Page 6 of Second Chance

5

Private Messages

[Mati]

The Blue Ridge Microbrewery and Pub is busy for a Monday afternoon. A family run business since before Georgia was official—that’s our tagline. I’ve never felt confident enough, nor do I desire, to run the business side of the brewery. Instead, my brother Billy—the second of my four older brothers—is the manager of the pub. My contribution is human resources, which means I’m the head waitress and in charge of managing the waitstaff and event coordinator, which simply means I’m the brains behind special activities to bring in customers. All my responsibilities shift when it’s girls’ volleyball season as my varsity team has been state champions three of the last five years. It’s important to the community, which makes it important to my family.

The Harringtons. We’ve been here since before Georgia was official. My great, great, great something established the crafting of beer long before it was legal in Georgia. Daddy likes to brag we’ve been here— since the beginning, thank you great grandfathers—and yet the state took until 2017 to get on board with selling bottled beer from craft breweries. If we wanted to be in the bottled beverage industry, the Harringtons should have settled in Atlanta and developed a soda pop. Of course, I never would say something like that to my daddy. It doesn’t matter, though, as my oldest brother George is the CEO of the production and distribution of our product. Giant is his nickname which makes sense since the official brand name of our beer is Giant Beer…from Georgia.

Don’t even get me started.

I only have a few hours before my shift ends. I prefer coaching to pub work, but it’s the family business, and I’m obligated. When my boys were babies, I didn’t work. Having twins was difficult, and I stayed home while Chris struggled to complete college and earn his law degree. I played the good wife then. As the boys grew older, it was either society functions to appease my mother or join the pub business to make my daddy happy. I always chose Daddy. He understood me better. He didn’t fuss because his little girl wasn’t all feminine and genteel. He understood I had four brothers and a nagging mother. His disappointment came when I announced I was pregnant, at eighteen, and marrying Chris Rathstone.

The rushed wedding was an attempt to disguise my “indiscretion,” but you can’t hide twins for long, especially on a petite-framed body. I’m five-six which isn’t small, but small enough to not be able to disguise the bump of two babies. Short enough to not play college volleyball, which was my initial dream. I lost that shot for other reasons than a teenage pregnancy and a too-young marriage, though. The thought brings me back to Denton.

I don’t use my phone for social media, so it won’t be until I’m home before I know if he’s answered me, but I feel the weight of waiting. Did I find the right man? Will he respond? Does he remember me? The last question makes me laugh. I have no doubt he remembers me, us, the town. He’s just chosen to ignore it all. Yet, his sister is in on all Blue Ridge’s gossip. Not one to spread it, Dolores is aware of the town happenings as her diner is a central place for locals to gather. I have no doubt she’s kept her younger brother informed of a few things.

Like Chris’s death. The funeral Denton didn’t attend.

The memory makes me angry, and I almost drop my tray of beers. A round tray with five tallboys isn’t difficult to balance, but I’m off today.

Before I know it, I stand at my kitchen sink and eat a dinner consisting of what I call an adult Lunchable—sausage and cheese with bread biscuit crackers. It’s tasty.

Then I decide I’ve stalled long enough, and I check Facebook. The lights remain off in Chris’s office, although I don’t know why I keep referring to it as his. He isn’t here any longer, and the thought makes me sad. Not as sad as I know I’ve been with his loss but still filled with sorrow. I also feel a little…guilty, risky, sly…like I’m doing something I shouldn’t be doing although my husband is gone, and he asked me to make contact with his best friend. Our ex-best friend.

I see the message instantly.

Mati Rathstone?I only know a Mati Harrington. I stare at the words. Is he kidding me? He has to be. Rathstone is Chris’s official last name although he always hated it. Sounded too pretentious, albeit fitting for an attorney. He went by Rath at school. Our boys went by Rath. I’m even called Coach Rath. But Rathstone is the name, and I don’t know if he’s mocking me or not. Mati Harrington, on the other hand, was his neighbor. The girl next door who he came to in time of trouble, needing comfort, and…

I refuse to think of the other things. We were kids. We were innocent. Hell, even my parents let him spend the night in my bed when we were young. When we were older, they just didn’t know he still ended up there some nights—avoiding or hiding—depending on whose interpretation you wanted to believe. The town believed in the mayor, Kip Chance, whose personae was smooth, well-meaning, and a real family man, until he was seen with his young secretary or found hanging at the biker bar twenty minutes outside of town.

I shake at thoughts of Denton’s father and stare at the second message sent.

So, what’s up?

What’s up? What are we, teenagers? What’s up?! My fingers itch to type: What’s up is Chris is dead, and for some reason, he thought of you in the end. He still considered you his best friend although you dumped us and never looked back. AND he has a letter for your sorry ass.

But I don’t type those words. Instead, I type: As you may know, Chris passed away. I swallow back the lump in my throat at the formality, but I’ve mastered this part of my speech. I continue.

He left some things behind, and I thought you might like them. No pressure, though. However, he had something specific he wanted you to receive, and I’d like to know where to send it if you don’t mind sharing an address.

I don’t hesitate. I hit return and let the message go. I don’t have patience for the LA-snob Denton Chance. I imagine he’s stuck-up and egotistical from all the acclaim he’s received. The diner hails his images like he’s some kind of hero, yet he didn’t save anyone from anything. He saved himself. I don’t fault him—not really—but I might still be a teeny-tiny-bit bitter that he didn’t allow Chris and me to share in his success by supporting him, cheering him on like we would have done. Instead, he cut us off. He disappeared, but we couldn’t avoid him. His band was famous, and their songs filled the radio for years. Every girl wanted to be Kit Carrigan and hang out with her band Chrome Teardrops.

Denton Chance was the bass guitarist. His cousin and Kit’s brother, Lawson Colt—whose real name I think was Tommy—was the second singer, working duets with his sister, plus playing guitar. They also had a drummer, but I don’t remember who he was. Either way, they were the it band when rock chick bands were a thing. Their end was a sad story. Cancer sucks. We’ve had it take a member of our family as well. I sigh with thoughts of my deceased sister-in-law.

I’m ready to close the laptop when a popping sound comes through the speaker, and I notice one message in the box.

Hey.

That’s it—another Hollywood greeting. I imagine him tipping up his chin with What’s up? Then a nod with Hey. What the hell?

Hey.

I know, I’m lame.

I heard about Chris. I’m sorry I wasn’t able to make it. What does he have for me? Maybe it’s something you’d like to keep instead?

My eyes blink at the brightness of the screen and ponder his questions. If he doesn’t want Chris’s stuff, why doesn’t he say so? Keep his shit. We already went through all Chris’s personal effects: clothing, crap in the garage, business items. I have all I’ll ever need of Chris’s belongings. Some old high school memorabilia for the boys. Photographs of years together. A favorite sweatshirt or two. Most of all I had Chris’s love and his children, something I can’t measure or keep in a box.