I fear I already have.
“Jack, I—”
There’s a noise on the other end, voices, and then it’s muffled, like Jack has placed a hand over the speaker. I hear him say something, but I can’t make it out.
And then he’s back saying, “Hey, I’ve got to go. Evan wants me to come watch a movie with him. It’s ninety-percent likely to be stupid.”
He says it like he’s exasperated, but I can hear the fondness in his voice. It makes something inside me split open, an aching, tender sort of happiness for him. There was a hollowness to him when he first arrived in Fontana Ridge, like he was being haunted. The look slowly faded as the leaves turned red and orange and yellow, dying as they did too. I wish I could see him now, see if there’s a new sparkle behind his eyes, a light that dimmed years ago finally brightening again like the first long day after winter.
“Stevie?” Jack asks, and I realize I haven’t responded.
“Yeah, sorry. Have fun.”
“I’ll call you later, okay? I want to hear more about this deep-fried turkey.”
“The concept is vile, but it was actually pretty good,” I tell him.
His laughter feels like warming my hands over a bonfire. “I want all the details. Goodnight, Stevie.”
“Goodbye, Jack.”
OnSundayevening,Isend Amy an email telling her I’m going to take about a month off before starting another contract and ask her to send me any listings that begin after the new year. She emails back immediately saying,Good. She’s not much for chit chat, but this makes me smile. Agoodfrom Amy is the equivalent of a speech from anyone else.
I also spent the day looking for a place to stay, and when I saw that the ranch I worked on in high school built vacation cabins on the property, I called up my old boss and asked if I could rent one for a couple of weeks. He was ecstatic to hear I’m back in town and invited me and Evan’s family over to dinner next week. He told me he’d block off a cabin for me for as long as I like.
The next few weeks unspool in front of me, the longest stretch I’ve taken off from work, and it feels good knowing I have nothing on my calendar for the foreseeable future. I can relax, spend time with my brother, and when I gather the courage, visit my mom’s grave.
I just need to tell Evan I’m staying.
Monday morning, Evan and I drop Clara off at school, a rare treat since she usually takes the bus, before heading to a twenty-four hour diner in the middle of downtown. It’s in a squat building, and there’s a blinking neon sign out front that readsCowboy Diner. We didn’t eat out much growing up, but when we did it was almost always here. The floors are sticky and the red gingham cafe curtains have seen better days. There’s always a layer of dust on the windows, diffusing the light. The faux leather booths are cracked and peeling, and I have distinct memories of them leaving an imprint on my thighs in the summer as a kid. The speckled countertops are always damp from the wet rags they use to wipe them down between each customer, and the whole place always smells like frying bacon. It feels as much like home as the apartment we grew up in.
When we walk in, a bell above the door jangles announcing our entrance, and Betty—a woman who is old as dirt but looks the exact same as when I was a kid—lets out a whoop when she sees me.
“Jack Sullivan, ya old bastard. Get over here and give me a hug.”
Laughter tumbles out of me as she lifts the counter and comes out from the back, wrapping me in her embrace. Her arms band tightly around me, and I breathe in the scent of her strong hairspray that somehow manages to defy all odds and keep her beehive-style hair in place. She chomps her nicotine gum loudly in my ear, squeezing me and tipping us both side to side, her tall hair just managing to reach my chin.
“Hi, Miss Betty.”
She pulls back, patting my cheek with her cold hand. “It’s been too long.” Her fingers grip my chin, turning it this way and that to examine my appearance. “Handsome as ever.”
“Thank you,” Evan says from behind me.
Betty shoots him an exasperated look over my shoulder.
“We have the same face,” Evan retorts.
“And yet you cover yours up with that mangy beard.” She pats my arm. “Go on and sit. Breakfast is on the house.”
When I turn around, Evan’s eyebrows are raised. He mouths, pointing at his beard, “Mangy?”
I shake my head, and we take our usual booth by the window. A bittersweet melancholy grips me as we slide into the seats across from each other. It feels wrong. We always used to sit side by side, bumping elbows as we ate, Mom across from us. She’d scold us as we bickered and let us steal sips of her coffee when we were too young to have our own.
“Feels wrong, doesn’t it?” Evan asks, reading my mind.
My eyes connect with his. “Yeah,” I agree. “Is it still hard for you?”
His brows pinch together, confused. “What do you mean?”
