The Trouble With Valentine's Day by Rachel Gibson

and it was scary. The only person who hadn’t acted like a nut had been Rob Sutter. He’d looked more angry than insane.
    â€œWhy don’t you go out, Katie?”
    She rolled her head to the left and looked at her grandfather. “Are you trying to get rid of me?”
    â€œYes. You’re wearing me out.” He turned his attention back to his television program. “I love you, Katie, but I need a break from you.”
    She sat up. She was in Gospel to give him a hand in the store and to help him over his grief. She needed a break from him, too, but she wasn’t so rude as to tell him. Obviously, he didn’t suffer under the same restraint.
    â€œGo have a green beer somewhere.”
    She didn’t want to drink in a bar alone. There was something a little sad about it, and besides, it hadn’t worked out for her the last time. She’d drunk too much and was still paying the price.
    â€œPlay a little pool and meet young people your own age.”
    Pool. She could play pool. That wasn’t sad and pathetic, and if she didn’t drink too much, she wouldn’t do anything stupid. “Which bars have tables?” she asked.
    â€œThe Buckhorn has a few in the back. I don’t believe Rocky’s Bar has any, but the Hitching Post might still have a couple.” While Kate tried to recall which was closest to her grandfather’s house, he added, “Of course you should probably stay out of the Hitching Post on account of the restrooms are a little rough.”
    Kate looked down at her sweats and Tasmanian Devil slippers. “Isn’t the Buckhorn a little rough?” she asked. She’d driven by the bar several times and thought it looked about a hundred years old. Not falling down, just very rustic.
    â€œNot this time of year. It only tends to get rough when flatlanders come up for the summer.”
    â€œWhy don’t we go play some pool together? I’ll bet some of your friends are there.”
    He shook his head. “I don’t want to go anywhere.” Before she could argue, he added, “I’ll call Jerome and see if he wants to come over for a beer.”
    She stood. If her grandfather had a friend over, he wouldn’t need her company. “Okay. Maybe I will go play some pool,” she said as she moved into her bedroom. She changed into her strapless bra, then pulled on a black-and-white-striped boatneck sweater and a pair of jeans. She shoved her feet into her black boots and shot perfume on the insides of her wrists. After she brushed her teeth, she combed her hair until it fell in a smooth, blunt line across the middle of her shoulder blades. She didn’t waste a lot of effort on makeup, just a little mascara and soft pink lip gloss. Then she grabbed her coat and her small black Dooney & Bourke backpack and headed out.
    â€œI doubt I’ll be late,” she told her grandfather as he walked with her past the kitchen table set with Tom Jones place mats.
    â€œYou look lovely.” Stanley helped her with her coat. “If you drink too much, promise to give me a call.”
    â€œThanks. I will,” she said, but she didn’t have any intention of drinking much at all. She fished her keys out of her backpack and reached for the door.
    â€œAnd Kate.”
    She looked up into her grandfather’s eyes. “What?”
    â€œDon’t beat all the boys at pool.” He laughed, but Kate wasn’t sure he was joking.
    The outside of the Buckhorn Bar looked like a lot of the businesses in Gospel, made of split logs, with a green tin roof. But unlike the other establishments, there were no striped awnings or planters to soften the rough appearance. No wooden Indian or gold leaf lettering on the blacked-out windows. The door handle was made from a horn, and a big neon sign with an elk on it hung over the worn porch. Cement patched the holes in the old logs, but slices of dim light and the whine of steel