by London James
“There they are,” Frank's voice booms as we step through the door.
Stabler immediately starts to wiggle, so I quickly unclip his harness and let him bolt over to Frank. The large man kneels down, and scratches the dog behind the ears, laughing as Stabler licks his face. I take a seat at our usual spot at the end of the bar, and when Frank and Stabler are done greeting each other, my dog sits down on the ground beside me. Frank fills a bowl full of water and sets it down, letting Stabler drink his fill.
“I think my dog likes you more than he likes me,” I tell him.
Frank shrugs. “Most people do.”
“Good thing I don't give a shit about most people,” I say. “My dog though – a man has got to draw the line somewhere.”
Frank's laughter is a low rumble as he draws a beer from the tap and slides it over to me. I raise my glass to him before taking a long swallow. Unlike most of the other bars in town, Frank actually has a good selection on tap. He doesn't pour the shitty domestic stuff – though, he keeps bottles of it in stock. On tap he has mostly imports. Good beers from around the world. Beers I like and can appreciate. Call me snooty and elitist, but Coors and Bud just don't do it for me.
When I first started coming here, I had my doubts that in a place as insular as Grizzly Ridge, foreign beers might not fly. But Frank's does more business than every other bar in town. The place is usually packed once the workday ends, and on weekends, it's standing room only. Even now, midday on a weekday, the place is half-filled with old-timers sitting around, nursing a beer, playing chess, or watching SportsCenter on one of the flat screens he's got mounted around the place.
“Your team sucks again this year,” Frank says.
“Yeah, tell me about it,” I grouse.
“Time to rename your dog,” he says. “Maybe give him the name of a winner. Say – Bradshaw. Maybe Harris. Hell, call him Big Ben.”
I laugh and give him the finger. “Over my cold, dead body.”
Frank's a Pittsburgh fan, and I'm a lifelong Oakland fan. We have a natural rivalry when it comes to football, that leads to a lot of good-natured ribbing. My football team fandom is how Stabler got his name – it's the last name of one of the franchise's greatest quarterbacks. A name that rubs Frank the wrong way. He's been trying to get me to change it to the name of a Pittsburgh great since he first met Stabler.
“Your team keeps playing like they have been, you may just stroke out on me,” he says with another deep, rumbling laugh.
“Yeah, you're not wrong about that,” I tell him. “They look like shit. But then, your boys aren't much better. What are you now, 4-6?”
“Shut your whore mouth,” he says, his smile bright. “We're 5-5 – and on the way up.”
“You've got New England, Philly, and Kansas City coming up. You're going to be lucky if you're not 5-8 after that stretch.”
“Sure as hell beats the 3-13 you'll be in a few weeks.”
“We'll be lucky to be 3-13 in a few weeks.”
“Your lips to God's ear,” he laughs.
Stabler raises his head as a couple of young, college-aged guys walk in. They're not guys I've seen come in here before – but then, I'm not here every night, so I don't have an intimate accounting of Frank's clientele. Judging by the look on Frank's face, he's not familiar with them either. That's the one thing about Grizzly Ridge – the locals all know each other. They know who belongs here, and who doesn't. Strangers stick out like a sore thumb, and acceptance for newcomers is always slow in coming. Hence, my three years in town, and some people still act like they've never seen me before.
We're not that far from Denver, so I assume these two are students out that way. Maybe stopping by for a quick drink and a bite before heading back to school or something. They take a seat at a table, and Frank nods at me, before heading over to them.
“What can I get you boys?” he asks.
“Two Buds, two burgers, and fries,” says the stout, dark-haired kid.
The other kid has light brown hair and a lean build. I notice they're both wearing sweatshirts with Greek lettering – frat boys. Great. They both give off a cocky, ‘I'm better than you’ sort of attitude, that sets me on edge from the start. I've known clowns like them before, and they never fail to get under my skin.
