“Single and fine with it.” Mostly. Sometimes. Whatever.
“So, you’re also busy with your career in…”
“Donuts.”
“What?”
Iggy made a show of checking that he had his phone with its attached wallet sleeve, while Malcolm pulled into the busy convenience store parking lot. “I want donuts. And coffee. I’d prefer a cinnamon honey oat milk latte with a blueberry scone from the café a block from my apartment, but this will have to do. Travelers can’t be choosers.”
“Right, gas station donuts and coffee. Scraping the bottom of the country barrel here.”
Gas station coffee might be the bottom of the barrel, but Iggy’s companion was certainly top shelf select—and he really needed to stop thinking like that. As soon as the truck stopped in a parking spot, Iggy leapt out, determined to put some much-needed space between himself and his teenage love.
Chapter
Three
Iggy strode toward the brightly-lit convenience store entrance. The chilly morning air caressed his cheeks first, followed by the store’s controlled climate. The truck cab had gotten too hot, too confined. He didn’t owe Malcolm his occupation, his work experience or his last seventeen years. Not that his life was a secret, or that a simple Google search couldn’t bring up a bunch of stuff, so why was Malcolm acting like he didn’t have a clue about Iggy’s career? Just to force Iggy to talk to him?
This trip was not about reconnecting with Malcolm (liar) or rehashing their shared past (truth), and it was definitely not about getting answers Iggy had deserved for years (liar, liar). He was here for Uncle Howie. That’s it.
But for so long, Malcolm had been a ghost in his life, always lingering on the edges of things, subtly informing Iggy’s choices. A ghost he wasn’t brave enough to acknowledge, not even by looking him up on social media. Acknowledging the ghost made him real, rather than a figment of his past. A painful, shit-filled past Iggy had spent his entire adult life trying to forget. But he could never have a clean break as long as he kept in contact with Uncle Howie.
How could Iggy cut ties with the only adult who’d truly cared if Iggy lived or died?
No, if maintaining contact with Uncle Howie, if nursing him through this new crisis meant dancing around Malcolm for a few days? He’d manage.
Iggy hit the bathroom first and thoroughly washed his hands and forearms. Even though he’d used hand sanitizer on his airplane seat and armrests, he still wanted to wash the flying funk off his skin. The place only had air dryers and no paper towels, so he’d wash his face when he got to Uncle Howie’s.
Malcolm entered as Iggy walked out, so he took a minute to prepare a heavily-sweetened 24-ounce coffee. The store didn’t have a donut case, so he picked out a package of fudge-covered minis, plus an iced honey bun for later. Everything was paid for and Iggy was waiting by the truck when Malcolm joined him with his own coffee and a bag of beef jerky.
Iggy almost laughed at that. Teenage Malcolm always had beef jerky in his backpack, and they’d shared dozens of bags while working on stage crew.
Malcolm cranked the radio, and they both ignored each other on the drive back to Chance. Iggy ate his donuts and sipped his bitter coffee. His guts clenched tight when the highway crossed Snow Creek, and he saw the first familiar house on the outskirts of town. The first exit sign for food. Buildings he’d come to know and appreciate. Chance had been the location of the first real home he’d had in his entire life.
And it had all come crumbling down in less than three years.
Town was just starting to rouse itself, lights turning on in windows, a few cars moving up and down Old Main. A peaceful, lovely place to live, truly. His trauma wasn’t the town’s fault, not really. His trauma had come from a select few homophobic bullies who’d hated Iggy because Iggy refused to dim his light. To hide his flame. To be someone he wasn’t.
His trauma had come from the secret boyfriend who hadn’t stood up for him.
When Malcolm turned down the road to the Saddle Up Saloon, Iggy’s heart squeezed tight, and sweat broke out across his brow and upper lip. Minors hadn’t been allowed in the saloon at first, since it was a bar and not a restaurant. Sure, they served bar snacks and cheap nachos with canned cheese, but it wasn’t a place for folks under twenty-one. Uncle Howie had been in the process of buying the place when Iggy came to live with him, which hadn’t pleased his caseworker, but it was Uncle Howie or foster care.
Iggy hadn’t wanted anything else to do with foster homes.
But Howie had expanded the kitchen and grown the restaurant side of the business, and now it was favored by many locals, young and old. They’d made it work—and Uncle Howie had made Iggy work, in the early morning, sweeping and cleaning during summer break, and on weekends before he was free to do whatever. He worked for his allowance, and Uncle Howie had given him a lot of latitude, instead of smothering him with a bunch of rules. Rules made Iggy chafe, always had.
Learn the rules so you know how to break them properlywas a motto Iggy lived by, especially in his career as a professional mixologist. He knew and understood spirits, flavors, dilutions, and all the science behind creating a balanced cocktail. And he loved to bend the rules to create original drinks, or to put new spins on classics.
As a teen, he’d loved the interior of the saloon, with its dark colors and swap meet decor. And for the first time, he’d get to see it as an adult who could legally drink.
Plus, that damned mechanical bull.
He was less afraid of real horned bulls than he was of that metal monstrosity.
In a bath of rising sunlight, the front of the saloon looked tired and in need of fresh paint, the parking lot in need of good weeding. Maybe have some new lines painted to show separate parking spots, rather than one small ocean of cracked asphalt mixed with gravel. But the saloon also wasn’t trying to impress anybody from the outside, only entertain inside and coax regulars out of their hard-earned cash one beer (or mechanical bull ride) at a time.
Home stood around back, a seventies single-wide on a cement foundation, after one particularly bad winter storm and thaw had Snow Creek rising beyond its banks almost to their front door. Original A-frame roof and windows, but the siding looked freshly painted. He vaguely recalled one of Uncle Howie’s emails mentioning that project. The ramp almost seemed prescient, given Howie’s new illness and the uncertainty of his recovery.
