Folk Around and Find Out (Good Folk: Modern Folktales #2)(91)

“I remember that, too.” Relieved that I finally recalled something relevant, I looked to Roscoe. “And that’s it? Charlotte and I didn’t make plans for the prom? I didn’t bring it up again?”

“No.” Roscoe, wearing a small, inscrutable smile, shook his head. “As far as I know, you didn’t. Until she called me on prom night, she didn’t talk to me about it either.”

“Why didn’t she—”

“I have a theory.” Jethro leaned forward, cutting off my question. “Based on my own history of being a complete shithead, I suspect you saw your part of the bargain fulfilled. You didn’t say you’d take her to prom, that wasn’t her wish. Her wish was that you would ask her to prom. And so you did. That’s my theory. It sounds like something I would’ve done.”

Well. That certainly sounded like me, and now I hated myself.

My forehead fell to my hand. “I was such a little fucking weasel.”

“Yep,” all three of the Winstons said in unison.

I closed my eyes. “Again, why did she like me back then?”

The answer came from Roscoe. “You rebelled against authority. You were smart and tricky, witty and daring. You were the kid who always got away with everything.”

A swell of memories, of my parents’ sporadic punishments, threatened to escape the void in my mind where I’d shoved them. Even as a young child, it didn’t matter what I did, I was going to be punished. I was going to be a disappointment. Never good enough. Never smart enough. Never polite enough.

Rather than deal with a no-win situation, I’d decided early on to do whatever the hell I wanted. I didn’t care about hurting people, I didn’t care about their feelings. If they made the mistake of putting their faith in me, of counting on me, I figured they got what they deserved, Beau Winston being the only exception to this philosophy at the time.

“To us kids, though—” Roscoe’s voice yanked me out of my morose contemplations. “It seemed like you did whatever you wanted and always landed on your feet. You were a legend. We looked up to you.”

“I was heartless,” I said, my voice a scrape. “I was a heartless bastard and Charlotte deserved so much better.”

“You didn’t seem heartless to us, Hank. Not until you stood her up for prom. You seemed cool. A rebel,” Roscoe said, his cadence slow and thoughtful. “And besides, Charlotte has always had a weakness for rebels.”

I hadn’t been a rebel. I’d been a thoughtless moron and I’d been another person to let Charlotte down. I’d been no better than Kevin. Charlotte had deserved so much better than either of our sorry asses.

Charlotte deserved a Beau.

As though to prove my point, Beau placed a hand on my shoulder and gave it a pat. “You were always good to me, Hank.” His fingers squeezed, meant to be a comfort. “You’re my best friend and I know you’re not heartless. You’re a good person.”

Ashamed, I affixed a tight smile on my face, but I couldn’t lift my eyes from the beer in my hand. Beau deserved better than me, too.

He’d always been the good guy, the stand-up guy, the guy who helped where and when he could, expecting nothing in return, never keeping score, doing good deeds just because. He never had to worry about harming people, inadvertently or otherwise. He was simply incapable of doing so. He’d been the only one I couldn’t abide hurting or seeing hurt. And I’d loved him for as long as I could remember.

I loved him . . .

Abruptly, Sonya’s voice and her words from weeks ago chose that moment to drift through my memory: You got to love everybody because everybody needs love. And if we don’t love them, who will?





CHAPTER 24





HANK





“I can win an argument on any topic, against any opponent. People know this, and steer clear of me at parties. Often, as a sign of their great respect, they don't even invite me.”

DAVE BARRY





I needed paint and I didn’t want to drive all the way to Knoxville.

Green Valley had two hardware stores, but only one of the stores sold paint. That one also sold baby chicks despite the fact that a seed and feed store existed just three blocks away. Folks who had no intention of purchasing hardware supplies often loitered at the store’s entrance to gawk and coo over the birds, which meant they were ideally positioned to administer double takes and glare as I walked in.

“Pardon me. Excuse me,” I mumbled as I passed. Don’t mind me, just reaping what I’ve been sowing.

A man I recognized, but didn’t particularly care to name or place, glowered at me. He appeared old enough to be one of my parents’ friends. Based on the way his frown pinched at his eyebrows, he likely considered my existence a stain on the good Weller name.

Making a beeline for the paint aisle, I experienced a noteworthy dearth of desire to revel in the disapproval of the locals. In fact, I reckoned I deserved it.

I’d been a selfish bastard. I’d put my perverse enjoyment of townie discomfort over the well-being of good people. I deserved all the scorn and condemnation. Their condemning stares served as a painful reminder of what I desperately wanted but didn’t (yet) deserve to have. Ah well.

Reap, sow.