I watch them from the corner of my eye, making sure they're not giving Frank a hard time. Frank is about ten years older than me, has deep lines in his face, a head full of gray hair, but still looks stronger than an ox. Personally, if I were those two, I'd think twice about tangling with Frank. He may be approaching middle age, but he's still got enough in the tank to whoop their asses.
Still, I keep watch and stand ready to step in if they get out of hand. Nobody comes in here and disrespects my friend.
“Hey, why the fuck is there a dog in here?” asks the kid with the lighter-colored hair.
“What's it to you?” Frank asks. “He's the bar mascot.”
“Yeah, isn't that like, a health code violation or something?” the dark-haired kid chimes in. “I mean, we're like eating here. Like I want dog hair in my food or some shit.”
“You work for the health department?” Frank asks.
“No,” answers the dark-haired kid.
“Then shut the fuck up and don't worry 'bout what don't concern you.”
I have to stifle a laugh, burying it with a long pull of my beer. I look down at Stabler, who's looking back up at me with a big doggy grin on his face. I just give him a shrug.
“You don't have to be such a prick, old man,” mumbles the kid with the lighter hair.
“My bar, I can be a prick if I want to be a prick.”
“Where I come from, you pop off like that, you get your ass kicked,” the dark-haired kid says, his voice low and menacing.
I know Frank can take care of himself, but Stabler's my dog, which makes this my problem. Technically no, Frank shouldn't let a dog into the bar where food is being served. He doesn't care though. That's just Frank. Frank's a good man, people like him, and he's part of the community now. Nobody has an issue with Stabler being in here, because Frank is okay with it.
While I don't want to cause him any grief, I'll be damned if I'm going to let some snot-nosed punk come in here and threaten a man I consider a friend. As I stand up, Stabler starts to rise, but I wave him back down. Being the good boy he is, he lays back down and just watches me.
I turn and walk over to the table. It's the dark-haired kid who notices me first; his eyes growing wider with each step I take. I clench my jaw, narrow my eyes, and make myself look as intimidating as possible – which isn't too hard, given the fact that I'm six-four, and built like the proverbial brick shithouse. I know my appearance can be intimidating, and I sometimes use it to my best advantage. After all, the easiest way to get out of a fight is to not let it start in the first place.
I catch Frank's eye and see him stifling a grin. He just shakes his head and takes a step back, content to let me do my thing. I stand next to the table and give the two guys a long, hard look. Both of them are looking at me with wide eyes, their jaws practically hitting the floor.
“That's my dog,” I say, making my voice low and gravely. “Is there a problem here?”
The dark-haired kid opens his mouth to speak, but no words come out. It's the other one, the mousier of the two, who manages to get something out.
“N – no problem,” he stammers. “We were just asking about health code –”
“Yeah, I heard what you were asking about,” I interrupt. “And I also heard you threaten my friend here.”
“Nobody was threatening anybody – sir,” the kid says. “We were just expressing concern –”
I lean down and plant my hands on the tabletop, staring at each of them for a beat. I have to keep myself from laughing when they both swallow hard, absolute stark terror in their eyes.
“Look, me and my dog come in about once a week. We stay for about an hour,” I tell them. “He's never in the kitchen, and he d
oes nothing but sit beside my stool while I visit with my friend Frank here. Now, I'm going back over there. I'm going to take a seat on that stool, and I'm going to sit there with my dog at my side and have a couple of beers. I may even order my dog a burger of his own. Do either of you have a problem with that?
They both sit pinned to their chairs, their eyes fixed on mine, and shake their heads in unison.
“If either of you happen to find a dog hair in your burger, I'll gladly pay for your meals. If not, shut the fuck up about my dog, and if you threaten, or say anything disrespectful to my friend again, I will beat your asses. Are we clear?”
As if they've both lost the power of speech, they simply nod at me. I narrow my eyes further and glare at them.
“I said, are we clear?”
“Yes,” they say quickly, speaking over one another. “Clear. Very clear.”
“Good,” I say. “Then enjoy your burgers.”
