It’s then that I see my best friend, Taylor McCarter Webb, standing in the very back of the room, a few feet away from Norbert and along with her husband, Burt, a Cross Rivers policeman who, despite his youth, has been acting as the interim chief.
Back in high school, even though Burt was two years older than Tay and me, we called ourselves the Three Musketeers.
Taylor had originally said she didn’t think they could make it, as neither one of them could get off work. Somehow they had. The night wouldn’t have been the same, or nearly as complete, without both of them, but especially without the former Taylor McCarter.
I feel the beginnings of a smile as my eyes lock on hers.
And I think:Well, if I’m being completely honest with myself, maybe notallmy dreams have come true.
THREE
AS I HIGH-FIVE my way across the room, trying to get to where Tay and Burt Webb are standing, Roof and Lynyrd are suddenly in my way, both of them wearing flannel shirts, eyes red and full of trouble.
It doesn’t matter now that they’re crashing my party, or why they’ve decided to do it after I haven’t seen either one of them in years. All that matters is that they’re here, clearly trying to create a scene as I’m trying to avoid one.
Where are all my blockers when I really need them?
Roof and Lynyrd had been decent football players, at least when the only decision they had to make on the field was how hard to hit the guy carrying the ball. Good players, but not as good as they thought they were. Both linebackers, until they weren’t.
Probably still hitting people or doing worse than that, if you only believed even half of what you heard. And still dumber than a whole row of tobacco leaves. Local legend has it that neither one of them had gone on to college because they had joined the family business run by their father instead.
“How we lookin’, Star?” Roof says. “Probably get all the pussy you could want tonight, am I right?”
Both the Crocketts had always called me that. Star. It embarrassed me, even now, considering the source and that, given their weaving gait, they’re overserved already.
“Just trying to say hello to some folks,” I say.
Lynyrd says, “I saw ol’ Taylor McCarter when we came in.” He gives a quick look over his shoulder. “You ever tap that, Star?”
I smile at him. “You ever have anybody stick your elbow in your ear, Lynyrd?”
As I start to walk past, he puts an arm out.
I stare down at it, then back at him.
“Don’t haul off and do something you’ll regret,” I say to Lynyrd.
“Or one of us will, son,” he says.
The room has suddenly gone very quiet. Even the music has stopped.
I see Burt Webb and Taylor making their way toward us, a concerned look on Taylor’s face, when I hear a familiar voice from behind me and turn to see Briar Crockett himself standing there.
“Is there some kind of misunderstanding here, boys?” Briar asks his sons. “And I do believe I meanmyboys.”
“Just payin’ our respects, Daddy,” Roof says.
“Well,” Briar says, “why don’t you go pay them to the bartender, and remember that the Crocketts are guests here.”
Not my guests.
Roof and Lynyrd reluctantly move away from me. The music comes back up. I hear the voice of Kris Kristofferson, another one of my father’s favorites, singing about taking every wrong direction on his lonely way back home.
“Sorry about that,” Briar Crockett says. “I truly am.”
Briar’s sons aren’t as big as I am, but he is. He puts out a hand now, and with all eyes on me, I’ve got no choice but to shake it.
When my father was still alive, he’d had little use for Briar Crockett, had been offended that Briar was the face of our town, for all the wrong reasons. And worst reasons.
