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It’s the kind of place where you’ll find the entire town at the stadium on Friday night and then in church on Sunday morning, leaving just enough time to sin on Saturday.
I laugh when I spot the sign I used to shoot my BB gun at while driving by: This is God’s country. Don’t drive through it like hell.
The devil himself has returned to town.
This time, I actually slow down. It might be the first time. I don’t want the attention or Whaley, the local deputy, pulling me over. I’ve managed to avoid the law for some time now, so there’s no need to cause trouble in my hometown, especially when I’ve earned a few new scars and inked my skin. He’ll have a problem with my tattoo, and he’ll judge me from that alone, but I also have a backpack of stuff I don’t want to explain, much less travel down memory lane or tell him where I’ve been.
Unfortunately, I have to cruise down Main to get home.
Home.
My home was never a place but a person. It’s funny how time changes things. I don’t think about Delilah as much anymore. I’m really good at pocketing those disconcerting feelings away, but damn if being here doesn’t drag them all back to the surface.
As familiar as this place feels, it doesn’t feel like home.
Glancing down First when I pass under the green light, I’m tempted to cruise by her house. I wave to Wilbur instead—glad to see he’s alive and still rocking on that corner—and keep driving. I should really say hi to my mom, but my throat is dry, so I pull into a parking spot a few down from Red River, the main bar here. I don’t want to see anybody I know, but I will, so I might as well get it over with and put some rumors to rest.
Pulling open the door, I walk inside. It’s dark, and my eyes aren’t adjusted, but I know this place by heart, so I keep walking until everything comes into view.
Front door. Top half glass.
Back door through the small kitchen in the left corner. One large window.
One window in the men’s and two smaller windows in the women’s restroom.
Five booths.
Six people.
Ten barstools.
Five taken.
Nodding to the bartender standing at the far end near the three beer taps, I take the one vacant stool at the end of an occupied row. “Daryl and Billy. Should have guessed you’d be taking up space here.” Looking down, four guys stare back at me.
The bartender, McGilley, swings his towel over his shoulder and rests two hands on the bar top in front of me. “Look what the cat dragged in. If it’s not Mr. Eight himself, Jason Koster. To what do we owe the pleasure, your high and mighty-ness?”
“I haven’t been that guy in a long time, much less that number. How about a Heineken?” That entertains the guys, and they start laughing, mocking me. If I didn’t stand out already, my beer choice just did it. “Never mind. How about a Budweiser?”
“You sure about that?” McGilley asks. “That’s a working man’s beer. Might be hard on your stomach.”
“Serve the fu—” I catch myself. I can’t talk like that around here. I’ll end up in a fight and spend the night in jail. “I think I can handle it.” I put a ten on the counter. “Keep the change.”
“Big spender.” Daryl asks, “Where’ve you been that you decided to come home and spend money like it doesn’t matter?”
Daryl Satters grew up down the dirt road from me. He was one year ahead of me in school and got a job at the plant right out of high school. All-around asshole. I’m not surprised to see him here. I figure his ass is parked on a barstool at Red River by five each night, drinking his sorrows away just like his dad. He once dreamed of being a pro-baseball player, but that took a dedication he never had for the game. Ironic how he’s worked at the same industrial plant for eight years. That takes dedication.
My beer is set down, and the money swiped from the bar. I take a long pull before answering. “All over.”
Billy lines up and fires his question next. “What have you been doing for work?”
I always liked Billy Langston. A tick older than me but we were in the same grade. At one time, I called him one of my best friends because he always had my back. Curious to see if that loyalty still stands.
“It’s good to see you, Billy.”
“You too, Koster. Rumors have been flying for years about what happened to you. Did you return to put ’em to rest?”
I’m suddenly feeling the need to clamp my mouth shut. I don’t owe anyone anything, much less access to parts of me I’d rather keep buried. “Nah. Let them gossip.” I down my beer and set the empty on the bar when I stand. Not looking to entertain an interrogation, I’m ready to go. This might be a record. Ten minutes and I’ve already had my fill of this town.
