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planning on getting food, eventually. I was in no rush. Days were short, but nights were long around here. I was supposed to be enjoying life, right?
    As I let out a deep belly laugh at that one, the bartender came over from the other end of the bar. This guy seriously had to have been making all the girls and married ladies in town wet themselves. He didn’t fit the image of Wolfe’s; that was for damn sure.
    The dining room might not have boasted cream-colored tablecloths, but silver tavern mugs hanging from the ceiling and flat screen televisions behind the bar didn’t say dive bar, either. He was possibly the same age as me—maybe a few years older—and a near match to my height of about six-foot-one. He had a short, scruffy beard and flowing untamed hair he kept pushing behind his ears to keep out of his face every time he stood up. Me, well, mine was still short, but it was getting back to the length it used to be before my deployment. I needed a good haircut.
    I noticed the college-aged waitresses gawking and whispering as they stared at him each time they came inside from the outside patio tables to pick up their drink orders. The guy knew what he was doing. Bartending here in the summer looking like that definitely got him tits…I meant, tips galore. Christ, even I might come in my pants if he stared at me the right way.
    He stopped in front of me before pulling another beer bottle from the cooler. He replaced my empty bottle with a cold full one without me even asking. I guffawed. Guess I was staying for another. My eyes raised from the shimmering copper bar top to stare at him. He tossed the bottle into the nearby trash bin and leaned back against the bar, folding his arms over his chest, staring back at me. His muscles flexed, and I caught the sight of some black ink peeking out from under his T-shirt sleeve.
    “Looked like you weren’t planning on going anywhere anytime soon,” he said to me as the drink order machine spat out a couple of new orders. He pushed off the bar and began preparing the drinks. He turned and stared at the ceiling full of tin beer mugs. Each one had a different number on the bottom. He stretched his arm high up to pull one of the mugs down for an order. He stood there, pulling on the tap handle filling the mug with beer.
    My eyes narrowed as the ink from his tattoo peeked out a little more, and I caught the familiar Victorian-style letters etched behind his bicep more clearly. My hands wrapped around the cold glass of my new beer bottle as I tipped my head in his direction. “Marine Corps?” I asked, knowing you didn’t brand yourself with those four letters if you hadn’t served.
    I watched him narrow his eyes in my direction and drop the drinks at the pick-up station at the end of the bar. He pushed the drink order receipts onto the pin, wiping his hands on the bar towel before making his way back toward me.
    “You in the Corps, too?”
    I nodded as I took a long sip of my beer. “Was. Just got out a month ago.”
    “No shit. What unit?”
    “MWSS 469 out of Pendleton.” I tilted my beer bottle toward him. “What about you?”
    “ Company B, 1st Battalion, 25th Marines out of Londonderry, New Hampshire. I got out a few years ago. Did my two tours in Iraq, and after 2010, I’d had enough.” He walked over and shoved his hand out to me. “Name’s Everett Smith.”
    I firmly slapped my palm against his and shook his hand. “Drew. Drew Daley.”
    “So, Drew, let me guess. You just got out of the Corps, and your girl wanted some time alone , so she dragged you up to this exciting place to reconnect ?”
    I let out a laugh from deep within my stomach. “Not exactly. I just got back from Afghanistan after finding out the girl I loved married another douche six months ago, and now I’m here to apparently do some ‘soul searching.’ Or at least that’s what my sister is calling it.”
    Everett glanced behind me and winked at what I could only assume were some of his