Fisher's Light(12)

I’ve never seen Barney’s this packed and it’s not even full of tourists. Word must have traveled pretty fast that I was going to be here and everyone with two working legs came out to see if anything exciting would happen in this otherwise boring town.

Located fifteen miles off the coast of South Carolina, in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, Fisher’s Island was purchased by my great-grandfather in 1902. At that time, the island was just a place for boats to wander when they were lost getting back to the mainland, but my great-grandfather saw potential and used what little money he had left after buying the island to build it into a fishing village that caught and harvested seafood for the surrounding coastlines. It wasn’t long before he made enough money to turn this place into a tourist attraction with restaurants, inns, parks, public beaches and a ferry system to move people back and forth. We have one elementary school, one high school, one bank and a population of 3,044 at last count. My father, Jefferson Fisher Jr., owns half of the businesses on this island and is jokingly referred to as King Fisher. I’m sure it’s eating him alive that I’ve come back to town and I’m sure he’s going to hear all about how I showed my face in public tonight. The fact that I love nothing more than pissing my father off is the only thing giving me the strength to continue moving through the bar when everyone is whispering and pointing at me.

“DON’T WORRY! HE PROMISES NOT TO PUNCH ANYONE IN THE FACE TONIGHT!” Bobby yells to the crowded bar, lifting both of his hands up in surrender.

Everyone shrugs and goes back to their drinks and conversations with just a few stragglers glancing at me nervously as we make our way to the back of the bar where the dart boards and pool tables are set up.

“Gee, thanks for putting everyone at ease and making me feel at home,” I grumble.

“I aim to please, my friend. I’m going to grab a beer. What’s that sissy shit you drink now?” he asks.

“San Pellegrino with a slice of lime, *,” I remind him.

He claps me on the back before heading off to the bar. It really is some sissy shit, but drinking it makes me feel a little more comfortable when I’m around people consuming alcohol. It looks like a glass of vodka and I don’t have to deal with people asking me why I’m not drinking or any other multitude of questions that will eventually lead to me having to explain that I’m a recovering alcoholic with severe PTSD who went a little batshit crazy a year ago and f*cked up my entire life.

While Bobby is ordering the drinks, I say hello to a few guys from high school that don’t seem to be cowering, afraid that I’m going to attack at any moment. When Bobby comes back, we start a game and shoot the shit for about an hour. Even though I dreaded everything about coming here tonight, it feels good to be in this place, surrounded by the people I grew up with and doing something normal. For the last year of my life, every waking moment was spent talking to counselors, dealing with my issues and rehashing the things I’d experienced overseas that fractured my brain and turned me into a monster. This is a step in the right direction, coming here. I have a long way to go to prove to these people that I’m not that man anymore. Maybe I’m not fully healed, maybe I’ll always have nightmares and regrets, but I can’t keep living in the past and I am a different person than I was a year ago. I can’t ignore things and hope they’ll eventually go away. I did that with Lucy and look where that got me.

“Damn, she looks better every time I see her. Who the hell is that lucky f*ck that convinced her to go out? I’ve been trying to tap that for months and all I got is the cold shoulder.”

Eric, a web designer and tourist from last season who cashed in an inheritance and bought a cottage on the beach and became a transplant, stares at someone behind me. Eric’s arrival came after my departure, so luckily I didn’t have to deal with any weird stares or fear from him. Bobby gave him the gist of the story when he noticed how everyone was gawking at me, and he just shrugged and said, “Whatever. Everyone loses their shit now and then. Who wants to play some darts?”

I decided right away I liked Eric, but as I turn around to see who the hell he’s making a fuss over, I realize it’s probably a good thing it wasn’t my turn and I don’t currently have a sharp object in my hand.

Perched on the edge of a stool in the middle of the bar is my Lucy. She’s curled her long hair in soft waves that frame her beautiful face and my heart cracks in half. She only curls her hair for special occasions. She curled it for our wedding, for our first anniversary, for four homecomings and now, she’s sitting at a table with another man with her hair f*cking curled. Anger and jealousy simmers below the surface as I stand here staring at her like a schmuck while she rests her elbows on the table in front of her and leans closer to that *. He kisses her cheek and whispers something in her ear that makes her scrunch up her nose and laugh in that Goddamn adorable way that I love so much.