Split(15)

“Five years.”

She lifts a brow. “What else would she do?”

My inner feminist clenches her fists. “Um . . . I don’t know, go to college.”

“Not everyone is itchin’ to run away from their past, Shy.”

My spoon drops hard against the bowl of oatmeal. “That’s not what I’ve been d-d-doing.” I slam my mouth shut to avoid spewing the lies that threaten to burst free.

Her eyes go soft and she nods. “No one would blame you if you were. God knows after your mom—”

“What about Sam?”

She allows my subject change and blows out a long breath. “Sam’s been working at Pistol Pete’s. Still single, although she’s stickin’ like glue to Dustin Miller . . .” Her mouth twists as if she just sucked on a lemon. “If you know what I mean.”

“He’s like Payson royalty. I’m not surprised.”

Dustin’s family owns the feed shop here in town. We dated in high school and I had a feeling he and Sam were into each other. I wonder if they even waited for my back tires to cross the county line before hooking up.

“He’s doing well.” She makes a clicking sound with her mouth. “Got promoted after his grandfather passed away two summers ago.”

“Impressive.” Born into a family business and taking over the reins. Takes absolutely zero skill or motivation. And yet I’m the loser for leaving town to get an education. “I need to get ahold of Sam.”

“She works the early shift during the week. They open at eight in the morning, so you should be able to find her over there, although . . . not sure why you’d bother looking for a job when you got familial ties to the most successful business in town, but that ain’t my concern.”

I fight the urge to roll my eyes. Everything in this town is her concern.

I spoon a few bites of warm oatmeal into my mouth, and the creamy sweetness reminds me of my childhood, coming here on Sundays with my family. I sink into the memory and can almost smell my momma’s lavender-scented lotion.

Dorothy and I small talk about the past while I eat enough oatmeal to be polite, even though memories of my mom fill my stomach. I change the subject to the Payson job market. It seems my options for work are the local bar or mucking stalls at the local ranches. I consider Pistol Pete’s. It’s a bar, yeah, but it also hosts live bands that come up from Phoenix to play on the weekends and draws a pretty good crowd. Not the best of opportunities, but I need to keep my eyes on the goal. Save up enough money to move to the valley, get myself set up in an apartment with enough cash to live on while I beg my way back into broadcasting.

My phone vibrates in my pocket and practically sends me out of my seat. I fish it out and look to see Trevor’s name on the caller ID.

“Shit.” I hit Accept and press the phone to my ear. “Hey, sorry I didn’t call you last night. I don’t get service out at my dad’s place.”

“Hey, honey. No biggie. Figured you’d be getting all caught up with the local hillbillies.” He chuckles. “What did you guys do last night? Cow tipping?”

What a dick. I mean, I make fun of Payson people, but I’m allowed to. They’re my people.

“Nah, just . . .” I dip my head and spot Dorothy across the diner, far enough away that she can’t hear me. “Got in a fight with my dad—”

“Did you hear about the redneck who got married?”

“What?”

“Yeah, he took his wife to the honeymoon suite, found out she was a virgin, so he kicked her out and had the wedding annulled.”

“Trevor—”

“Said, ‘If you’re not good enough for your own family, you’re not good enough for me.’” He cackles obnoxiously.

I pull the phone away from my ear. “Funny.”

“Right?” He sniffs and I’d swear he was wiping tears from his eyes. “You figure out when you’re coming back?”

“The station gonna offer me my job back?” Not that it paid that much, but that wasn’t the point. It was the opportunity to make a name for myself, to move on to a bigger and better market.

“Not likely. But still, I miss you. I mean, everyone at the station is giving me the cold shoulder since you left, like I had a say in your being let go, ya know?”

Typical Trevor only cares about how the end of my career affects him.

The bell over the door rings and there’s movement to my right as a man takes the stool next to me. His baseball cap is pulled low over his eyes, but he tilts his head and peeks in my direction. He’s young, my age, but I don’t recognize him as a local. I smile politely, then frown when he quickly turns away from me. My gaze slides down his arms to see his knuckles are pale from the grip he has on a thermos.

“Trevor, um . . .” I dip my chin, feeling uncomfortable with the present company and not wanting to be overheard. “I should go.”

“The usual?” Dorothy calls to the man while making her way toward him.

“Yes, ma’am.” He pulls the lid off the thermos and places it on the counter.

“You sure you don’t want something to eat?” She grins and pours his coffee.

“No, thank you,” he mumbles.

His voice is deep, making him sound manlier than his baseball hat and shy demeanor imply.