Never Been Kissed by Molly O'Keefe Page A

looking at their phones.”
    As a rule, the cast and crew of the show, when they came in, sat at the two big tables in the corner, complained about his wine selection, begrudgingly drank vodka instead—like he was forcing it down their throats—and all silently played with their phones.
    They were so quiet. It was surreal.
    It made Sean feel like he had to whisper. Like his bar was a library.
    According to Bill and his sometimes drinking buddies, the film crew were assholes. Sean wasn’t convinced; they were polite, quiet, practically filled the place on weekends, and didn’t even notice when he raised the price of well drinks.
    But one of them, a tall guy named Darryl who did something with sound on the show, sometimes drank too much and talked too loud and said things about small towns, and the people who lived in them, that Bill and his boys didn’t like. Sean didn’t care for it much either, but he’d seen worse behavior.
    When Darryl got mouthy, his friends in the crew quickly gathered him up, threw money on the table, and left.
    “I don’t think they’re the poker types,” Sean said. Unless they were playing it on their phones. With one another.
    Oh my God,
he thought,
that’s probably what they’re doing.
    The
Jaws
theme on his own phone suddenly broke through “Stand By Your Man” on the jukebox and Sean quickly grabbed it from under the bar.
    Brody.
    Brody was calling.
    It had been three months since he’d heard from his brother. Three months of wondering if Brody had gotten hurt. Or maybe was dead. Of if he’d given up on Sean and Dad—what remained of their family—altogether.
    He took a second to calm himself down, to level out his heart rate, his suddenly huffy breathing. Searching for that place in his head that he’d created for these rare moments.
    Cool,
he told himself.
Just … be cool.
    Smiling, because he couldn’t help it, because it was his
brother
and apparently he was okay, he engaged the phone. “Hey, Secret Agent Man.”
    There was a long pause and Sean closed his eyes. His relationship with his brother was one long routine. A habit. Their connection was years of shtick. Sean teased him, Brody rebuffed him. Brody attempted to crack jokes, Sean tried not to fall on his knees in gratitude. On those rare times Brody came home for longer thantwenty-four hours, Sean created a thousand jobs, small tasks that only Brody could do in an effort to keep his brother close, to keep him around longer. Sean let himself be needy and Brody worked until whatever alarm was set in his brain told him to leave. And then he would, usually without a word.
    It was sad and weird. But it was all Sean had.
    “I’m not a secret agent, Sean. I’m a bodyguard.”
    “You say potato—” Sean said. He turned away from Bill and the silent phone-players and leaned against the bar. “What’s up, brother?”
    Sean put his finger down on the wire drain where the glasses dried. There were a hundred small circles and one by one he pressed each of his fingers down on them, until the skin around his fingernail turned pink and then white and started to sting.
    He pressed harder.
    “I’m coming to town.”
    Sean lifted his hand and walked back toward his office, noticing Brody didn’t call Bishop home. Never home.
    “Yeah? When?” Sean asked, settling down deep in that cool space in his brain so he didn’t sound too excited.
    “I’ll be there in about an hour.”
    Sean glanced at the clock. Midnight.
    “All right,” Sean said. “I can close the bar down early. My spare room is—”
    “I’m not staying with you.”
    It stung. Of course it stung. But Sean was used to it.
    “Can you clear out the room above the bar?”
    “You want to stay in the apartment?” Sean asked. That was weird even for Brody. It was cluttered and dirty and the last person to stay there had been Simone Appleby right before she shot her husband.
    Most people wouldn’t stay there if you paid