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It made me wonder what chopsticks would look like.
I amused myself with imaginings of Jake knitting a sweater in a rocking chair by a fire. As I rolled down the drive, I gave him a cat too, a big, fat tomcat that was too proud and pompous to give a shit about anybody but himself. I figured the two of them would get along nicely. Just a couple of assholes, scratching at anyone who got too close.
Jake hated change, maybe even more than Pop had. I’d convinced him deliveries were a good idea, and I’d already set up the website and a plan for the creamery. It was very nearly all profit, our overhead the hourly cost of deliveries, and my hope was that it’d put some money back in the coffers after everything I’d spent over the last few weeks. My heart lurched at the thought of the running clock, the summer days already ticking by at an alarming rate.
I had to speed things up. Hopefully with an idea for the Fourth of July that just might make up for everything, if I played my cards right.
The road into Maravillo was deserted, winding through thick woods only to bend close enough to the coast to hear the distant crash of waves and see the cliff’s edge. But the closer I got to town, the more cars I saw. And then I reached Main Street and the four-way stop that marked the center of town.
Buffalo Joe’s was the only place open after eight and one of two places to eat in town—the other being Debbie’s Diner, where Presley had worked since high school. Though we’d become instant friends since working together, she and I hadn’t been friends back then, which was interesting, given there were only sixty people in our class. But she was a cheerleader and I played the clarinet. Even in a school that small, our groups didn’t mingle. I had one good friend, Carol Ann, who was the other clarinet player. And that was all I needed. But then I moved, and Carol Ann moved away for college. She already had a couple of babies and was living in Milwaukee with her husband. Our lives had split, and though we followed each other on social, we hadn’t spoken in a few years.
But boy, did I wish she were here now.
I pulled into a spot in front of Joe’s and killed the engine, thinking again about how strange it was to be a grown-up in a place I’d only otherwise been a kid. Those old cliques and social constructs still existed under the surface of everything—I felt like a freshman after the juniors asked me to hang out. I realized this in truth when I walked through the door and saw about a third of my old high school right there in Joe’s.
Everyone mingled, everyone talked. In a town this small, it was easy to snub people when you thought you were getting out. But nobody ended up leaving, and as such, they were stuck with each other. So it seemed the lines had dissolved, leaving nothing but a trace. But you could still see it, if you looked hard enough.
Presley waved me over to where she stood at the bar, parked between two stools while she waited on Joe to get her a drink. Eyes followed me as I made my way over to her. I did my best to hold myself up straight and pretend I didn’t notice.
“Whatcha drinkin’?” she asked when I approached.
“Maker’s and Coke,” I answered, wanting to keep it simple—I was a lightning rod for gossip without ordering a French 75 at Buffalo Joe’s.
Joe—whose giant stature and very virile body hair really did remind me of a buffalo—nodded and went about making it for me.
Presley turned to me, leaning on the bar with a smile on her face. “I’m glad you came. Wanna sit up here for a little bit?”
“Please,” I said, taking a seat when she did. I glanced over my shoulder at half the old high school cheerleading squad. Their gazes snapped away from me. “Looks like the gang is all here.”
She sighed. “Nothing around here ever changes. Same old fools as always, except instead of sitting around a bonfire in a field with a keg of Natural Light that John Planter’s big brother bought, we’re sitting in Joe’s, drinking Budweiser like the sophisticated adults we are.” When Joe set our drinks down, she thanked him and picked hers up for a toast. “To the same old, same old.”
“Hear, hear,” I answered, touching my glass to hers. We took our obligatory sips. “So how long did it take you to scrub the sticky off Cilla?”
“About an hour. Thanks for that, by the way.”
“I aim to please.”
“How’d it end up with Jake?”
I bobbled my head. “Fine, I think. He let it go under the condition that I take care of the goats all by myself.”
