately, his newfound Mr. Mom status is screwing with my social life,” Lowell muttered. “We never go out and when we do, we have to be home at nine. How am I supposed to meet women?”
“Go without your brother?” Finn said.
“I need a wingman.”
Sadly true. Lowell never did anything alone. “Do not look at me,” Finn said.
“What? You have something better to do?”
“Maybe I’m getting old.” He drained the last of his beer, then looked up to find the brothers staring at him. “It happens to the best of us.”
Finn lingered after the Tyrone brothers left. He could talk to Jim.
“So what are you doing now that you’re back?” Jim asked as he wiped the immaculate bar yet another time. He tossed the bar towel into the bin under the bar, then waited for Finn to answer.
“Working at the store.”
“Taking it over again?”
“For the time being.”
“It’s changed,” Jim said. “All those gifts and things.”
“It used to be a lot quieter,” Finn agreed. “It’s more pleasant now in a lot of ways, and Mike’s really happy, but I don’t know. I guess I’m not used to it yet.”
“Not the place you left.”
“Not even close.”
Jim smiled a little. “Time marches on.”
Finn nodded in agreement. He pulled out his wallet and found a ten.
“Come back on Saturday,” Jim suggested as Finn headed to the door. “I have a band coming in.”
Finn raised a hand in acknowledgment, then pushed his way out the heavy wooden door and stepped into the chilly night air, knowing full well he wouldn’t be back. A cloud moved over the moon as he walked to his truck, but the sky was relatively clear. The predicted rain had apparently bypassed them and he was okay with that. He had to replace one of the haystack tarps that had a rip.
There was nothing wrong with tightening and replacing tarps on haystacks. Not one thing. But it wasn’t what he wanted to do anymore.
AFTER SKIPPING ENGLISH, Finn told himself he had to go to math—even if it meant receiving another red-ink-bleeding paper. How else would he find out if math was another area in which he’d been fooling himself into thinking he had basic skills? Was it possible that his high school As in the subject had been the gift of teachers who were concerned with the school’s sports success?
Recalling Mrs. Birdie’s stern face, he thought not. The woman had been out for him, calling him on every infraction of the rules, then grudgingly giving him decent marks on his work. Mrs. Birdie hadn’t been a sports fan or a Finn Culver fan. Yet he’d gotten an A in the class.
Finn drove into the lot and, seeing Molly’s small car, parked next to it. He wasn’t certain exactly what his objective was—it was more of a go-with-his-gut moment. He walked into class a few minutes late, but congratulated himself on being there at all, and then found a seat in the back and waited to get his assessment paper back. The instructor smiled at him as she set down the paper and moved on. Annoyed that his heart was beating faster—it was only a math paper, for Pete’s sake—Finn flipped the paper over, then fought a smile as the taut muscles in his shoulders relaxed.
The only ink on the paper was turquoise, rather than killer red, a brief note asking him to show more of his work. He could do that—although he wasn’t all that good at laying out the steps in his head on paper in a way that others could easily follow. He knew that because it had driven Mrs. Birdie nuts. And many times he tackled things in a roundabout way that made sense to him, but wasn’t the prescribed method for solving the problem. But what did it matter as long as he came up with the proper solution?
Bottom line—this paper showed that he wasn’t deluding himself. He could do math. Did he need English at all?
Well...yes—if he was going to get a degree. But he didn’t need English right now. This semester he’d focus on his math class, learn to follow the prescribed steps and how to show his work. By the end of the semester, he’d be more comfortable in