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I try to imagine how she’s feeling. Lost, alone, confused. Angry as all hell. Whatever happened back home must’ve been hell to push her away like this. She worked hard to escape her old life and now that old life’s trying to drag her back with its stinking claws. Guilt’s racking her, but that’s obvious. Hate’s there too, and I don’t know why. Nobody told me why Melody ran off, and I didn’t ask. I didn’t really care.
Now, sitting here with her, seeing the hard girl she turned into, staring at all the smoke and mirrors she placed around herself, I’m curious.
She looks just like me.
Lying to herself. Lying to everyone else just to get by.
“Did you ever graduate?” I ask.
She seems startled by the question. “From Jameson? No, I left the year after you did.”
“We have that in common then.”
“I got my GED but ended up working on a few farms. You know, since I grew up on a ranch. It’s good work. I like it, I guess.”
“I’m happy for you. How’d you end up with my distant cousin?”
“I know his wife, Kat, from a different job.”
“Lucky you, friends with an Arc and a Stockton.”
“Lucky me,” she echoes and sighs. “I’m sorry if this messes you up. And I’m sorry if it seems heartless. But I’m really not going home.”
“You keep saying that,” I say and finish my beer. I toss some cash on the bar, enough to cover my drink plus whatever she wants. “I’m not as callous as you think, you know. I understand family stuff can be complicated.” I hesitate as I stand, waiting, waiting, and there it is. She glances at me, face guarded, but curious.
“Is that why you take jobs now?” she asks.
I laugh and lean closer to her. She smells like mint and perfume, and I feel a sudden rush into my chest. She got dressed up for me. Cream blouse that clings to her body. A necklace, earrings. She looks like the polar opposite of the hard, sun-beaten girl I saw back at the farm. Melody’s got a quiet strength about her, and if I didn’t know her from back in the day, I’d assume she was just another kick-ass Texan girl with blood like barbecue sauce and an itchy trigger finger. But I’ve met the real Melody, or the Melody she used to be, and I don’t know how she ended up like this, but I find myself wanting to know more.
“How about we make a little trade,” I say softly, making her lean in closer to hear. I want her lips inches away from mine. Those plump, soft lips. I wonder if she has much time for men. I wonder if she misses a pair of strong hands on her hips. A thrill runs down my spine, an excitement in my guts. “You tell me a secret and I’ll tell you one.”
“Do you have a lot of good secrets to offer me?”
“More than you can guess.”
Her mouth tugs into a smile—and she puts her palm into my face and shoves me back.
“Fuck off,” she says and leans forward on her elbows. “Not interested.”
I can’t help the laugh the breaks from my chest. God, what a woman. The old Melody wouldneverhave done something like that, but this one seemsalmostcomfortable asserting herself. I want to trace my fingers down the back of her neck and listen to her mouth open and her throat gasp before I reach back up and pull her hair. I wonder if she’s really as strong as she’s pretending. I wonder how long it would take to peel away the layers of lies and stories and falsehoods. I wonder if it would be faster than peeling off her clothes.
“I get it, you’ve got issues back home,” I say and step toward the door. “As much as you probably hate me right now, I’m only the messenger, and here’s the message: your dad’s dying, and if you want to say goodbye, now’s your chance.”
“I don’t want anything to do with him,” she says but she’s staring down at the bar like it’s the bottom of a deep, echoing well.
“Yeah, sure you don’t.” I turn away. “I’ll be in town for another few days if you change your mind. You have my number.”
I start to leave but her hand flashes out. Her fingers grip my wrist and I pause, glancing down into her eyes. For a moment, the old Melody’s there: soft, sad, afraid. But it’s quickly replaced by anger.
“Don’t show up at the farm again,” she says. “Do you understand me? Don’t pull that fake certification bullshit again, either. You could get in trouble for that.”
“I’ll see what I can do.” I arch my eyebrow at her hand. “Are you coming on to me or is this a power move?”
“You haven’t changed a bit,” she says, letting me go, and I hesitate. For some reason, that hits me hard. The War she knew back in school was a slacker, a kid that cared more about feeling girls up behind the bleachers and selling shitty weed than getting decent grades. But that War’s long gone now, buried under years and years of struggle.
“You haven’t either,” I say and walk off, leaving her to think about what she wants.
Because I know one thing.
