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Warren Teal, star quarterback of our high school football team, walks up looking ten years older but not any less handsome. He’s a year younger than Patrick and me, and if I remember correctly, very close with Alana Ashton.
“Warren, hey, it’s been a long time.” I allow him to give me a side hug and watch Patrick’s brow furrow as I do.
“No kidding, you went and became a movie star. So cool. How you doing?” Warren always was nice to me, even when the rest of Hope Crest wasn’t.
Probably because he knew what it was like to be an outsider living among the elite. Warren was adopted sometime in middle school by a very wealthy family with a stone mansion on the river, and it was an open secret that it was because he was destined to be the next professional football prodigy. Something happened along the way, though, because I’ve never seen his name in lights or on Sunday afternoon TV.
“I’m okay, weird to be back. But somehow nice.” I nod, not knowing what to say.
“Yeah, I’m sorry about your dad.” He scratches the back of his neck, fidgeting like he doesn’t really mean that.
“Thanks. How about you, how are you doing?”
He smiles those straight pearly whites in my direction. “I’m great, working as the front of house manager at Hope Pizza. Drinking beers on the weekend with my buddies. Can’t complain.”
While I’m not sure what’s gone down in the last ten years, he does seem happy, which is more than the rest of us can say. The rest, being me.
“That’s really great.” I can’t think of anything else to say.
Somehow, my intense media training and small talk expertise from years in LA have escaped me when it comes to attractive guys I run into from high school.
“You should come by for a slice, still as good as always.” He’s so genuinely nice, it hurts my stomach.
Because standing beside him is a part owner of the restaurant, and from his scowl, I can tell he very much does not want me to come by for a slice.
“If you’ll excuse me, I have some carpet to tear up.” I chuckle.
Even though I’d planned on staying out and maybe grabbing dinner by myself, not at Hope Pizza but another waterfront eatery downtown, I’m all peopled out. Patrick Ashton seems to do that to me.
“You’re fixing up your dad’s house?” Warren asks like that surprises him.
“I’m sure we’re all aware that my father didn’t do much upkeep. I can’t list it in its condition. Plus, it’s kind of cathartic smashing counters and cleaning out filthy stoves.”
“Cathartic?” The word sticks with Patrick, and I can tell from his tone he’s asking that like I couldn’t possibly have anything I need to destress or heal from.
Choosing to ignore his judgments, I wave to both of them. “All right, I’ll see you guys.”
I mean, I probably won’t, in any way where we’d be hanging out, but that’s just what you say.
Walking the four blocks to where I parked my car off the main drag so I wouldn’t get stuck in traffic brings its fair share of open-mouthed stares. I’m no longer sure if they’re because I’ve been in movies or because the people of Hope Crest can’t believe I came back here.
5
PATRICK
Riding through the woods on our property has always been my therapy.
Dad bought each kid a mini quad when we turned five, and it’s been off to the races ever since. My brothers, sister, and I grew up riding around our property, into the woods, and used the ATVs to feel some sort of freedom in our teen years. We’d ride out to the woods with friends or love interests and goof off or get drunk when we were older. I’m sure plenty has gone down in these woods that not even I know about.
Being the accountant in the family, most assume that I’m the grounded one, the buttoned-up suit. I’m not the rugged farmer like Liam, and I’m not the passionate chef like Evan. I’m the white-collar guy with the desk job. So it would probably surprise people if they found out that speeding through trees and brush at fifty miles an hour or more is how I cool down.
It’s the place where I think and where I work out whatever issue I’m having.
Or it’scathartic, if you will.
The word has stuck in my mind since yesterday when Cassandra told Warren how good it felt to clean out her dad’s place. I still don’t know what she’s doing here or why she hasn’t just sent some minions to empty out his house and settle the legal shit. Her expression, though she tried to hide it at the race yesterday, told me something else was going on.
A branch whips at my bicep, but I keep going, pushing the throttle even more. Maybe speeding around some breakneck turns will get her out of my head because twenty-four hours going by certainly has not. Flashes of green and rays of sunlight hit the visor of my helmet as the desolate forest stretches out before me.
