Split(19)

Ski season. It’s the one time of year where the streets of Payson look more like the streets of Beverly Hills. The dirt and pine trees become the backdrop to thousands of vacationers who line the city’s pockets with enough cash in three months to sustain the nine-month slow season.

“That’d be great. Thanks.” I’m lying. Maybe I should consider swallowing this putrid lump of pride. Taking back my job at Jennings is an easy in, good money, and it’s something I already know how to do. One night every other weekend waiting tables won’t pay me what I’d make at Jennings. And as much as I don’t want to admit it, I’m getting a little sick of the dull twisting feeling in my gut that resembles—but certainly cannot be—guilt at choosing the local bar over the family business. What would Momma think of me turning my back on Dad? I frown at the thought of her disappointment.

Sam leans into my shoulder and whispers, “It’s a shit job, Shy.”

“Then why do you work here?”

Her expression turns sad. “I have no choice. If I did, I’d take—”

“Hot damn, look what the big city dragged in. Is that . . .?”

I drop my chin and groan at the deep baritone of my ex-boyfriend Dustin’s voice.

“Shy Jennings . . .” He pushes in next to Sam, throwing an arm over her shoulders. “I thought you were kiddin’, babe.”

She seems to shrivel a little.

“Dustin.” I nod. “It’s been a long time.”

His thick blond hair is shorter than I remember, but no less gorgeous. Tan skin, dark brown eyes, and the height and girth that epitomizes the mountain man appeal, but I remember too well how all that pretty is only for show.

“I didn’t notice.” He twists his handsome face in confusion and looks at Sam. “How long has it been?”

The bartender hands him a short cocktail glass with what looks like straight bourbon on ice.

Sam mumbles, “Don’t be a dick.”

“What up, Dustin?” A dark-haired guy who looks like a lumberjack, with his dark beard, beanie, and flannel shirt, slaps Dustin on the back. “How’d you end up with— Oh my God!” The guy’s wide eyes point at me.

Crap.

“Is that Shy Jennings?”

Another man overhears him and moves toward us.

My feet burn to run, to get the hell out of here and accept the job back at Jennings, probably what I should’ve just done in the first place.

I flash a weak wave. “Hey.”

“Dude, I haven’t seen you since . . .” His gaze flickers up to the ceiling and then his eyes snap to mine. “The graduation party at Dustin’s house.”

On instinct, my eyes dart to Dustin’s and his go wide before he catches himself and squeezes Sam to his side.

Dustin had a huge party out at his parents’ ranch. We’d made love in the barn on a bed of hay like a couple of hicks. He’d told me he loved me and was looking forward to our future together, the Jennings and Miller family names joining to be some kind of small town nobility. I told him I was leaving to go to Flagstaff for school and that I’d hoped to never come back, thus ending our romantic interlude. Thing is, I’d loved Dustin once, as much as I was capable of, but I didn’t love anyone as much as I hated Payson.

The reunions go on like this for another few hours. The liquor keeps coming and before I can control myself, I’m falling into old stories with my ex-best friend, ex-boyfriend, and kids I’d gone all through school with. Most of them seem to understand why I left, with the exception of Sam and Dustin, but as the drinks come, so does their eventual forgiveness.

At one in the morning, we stumble out of the bar. Too drunk to drive, we sit in the parking lot talking until half of us decide to call Henry, our resident cabdriver, and the other half chooses to walk home in the cool night air. I hop in the cab and because my dad’s place is on the outskirts of town, I’m last to be dropped off. It isn’t until Henry pulls up at the house that I get a bright idea. It’ll be the first time since I’ve been back and I’ll need the drunken lubrication to endure it.

Sober would be torture.

Come to think of it, drunk might actually be worse.





LUCAS


The room is dark except for the glow from my flashlight. My shoulder aches from a wayward spring poking through the thin layer of cushion on my secondhand mattress. I run the light back and forth along the edge of my bed, casting a yellow glow on three action figures propped between my bed and the wall. They serve as a tribute and a reminder of their death.

Spider-Man, Batman, and Pinkie Pie.

These weren’t actually owned by my siblings. I wasn’t able to return home after the night they died. I found those in one of those stores where everything costs one dollar shortly after I was released. I didn’t have much money, but I knew I had to have these so I’d never forget.

It’s all I have left of them; the only memories I’ve managed to hold on to are wrapped in three cartoon characters. I have no home videos or photos, only three pieces of molded plastic that have Made in China stamped on their feet.

Alexis loved the pink pony with the balloons imprinted on her flank. She never had a birthday party, but one of her teachers gave her a Pinkie Pie My Little Pony birthday card when she turned six. She coveted the stickers inside and ever since then my baby sister was obsessed.