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I take a seat on the top of the stairs to pull my boots back on, watching John as he fiddles with something inside the open hood of his truck.
Once I have my boots on, I stand and walk over to him. “Something wrong with the truck?”
“Just changing the oil. Mabel and I are leaving early Saturday to see Dolores, Jim, and Cecilia, remember?”
“Yep,” I say.
It’s a lie.
Being back here has been a struggle, and my attention has been shot as a result.
There’s so much to do that I don’t really know where to start. That indecision has ended with things slipping through the cracks, evidently.
“You need help?” I ask, torn on what I want the answer to be.
A snort echoes from beneath the hood. “Hail could hit at any time.”
I sigh, then glance over my shoulder at the half-stripped roof. “Right.”
* * *
Clearing three-quarters of one side of the roof takes me the rest of the day. It’s more progress than I expected to make. But there’s no sense of accomplishment once more of the gray roofing felt is exposed, the material torn and worn in so many places that I know that layer will need to be replaced too.
By the time I shower, change, and am rolling down the winding driveway in my truck, there are only a few streaks of color remaining on the horizon that’s steadily darkening, some of today’s heat finally dissipating with the sinking sun.
I could drive to the Montgomery farm blindfolded. Hudson Montgomery has been my best friend since we started kindergarten together at Oak Grove Elementary twenty-three years ago. I made this trip by bike up until the day I got my license and the keys to the rusty truck I’m driving right now.
The truck’s ancient radio only has time to play one John Denver song before I’m turning up the paved driveway—the first sign that everything about this property is nicer than the ranch I just left.
It prompted an inferiority complex when I was younger.
Even now, there’s a lingering echo of it.
When I’m in Oak Grove, nothing I’ve accomplished outside of this town seems to matter very much. It doesn’t matter how much money I’ve made or what awards I’ve won.
I love and resent it, getting stripped down to my insecurities and regrets.
Rediscovering whoIam beneath the fame and fortune.
Hudson and Tommy are standing by the grill when I arrive, each holding a beer and wearing a content expression.
The dark cloud hovering lifts a little as I watch Hudson flip the burgers and then punch Tommy’s shoulder. These guys have seen me through a lot. Their lives—staying in this town, caring for family—are what mine would have looked like if I’d never become Kyle Spencer. The nostalgia is bittersweet.
“Spencer! About damn time.” Hudson points the spatula he’s holding at me as I approach the smoking grill, the smell and sizzle of cooking meat wafting toward me in the slight breeze that’s picked up.
“Sorry. Got caught up,” I say, slapping hands with them both.
Immediately, I feel lighter. Looser.
The screen door that leads to the patio opens, and Morgan Townsend steps out. Her bright smile is as cheerful as every other time I’ve been around her, which is admittedly not much.
Hudson started dating her three years ago, shortly after she first moved to Oak Grove to teach at the high school. Considering Hudson’s short attention span when it comes to most things, none of us expected for their relationship to go anywhere. But they still seem solid. About six months ago, she moved into this house, which Hudson built on the east edge of his parents’ land. Her presence is obvious in the row of bluebonnets freshly planted along the edge of the patio. And the artfully arranged charcuterie board sitting in the center of the glass-topped table on the patio. Last time I was over here for dinner, we ate cold leftover pizza straight out of the box.
“Hi, Kyle.” Our unfamiliarity is obvious in the way Morgan addresses me.
All of my childhood friends grew up calling me by my last name, and it stuck through my rise to fame. Fitting, considering no one ever suggested changing Spencer.
“Hey, Morgan. Nice to see you.”
