Willy.
My least favorite neighbor is standing in the small space between our two vehicles and playing horseshoes before most have had their morning coffee. The sound of the horseshoe hitting the stake rings loudly in my head as he throws with impressive accuracy. My bare feet slip on the wet grass covered in morning dew. Cold chills race from the soles of my feet to the top of my spine. Willy looks over at me as I approach, and his lips turn up into a smile as he waves an eager hand my way.
“Don’t you think it’s a little early for that?” There is a bite to my tone, but Willy doesn’t seem to notice, or maybe he chooses to ignore it.
“Oh, good! You’re up.”
“Who could sleep through all the noise you’re making?”
“What noise? Go throw some clothes on. I’ll teach you the finesse that is horseshoes.”
“I’m not playing horseshoes with you.”
Willy heads to his home next to mine. He doesn’t turn around as he throws words over his shoulder. “Go. I have just the thing for you. I’ll see you in a minute.”
I stand stupid for a moment, wondering if I’m losing my touch. That old man doesn’t seem to be intimidated by me in the least. Scratching my head, I turn on my heels and head back toward my place.
Once inside, I turn on the news to listen to the latest conspiracy theories surrounding my killing spree.
“Carter Andrews and Cortland Evans were both graduates of Yale and were known to associate with the same crowd. Speculation is running wild about the connection. Were these two men targeted specifically, or was it all a matter of coincidence?”
Huh. I didn’t know they’d known each other. To be fair, I don’t know all the details, and I don’t ask. I guess I should have assumed that they knew each other. I want to find out what else the talking head will speculate on, but Willy knocks on my damn door. I can see the top of his head through the frosted window on the door. I turn back to the news.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Still, I wait, not wanting to deal with whatever the fuck he thinks is “just the thing” for me.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
“You going to leave an old man out here in the cold?”
He isn’t going away.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Fuck!
Against my better judgment, I head to open the door, filling the space of my entryway. I open it, and Willy stands tall before me, wearing a crooked smile and holding a thermos.
“Look, I don’t want to be rude, but I’m not interested in getting to know my neighbors. I’d appreciate it if this was the last time you knocked on my door. I won’t be here that long, and hopefully, you’ll get someone a little friendlier in my spot next time.”
“Our previous interactions were you not being rude? Move aside and let me in.”
Willy pushes past me. He invites himself in and makes himself comfortable at the tiny kitchen table, and I scowl at him.
“This here is an impressive RV. Top of the line! Must have cost you a pretty penny. I didn’t catch your name.”
“I never gave it.”
“Well, now would be the time, son.” He twists the cap off the thermos and shakes his head. “Well, actually, the time would have been during my first visit, but I’ll forgive you for that. I have a grandson about your age, so I know how you young guys tend to forget manners.”
I sigh in defeat. “Callen. My name is Callen.”
“Great! That wasn’t so hard, was it? Now, drink the coffee I brought you. It’s my Louise’s special recipe.”
“I drink my coffee black.”
“It’s black with a kick. Drink.”
I take a sip and get a mouthful of coffee, whiskey, and something vanilla-flavored.
“Good, huh?”
I nod while taking another sip.
“Great. Get dressed. I’ll wait right here. The coffee should improve your surly mood. Maybe you’ll find some manners.”
“Why exactly am I getting dressed?”
“For horseshoes! Who’s the senile one—you or me? We’ve already discussed this.”
I find myself following his order, and I have no fucking idea why. I grumble under my breath like a bratty teenager being forced to do something I don’t want to as I pull my clothes on.
Why the fuck am I entertaining this?
Fully dressed, I drag my feet back toward the kitchen.
“Ready?” he asks after I’ve shoved my feet into my shoes.
“I don’t think you’ve given me much of a choice.”
“You’re damn right I haven’t. You kids these days don’t appreciate a good game of horseshoes anymore. Plus, my Louise always said it was important to visit with your neighbors. Promotes community.”
I follow Willy outside between our two RVs and stand awkwardly as he collects the horseshoes.
“You ever play before?”
“No, can’t say that I have.” I’m eyeing the two metal pegs stuck in the ground.
“Well, it’s simple enough. I’ll show you.” He takes his stance and throws. “You want a ringer, meaning the horseshoe encircles the stake. It’s worth three points.”
A ringer is exactly what he gets.
He throws again. “If you get it close to the stake, your throw is worth one point.”
This time, his horseshoe lands almost to the stake, but it isn’t a ringer.
“Simple, right?”
I nod.
“The first player throws both of their shoes and gets points. The second player then throws both of theirs to try to cancel the first player’s points. Points are achieved one inning at a time. If both the pitcher’s horseshoes are closer to the stake than the second player’s are at the end of the inning, then the pitcher gets another two points. Think you got it?”
I nod once more.
Throw horseshoes at stake. Get points. Try to cancel points. Got it.
Willy shoots me a toothy grin, and with a skip in his step, he goes to collect his throws. I pick up the horseshoes by my feet to test their weight.
