Split(17)

“Hey, Sam?” I shift on my ballet flats, feeling the mud between my toes from the mix of dry earth and sweat. I really need to find some more appropriate clothes. “We should grab a drink sometime. I need to get caught up on what’s been going on the last five years.”

“Ha!” Her once-cocky expression turns almost sad. “Like you care.” She shoves past me and walks away.

I don’t really care, but I miss my friend. Hell, she’s the only real friend I’ve ever had. “Sam.”

She stops but doesn’t turn around.

“Look . . . I’m sorry, okay? I . . .” Probably should’ve called or tried to reconnect. I don’t blame her for blowing me off. “I am a bitch.”

“I get off at four-thirty.” And with that she disappears into the back.

Great. An awkward drink with an old friend who practically hates me. This should be fun.

Before heading back to my dad’s house, I swing by the bank and withdraw the last of my money. It’s not much, and I’ll be lucky if it’ll get me through the next week even with living at home. I’m almost out of gas, have no job, and my dad’s just waiting for me to come back begging.





SIX



SHYANN


It’s almost four-thirty when I pull into the single paved parking lot outside Pistol Pete’s. After a quick pass through the tiny ten-car lot up front, I hit the dirt lot that’s used for overflow.

Pretty busy for a Thursday. Must be the happy hour crowd, or it could be the larger part of the labor community that can’t end the workday without a cold beer.

I find a spot at the far end and I’m grateful for the old cowboy boots I found in the back of my closet. They’re a half-size too small, but the black leather is so worn and soft, slipping them on felt like coming home. But this time in a good way.

I check my face in the rearview mirror. Wanting to look somewhere between trying and not giving a shit, I’d put on a light layer of makeup, straight ironed the fuzz of humidity from my hair, and threw on a kickass pair of skinny jeans, pairing it with a tank top and an old flannel.

Just enough to look like the old me but with a big-city-girl flare.

The sun dips below the pine trees enough that although it’s still light, it’s muted and comfortable with a soft breeze that reminds me fall is on its way. A song about a lost lover and a pickup truck filters through the big barn doors as I kick up dirt through the lot. I push through the double doors and wait for my eyes to adjust to the dim light. Voices at all levels, from murmurs to obnoxious yelling, round out the audio-intrusion and the heavy scent of booze and dirty boots mix in a way only a country bar can.

I scan the room without lingering too long on faces, and don’t see Sam, so I take seat at the bar.

A woman with unnaturally red hair that’s shaved in a buzz cut on one side tosses a cocktail napkin in front of me. “What’ll it be.”

I lean in. “I’m looking for Sam. She still here?”

Her eyes narrow and she turns to the guy beside her who just showed up with two six-packs of Heineken under each arm. “Monty, you seen Sam?”

He squats to a cooler fridge and mumbles, “Out back having a smoke.”

The woman nods, jingling the dozen little hoop earrings in her ear. Not your typical Paysonite. She doesn’t look familiar either, so she’s probably a transplant. “She’ll be out in a minute.”

“Thanks.” My fingers drum against the bar, and feeling eyes on me, I keep my gaze forward. Maybe this was a bad idea. Last thing I want is an impromptu high school reunion.

“Sit at my bar, you drink.” The fire of hair on her head matches her lipstick. “So?” She lifts one eyebrow and waits.

“Do you have Grey Goose?”

The guy stocking beer snorts.

She scowls and looks offended. “You know you’re in a bar, right?”

“Grey Goose and water. With a lemon, please.”

She studies me for a second, like she’s trying to figure me out, then shakes her head and moves to make my drink.

The feeling like I’m being watched weighs heavy on my back. Another reason to hate small towns—there’s no hiding from anyone. Ever.

My shoulders curl and I consider begging Sam to hit up the diner or a coffee shop, someplace other than—

“Shyann? Is that you?”

Fuck.

I pinch my eyes closed and take a deep breath, mustering up every ounce of fake-happy I have on reserve and turn to . . .

“Adam Bleeker. Wow, it’s been a long time.” The guy is twice the width he was in high school, but even with his face being a little rounder he still looks the same. I take in his plaid button-up and baggy jeans, realizing he also still dresses the same. Not a surprise. People who stay in town end up on permanent freeze frame.

Adam grins and leans against the bar next to me. “I haven’t see you in—”

“Five years, yeah.” Everyone in this damn town seems so intent on reminding me.

“Five years . . . wow.” His brown eyes shine with friendliness. He always was a decent guy, the token nice guy who hung around a bunch of stuck-up jocks. “How the hell are you?”

The bartender comes back and drops a small glass of ice water down in front of me, then a shot glass filled with clear liquid, and a napkin topped with a mushy lemon slice. “There ya go.”