Page 26 of Blue Jeans in Low Beams

“Both?”

“Both it is then.”

I slip the truck back into drive, pulling out on the road again, thankful that Brenna opened up. The heaviness still looms inside the truck, neither of us talking. There isn’t much left to say after that. The older brother in me wants to fix this. To help Brenna see how incredible she is.

So that’s what I’m going to go.

I will find a way to show her.

9

BRENNA

“Can’t you just see yourself here?”

I make a diagonal tally mark across the previous four I’ve ticked throughout the day in my notebook, noting how many times Mr. Hovland, the local pharmacist here at Hickory Hills Drugs, has asked that question. He’s been averaging about every ninety minutes, but it seems he’s upped his game.

It’s gonna be a loooong summer…

Smiling politely, I turn to look at the older gentleman. He reminds me of Elmer Fudd—short, balding, and round in the middle—something that is not helped by the fact that every fall during hunting season he wears the same type of ill-fitting brown ball cap that the cartoon character did while he hunted rascally rabbits. He is thankfully missing the lisp.

“It’s nice to be home.” For a bit…

I leave the last part unsaid, just as I have all day. It’s not a lie—it is nice to be home. Sure, there have been visits over the last eight years, but I haven’t been home for more than a handful of weeks at a time since I graduated from high school. Mostly because sharing a house with my parents again makes me feel like I’m still in high school.

Thankfully, this time around, I can crash at Brandt’s. Although, I’ve embarrassed myself in front of my new roommate enough that I also still feel like the loser little sister all over again.

Cue prom flashbacks…

“Just think about seeing this view every day,” Mr. Hovland continues, starting to lay it on thick. He’s been pretty generic about his intentions so far, but I knew this was coming. I did think we’d make it more than one day though. Guess I was wrong. “Not sayin’ you’d have to take over right away. I’m still a few years from retirement, after all.”

He lets out a little Elmer Fudd-like laugh, his shoulders bobbing with the sound. Someone has to find his non-joke amusing. Glad it’s him.

“I need to officially pass the boards first,” I remind him, hoping that will end the discussion.

I am not that lucky.

“Oh, that’s a given!” He waves off my concern.

A given?! Not likely. The national pass rate for the federal level exam is something like eighty percent for first-time test takers. Meaning twenty percent fail. That’s a lot of people. I’m doing everything I can to not be counted as part of the numbers, but it’s still a far cry from “a given.”

“You’ve always been a bright girl, and I have no doubt you’ll pass with flying colors,” he continues, seemingly unaware—or uncaring—that I might have a response. “And when you do, Hickory Hills Drugs will be happy to have you. Ah, Hattie, are you here for your heart meds?”

He turns to the customer—and town gossip —walking down the aisle toward our counter, situated in the back of the store, simultaneously greeting her and announcing to the world what medication she’s on. HIPAA laws be damned, apparently.

Hickory Hills Drugs will be happy to have you…but who says I want Hickory Hills?

The question bounces around in my brain for the millionth time. Yes, it’s nice to be back. Yes, Hickory Hills will always be home. But, do I want it to be my forever home? I’m not sure. And if I agree to stay, that’s exactly what it’ll be. My forever home.

I know I shouldn’t borrow worry—and that’s exactly what I’ll be doing if I think about job placement prior to passing my exams. Being a pharmacist—much like being a nurse or a doctor, or even a lawyer—isn't quite like most jobs. You don’t just graduate and get a job. There’s that whole pesky licensing process. Sure, some people will have offers pending the passing of the exam, especially if they’re going to work for a big box store, but plenty opt to wait until they know they’ve passed and everything is legal.

Again, see the twenty percent failure rate.

“Miss Brenna, happy to see you back!”

“Thanks, Mrs. Burch,” I reply, a lot more formal in my greeting than Mr. Hovland. He might be able to call her by her first name, but I don’t dare. I enjoy being alive.

“Big plans this summer?”