I turn and give Frank a surreptitious wink as I make my way back to my stool. I take my seat and toss Stabler a couple of peanuts for being a good boy and waiting like I'd asked him to. A few moments later, Frank deposits his order ticket in the kitchen pass-thru window for his cook to get started on, then turns to me, and chuckles.
“Fuckin' jarheads,” he grumbles, pitching his voice low. “Always gotta swoop in and steal a man's thunder.”
I shrug. “Maybe if you grunts learned how to handle business from the jump, we jarheads wouldn't have to come in and clean up.”
Frank pours me another beer and laughs. “Touché, my friend,” he says, as he sets it down in front of me. “How you doin', boss?”
I nod. “Hanging in there,” I tell him. “Nothing new going on out there.”
“Sometimes, that's not a bad thing,” he replies. “Sometimes, the slow life is a good life.”
“That it is, my friend,” I agree. “As long as Stabler and I can come in here for a beer now and then, life is good.”
“You know the both of you are always welcome here, brother. For a jarhead, you're pretty okay.”
“Appreciate it, Frank,” I say and raise my glass to him.
Chapter Six
Isla
“So, things between you and Tommy seem to be getting serious,” Sophia says.
I shrug. “I guess.”
She laughs. “Don't sound so enthused about it, Mia.”
A wry grin touches my lips. “Sorry, just kind of out of it today, I guess.”
“Oh. Everything okay?”
I nod. “Yeah, everything's fine,” I tell her. “Just one of those days where I feel – disconnected – is probably the best way to put it.”
Sophia smiles as if she understands. Hell, maybe she does, I don't know. Sophia and I became friends shortly after I moved here – or rather, shortly after I was relocated here. Grizzly Ridge, Colorado is only a few hours away from Dove Falls, actually.
I'm surprised they kept me in Colorado after Rory was killed, and they moved me out of Dove Falls. Parr's reasoning is that the cartel probably expected me to be relocated far away and might not be looking for me so close to where I'd lived before.
The might's and maybes are killing me. And they're keeping me from moving forward with my life, to be honest. I'm always looking over my shoulder, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Every time Parr calls me, I'm expecting him to tell me the cartel's found me, and they're pulling me out. Again.
It's been three years now, but those fears have not abated in the least. I keep a bag packed, and near my front door, so I can make a quick exit, for fuck's sake.
More than that, this constant state of fear and uncertainty I have to live with, is keeping me from really connecting with anybody. I made the mistake of letting myself get close to Veronica back in Dove Falls. It hurt like hell when Parr pulled me out, and I didn't even get a chance to say goodbye to her. Just plucked me out of the life I'd built, and away from the people I'd gotten to know and care for.
Ever since landing here, I've gone through the motions. I'm working at the local high school, I've made some friends, I've even gotten myself a boyfriend. I'm doing everything a normal person does, but I don't feel anything like a normal person. I'm a ghost. A shell of a person. I can't make genuine connections, because I may have to cut them off at the drop of a hat.
My life here, and everybody in it, are just temporary. I hate it with a passion – I'm somebody who thrives on deep, meaningful connections with those I care about. But it's something I've had to learn to accept about this life that's been forced upon me.
“So, everything's okay with Tommy then?” Sophia asks.
I put on a smile I hope doesn't feel as fake as it feels. “Yeah, everything's great,” I answer. “We’re great.”
“Good, Mia,” she says. “I know he cares about you a lot.”
Tommy Larson is actually a very good guy. Caring. Considerate. Compassionate. He's the school's football coach, as well as a fellow History teacher. He's a very smart, very good-looking man, and I know that half of the women who teach at Grizzly Ridge High would love to be with him.
For whatever reason though, he locked on to me, shortly after I started teaching there, and despite my numerous attempts to turn him down, he persisted. I finally gave in, and we've been together for about a year and a half now.
Tommy's a good man, and I do like him. I just don't feel that spark with him that I crave. Added to that, of course, is my feeling of disconnectedness in general, making it less than passionate and fulfilling. At least, on my end. Tommy seems oblivious to it. But then, he doesn't know the real me – nobody here does – so, he doesn't have a real baseline to compare to.
