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Dad finishes his drink and rattles the ice cubes in his glass. “I’m going to see your mother next week. Do you want to go?”
“Nah, I’ll pass,” I say. “Maybe next time.”
“That’s what you say every time,” he says. “Look, Colt, I understand that you’re angry at her, but I know she’d like to see you.”
“Except she wouldn’t,” I say flatly. “And I’m not angry. I get it. She did what was best for her, just like Mabel. Just like all of us. But me being there isn’t going to change anything.”
“Okay.” Dad sighs and slides off the bar stool, going to refresh his drink. His shoulders slump, and I understand the defeat in his gait. We’re all defeated. We’re all just hanging on, trying to survive each day as it comes.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” I say, pulling out my keys. “Love you, Dad.”
“I love you too, son.”
I turn and head out, feeling like the shittiest son on earth. At least I checked in with him, though, told him I loved him. At least he’ll know that if I don’t come home tomorrow.
I step out into the icy cold and climb into my truck, cranking up the heat. Halloween in Arkansas is as likely to be eighty degrees or eighteen, and this year is hovering around freezing. I try to remember last year’s festivities, but there’s still nothing but amnesia when I search for it. It’s like it never happened at all, like I wasn’t there.
I stop and pick up Dixie on the way, and we pull up at the strip behind the tampon factory where I’ve made a little haven for myself. I organize the underground fights at the Slaughterpen nearby and the street races that take place every month or two. My connection down here is a gangster, which is partly why I don’t involve Dad in this part of my life. I also don’t involve Dixie, but she knows about the races and likes to come watch, like a good percentage of the town’s population.
The lot is already filling up with families ready to watch the race when we arrive. A couple cars are there, doing doughnuts and burning up their tires on the asphalt to entertain the crowd. I spot Gloria’s Mustang among them as usual. I was shocked as hell the first time the little princess showed up for a race, but she’s not half bad.
“Hey, Dynamo,” Maverick says, jogging over to join me.
“Mav,” I say, dropping Dixie’s hand to give him a hug and pound him on the back a few times. “Looks like a hell of a turnout despite the cold.”
“The fuck are you wearing?” he asks, pulling back to look me over, his hands dropping to my hips to hold me at arms’ length.
“We’re Romeo and Juliet,” Dixie says, beaming at him as she grabs my arm and pulls it around her shoulders, forcing Maverick to take a step back.
“Dude,” he says, shaking his head and giving me a look that says I’m beyond whipped.
I know I shouldn’t care, but my spine stiffens. I stand up taller, the old resentment at my girlfriend rolling off me. The truth is, I’m as shallow as Gloria Fucking Walton. I shouldn’t care what anyone thinks, and for the most part, I don’t. But it pisses me off when people think I’m whipped by a girl who I used to literally lead around on a leash like a dog.
“Come on,” Dixie says. “You have to get the racers lined up. Can I drop the flag again this year?”
“Sure, babe,” I say, following her when she pulls me away from Maverick.
Not only is he my tattoo artist, but he puts out the word and gets people from this side of town to come to both the fights and the races. He takes his cut, as do the Crossbones for letting us hold events like this on their turf. He and Dixie haven’t spent enough time together to hit it off, though.
“After the race, I hear there’s going to be a flash mob,” she says, her eyes sparkling with excitement. “And then there’s a huge game of zombie tag this year. We can stay for that, right?”
“If that’s what you want to do.”
This used to be an exciting night because Dixie could be with me openly. Now, we’re allowed to date at school, so I didn’t think she’d make such a big deal of it. She chatters on about the rules of zombie tag, but I’m already looking for my racers. Royal is out of town, and he always wins out of sheer recklessness as much as talent. I was afraid his absence and the cold might hurt the turnout, but I shouldn’t have worried. It’s Halloween and Bye Week, and the place will be packed no matter who races. This just makes things more interesting. I catch bits and pieces of speculation from the crowd as people place bets.
Gloria’s car skids to a stop in front of us, at the end of the line. “Killing Me Softly” is blaring from her open windows, and she hops out wearing a pair of Levi’s, a pink puffer jacket, and pink Ugg boots.
“Are you fucking kidding?” I ask. “That’s what you’re racing in?”
“It’s cold,” she says. “You expect me to show skin? Fuck that.”
Everyone’s relaxed this weekend, even Gloria Walton, who has a permanent stick up her ass. She even spares me a grin as she looks me over.
“I thought you said you weren’t a basic bitch,” I say, smirking down at her before she can make some cutting remark about my costume.
“I thought you said being basic wasn’t a bad thing,” she shoots back, smiling up at me with a challenge in her eyes. There’s something flirtatious in her demeanor, and I swear it’s not just the excitement crackling in the air or the anticipation of the race hyping her up.
“You’re supposed to dress up,” Dixie interrupts, drawing Gloria’s attention and tucking herself under my arm again. “It’s Halloween!”