“We’re supposed to throw for who goes first, but I’ll let you since it’s your first time.”
Willy stands back and lets me take my spot. I swing my arm and throw the horseshoe. It lands well past the stake. I try again and get the same result.
Willy rushes to push me aside. “You’re overthrowing it, boy. Just like my grandson when I tried to teach him. His tosses were all brute force, but this game calls for some finesse. You can’t just chuck it in the direction of the stake. Take your time. Focus on how my fingers pinch the horseshoe, the way I keep my arm straight, and the glide of my toss.”
I take a sip of the booze with a splash of coffee and then do as he said.
After a few more practice tosses, I get the hang of it, and we play. Willy obviously goes easy on me. He must do this all day long. I throw, and then he takes his turn. He gives me pointers here and there. I shut off my brain and just play the game. It’s probably the first time I’ve decompressed in years. Willy keeps track of the score, but I don’t really pay attention.
“So, where did you grow up?” He attempts to make conversation.
“Around.”
“What brings you here?”
“Travel.”
“You’re not much for taking or sharing, are you?”
“Not really.”
“My Louise used to say that, when a man isn’t a talker, it just means you have to work harder to gain his trust.”
“I haven’t seen your wife around the park.” I have no interest in telling this man anything about myself. It’s better if we focus on him.
Willy’s smile falters, but he quickly fixes it back in place. “I was married for forty-two years. We married five days after Louise turned eighteen, and I was just nineteen. But I lost her a few years ago. She was taken from me, selfishly taken from the world before her time.”
“I’m sorry for your loss.” I kill people for a living. The words of condolences coming
out of my mouth taste foreign.
“Don’t be sorry. You didn’t cause her death.”
I can honestly say I didn’t. I’ve never killed a little old lady before. That isn’t to say I wouldn’t if the money were right, though.
I throw my horseshoes and pretend to be interested as Willy tells me about his late wife, “She’s still with me, though. She speaks to me every day. She’s in everything that I do.” He turns to face me and puts his palm on my arm. “If you find a girl who completes your heart, you make sure you do everything to show her she’s your whole world. You don’t want any regrets when one of you is gone. I’m at peace with Louise’s death because I have no regrets about my love with her.”
“Thanks for the advice.”
I give him a tight smile, and his eyes narrow.
“You don’t believe in love, or you don’t believe in yourself?” Willy returns to throwing the horseshoes.
I laugh at his interpretation. This old man is a pain in my ass, but I kind of like him, which isn’t something I will ever admit aloud.
“You have some brass balls, Willy. But I’ll play along. I believe in love. I believe it exists, but I think it’s a lot rarer than most people think, even more so in the younger generations, including my own.” I stare off at the stake to avoid Willy’s stare. “It sounds like you had the real thing. As for me, it just isn’t something that appeals to me. I like my life and the style in which I live it. I’m not willing to give it up for love.”
“Horse shit!”
I can’t help but laugh and give him my full attention.
“Love doesn’t mean you have to play by society’s rules or give anything up. It just means you have to find someone willing to bend those rules right alongside you. No one ever said love had to equal living in the suburbs with a white picket fence or whatever domestic vision you’re cooking up. Love can spark and thrive in any environment out there. The only thing it needs is for the two people involved to nourish it.” He scratches his head. “Two, three, four people—whatever number of people involved in the relationship. I’m hip. I saw a documentary on MTV about polyamorous relationships being in right now.”
“Okay, I’ll make you a promise.”
“I’m listening.”
“I promise, if I ever find a girl who isn’t scared off by my vagrant ways and other lifestyle choices, then I’ll give love a chance and take all your advice.”
“Good. That’s all I’m asking.” He pauses. “Callen? Lifestyle choices? You got some weird fetishes, like in the books my Louise used to read? I’ve seen the stuff inside those covers. It’s enough to make an old man blush.”
“If only it were that simple. Let’s get back to the game, Willy.”
We play for the better part of the morning, and it’s lunchtime before we part ways.
When I close my door behind me, I realize that I don’t mind that Willy monopolized my whole damn morning.
Rylan
“Wine or liquor?” Tatum asks through the phone.
I click the power button off on my remote. “Wine. White wine.”
She’s a smart girl. A drink sounds good right about now.
“Got it. I’ll see you in a few.”
I pull the throw blanket over my legs and wait for her.
Tatum had another meeting tonight. I don’t understand how she’s still going there after all this time. I did six weeks, and it was more than enough.
After a few more minutes, I hear her car pull into my driveway.
Tatum bursts through the door without knocking. “Hey!”
She zooms past where I’m sitting on the couch, and I catch myself smiling as she walks straight to my kitchen and grabs us glasses for the wine. She sits down next to me and pulls the blanket over her own legs so that we’re sharing it.
“Hi, friend. How was your day?” I ask her.
“Oh, you know, same old shit. I did a little of this and a lot of that.”
“Informative. I also did this and that.”
She laughs and shoves a wine glass into my hand as she looks around my place. “I like the new chair.” She gestures to the lounger in the corner. “It looks comfortable and very you,” she compliments.