I know I shouldn't be leading him on, since I know there's no future for us. Eventually, I'm going to get pulled out of here too. At least, that's what I expect to happen. But even if the cartel never finds me again, and I live out my years here in Grizzly Ridge, I just can't make myself feel something I don't. And while I care for Tommy, I don't love him. Not that kind of deep down in my bones love. The kind of love I crave. And need.
It's not fair of me, I know. But, when we first got together, I was lonely. I needed some companionship. He's given me that. Which only makes me feel worse for what's eventually going to happen. For now, though, I'll keep playing the part. What else am I going to do?
“He's a good guy,” I say.
“And you're a lucky girl,” she tells me. “Do you know how many of the teachers at school would probably give their left arm to be with him, Mia?”
Mia. That's my name in this current incarnation of my life. Mia Lynch. Three years in, and it still feels wrong to me. Not that the previous name ever felt right. Maybe it's knowing how temporary and disposable this name and identity are, and that next month, it could be different all over again that has me so uncomfortable.
Or maybe it's because my goddamn name is Isla Nelson.
I feel my mood darkening quickly and need to do something to pull myself out of this. I probably should have canceled brunch with Sophia today, knowing the mood that's been descending on me over the last couple of days. Most of the time, I can suck it up and deal with it. I can put on a happy face and pretend that everything's okay. And sometimes, I even let myself believe it.
Other days though, it all gets to be too much, and the darkness descends over me. On those days, I can't stave it off, and I just feel – bleak. Hopeless. On those days, I'm not really fit to be out amongst people. No amount of plastered on smiles or fake cheer works.
For better or worse though, I'm out in the world and don't want to drag Sophia down in my crap. She doesn't deserve that. She's a good person, and I appreciate her friendship. She's been good to me in my time here, and the fact that I can't be more open with her, that I keep her at an arm's distance, actually makes me a bit sad.
But it is what it is, I'm afraid. This is my lot in life, thanks to my fucking brother.
“Hey, what do you say we go peruse the bookstore?” I ask.
Sop
hia checks her watch. Cruising bookstores is probably one of my favorite things to do. I love reading. Always have. Whenever I'm feeling tense or anxious, a trip down to the bookstore will usually help soothe my nerves. There's just something about the peace and quiet within that I find so calming.
“Sure,” she decides. “Jerry can watch the kids for a while longer.”
I give her the first genuine smile I've had all day. “Great,” I say, and grab the check before she can.
“I got it,” she protests.
“My turn,” I reply. “You got it last time. I'll let you buy me a coffee at the bookstore though.”
“Deal,” she says.
I pay the bill, and we leave, walking the block or so down the street to a store called A World of Enchantment. To me, the name is perfect. Books have always enchanted me, and they've always been my escape. Enchantment is a big store, two stories, crammed full of books. The Morris family, who own and operate the shop – and have for several generations, they're proud to say – are lovely people. Very kind and thoughtful.
The overhead bell rings as we step through, and Myra Morris, the matriarch of the family, is busy behind the counter. She's dusting, and rearranging a shelf, but looks over and gives us the kind of smile you give an old friend you haven't seen in years. Truthfully, it's one of the redeeming, charming qualities I've found in Grizzly Ridge – the people are so genuinely warm and welcoming. Most treat you like family, and the people almost always remember your name. It's a bittersweet feeling for me, in that it makes me happy, but also sad, knowing I may have to pick up and leave it at a moment's notice.
“Well, hello girls,” Myra says. “So nice to see you again, Mia. You too, Sophia.”
“Nice to see you again too, Mrs. Morris,” I say.
“Browsing today, dear?”
I nod. “I'm running low on reading material,” I reply. “Thought I'd take a look and see what you have.”
“Well, we just got a new shipment of mysteries in,” she tells us. “And some wonderfully scary stories too. But you might not want to read them at night.”