“Thanks.”
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’ve noticed your space doesn’t have much of your life put into it.”
“What do you mean?”
“There are no photos on the walls. Your office doesn’t even showcase your work at The Kinky. I told you that I like to photograph people. I’m naturally observant when it comes to them, too, and while your home is beautiful and definitely you, it doesn’t tell me anything else about you. Your articles are starting to become extremely popular. Why have you never framed any and put them in your office?”
“I don’t know. The recognition from my boss is enough, I guess.” I never thought to hang any in the office.
“What about the lack of photos? Don’t you want pictures of your family in here?”
“All the photos of my dad from my childhood were tossed or whatever it was my mom did with them. I only have one or two pictures of my dad, and they’re in a box in my closet.” I suddenly feel uncomfortable in my beautiful space.
“And what about your mom? Why don’t you have pictures of her?”
“I do somewhere. They just aren’t framed and hung.”
“Why?”
“Tatum…” I groan.
“I’m curious, Rylan. I know things turned bad between you and your mom, but are they still bad? Do you talk to her? Is she in your life?”
I take a large sip of wine before saying, “She isn’t.”
“Why?”
I often wonder if my mom would still be in my life had things turned out differently. I’d planned to never speak to her again after my eighteenth birthday. I’d been set on cutting her out of my life completely. But this decision wasn’t mine. This choice was made for me.
“She’s dead.”
“Oh, fuck. Rylan, I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay.”
“You know, it’s okay if it isn’t okay.”
“What?”
Now, she has me confused.
“Whenever you tell me about stuff, you brush it off, like it’s no big deal. It’s okay to be sad or pissed or both or whatever feelings you have about it.”
“Sometimes, it doesn’t feel that way,” I say softly.
“I promise, whatever you feel is okay, and I’m always here if you want to talk about it.”
“Thanks, Tatum. Really, I’m okay, though. No need to start channeling Vanessa.”
This makes her laugh at least.
Tatum is good people. She’s what I’ve been missing in my life for a long time.
“Speaking of our dear friend, what did you talk about in group today?” I turn toward Tatum, ready to listen to someone else’s problems.
But she avoids eye contact with me. “Um, I should probably be honest with you about something.”
I fidget with my wine glass and wait.
“I…” She takes a long sip of her own wine, clearly uncomfortable. “I won’t be going back to anger management because I don’t have anger management issues.”
I try to hold back my laugh, and it comes out sounding like a deranged sneeze-snort sound. Well, shit. I didn’t expect that. “What do you mean? Of course you do. You’ve been going to those meetings for over half a year.”
“I went because I was lonely. I thought I could meet people there.”
My mouth hangs open, and I’m not sure if she would be offended if I laughed at her.
“Like the woman from Fight Club?” She doubles over in laughter, and I smile before asking, “What about the stories you tell?”
“I Google them. I steal other people’s stories off a public anger management group online. I’m a fraud. Please don’t be mad. I didn’t think about it beforehand. I wasn’t trying to be deceptive. I was just lonely.”
“Seriously? You think t
his would upset me? Why would you go to a therapy group to meet people? Why not sign up for a class or learn a new hobby? What the hell were you thinking?”
She laughs again. “I guess, looking back, maybe I should have joined a pottery class or something. The therapy seemed less intimidating since people are supposed to go to it alone. I didn’t want to sign up for a class by myself.”
“I guess that makes sense.”
“I’m awful. People like you are there, really opening up about painful stuff from their past, and I’m in there, telling lies about being a crazy ex-girlfriend. I’m so sorry.”
“Tatum, I was there for punching a guy in the face. I would have told that to any random woman standing behind me in a checkout line. It isn’t as if I was in there, spilling my deepest, darkest. I don’t think anyone really was. Seriously, don’t worry. You were lonely. People go to therapy for isolation. Are you still lonely?”
“No, but—”
“Then, the therapy worked!” I hold out my glass to hers. “Cheers to the lonely and to the pissed. May they get all the help they need.”
She clinks her glass with mine, and we get lost in a fit of wine giggles.
Rylan
Eighteen Years Old
Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
The noise of my alarm jolts me awake. I automatically hit snooze before my eyes are even open. Today should be like any other Tuesday morning.
I slept at home, which is rare because this place has never felt like home to me. It’s a run-down two bedroom in a white trash neighborhood my mom moved us to three years ago. I hate this place—not because it’s a dump, but because it’s harder to hold on to the good memories when I only have the bad ones here. I’ve become the new white trash princess on the wrong side of town.
My alarm blares again, and I curse under my breath.
Today isn’t a normal day—I can feel it in my bones—and I don’t want to get out of bed. There is a knot in my stomach and a violent grip on my heart. I shift my feet to the floor, and I shove away the urge to get back under my covers.
There is one more week until the date I’ve been counting down to for years—my eighteenth birthday. It’s my escape from the world I’ve been trapped in. But maybe only symbolically because turning eighteen isn’t going to magically fix all my problems. But it’s a step.
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