“Man, is this rush ever gonna be done?” Rocky complains, mopping his sweaty brow on his sleeve. “It’s killing my Sunday chillax policy.”
I laugh. “Okay, number one, never say ‘chillax’ again.” Rocky is in his mid-forties. He’s Native American and his name isn’t really Rocky. I don’t know what his actual name is, come to think of it. I just know he got the nickname sometime in the eighties because he’s a big guy and used to be a boxer.
The slight hum kicks on as I start pumping oil. “Number two, if you wanted a chill shift, don’t work Sundays. Everyone and their grandma thinks the weekends are the perfect time for an oil change. I’m already two hours past when my shift was supposed to end.”
Rocky rolls his eyes as he tightens the fuel cap. “Well, that’s because Troy’s a dick who doesn’t know how to schedule right.”
I don’t disagree, but I make it a habit not to talk bad about the boss while I’m at work. I stop the oil pump at five quarts, then pull out the line and set it back in the hanger. I check the levels and reattach the cap. Nothing’s leaking. Good to go.
“So I’m having a barbecue this weekend. You should come,” Rocky says. Then he laughs. “I know that my niece Dana would sure love it if you did.” He bobs his eyebrows up and down. I shrug uncomfortably. Rocky laughs harder.
Most of the guys at the garage pretty much ignore me or refer to me only as “Junior.” That’s because Dad works here too, though we’re rarely on the same shift. Rocky’s different. He’s decided I’m funny. Dana dropped by during my shift one time to get Rocky to change her oil at a discount, then hung around in the lobby, trying to talk to me when I took my coffee break. Rocky’s never let me forget it.
“Shut up,” I say as I shut the hood of the car and give him the finger.
“Oh Jude, you’re so fine!” he calls after me as I round the car and get in the driver’s seat. At least closing the door shuts off the sound of his voice.
“Jackass.” I say it with a smile and a shake of my head though. I drive the little Honda back out to the parking lot. Rocky’s a cool guy, and as much crap as he gives me, he’s always going on and on about his kids. He has a ten-year-old boy and a five-year-old little girl. And they are the center of that man’s whole damn world.
I hear this guy yammering about his kids all shift, and then I go home. To my dad. He never says anything when I come in the door. Curious, I once clocked how long it would take before he actually spoke to me. It wasn’t until two days later. Forty-two hours and seventeen minutes. And what was the great nugget of wisdom he shared when he finally broke the silence? Hey, grab me a beer from the fridge.
I’m still thinking about all this crap when I head into the office with the keys from the Honda. The waiting room is full of people out for their Sunday oil change. But that’s not what catches my attention.
“If anyone sees my daughter, you need to call this number immediately.” A man holds up a picture of Kadence Mulligan with the word Missing across the top in large black lettering. A teenage guy stands beside him, looking like he hasn’t slept. Mason Sisken. The boyfriend. I look back at the flyer. Kadence’s face grins out from the image, the perfect picture of small-town innocence.
I look back at the man standing ramrod straight in full military dress. This must be Major Thomas Mulligan. I know his name. I know everything about Kadence, made it my business to know once upon a time. But I guess I never realized her dad was so old. Like not normal parent old, but old old. He’s got to be in his late sixties, maybe even seventy. He passes the fliers to my boss, Troy the Dick.
“The police won’t take this seriously until it’s been such-and-such hours”—the disgust is clear in Major Mulligan’s face—“but this is our town and we look out for our own. I served this country with honor for thirty-five years and never asked for a single thing in return. Well, I’m asking now. Help me find my baby girl. Post these flyers wherever you can around town, and please, call immediately if you or anyone you know hears anything about Kadence.” He swallows hard, then turns around in a swift about-face and leaves the office.
Mason follows behind him, carrying a giant stack of fliers and never having said a word. He doesn’t seem to recognize me from school, but then he never looked up from Kadence’s picture.
A couple women cover their mouths with their hands. Troy tacks one flyer on the bulletin board and starts taping another one in the window. I only realize that I’m still frozen in place when Robert, who mans the register, asks, “Are those the keys to the Honda?”
“What?” I swivel toward him, then look down at the keys in my hand. “Oh. Yeah.” I hand him the keys. My eyes track back to the door that the Major and Mason just exited through. Kadence. Missing. I’m surprised at how little I feel at hearing the news. You’d think I’d feel something more, y’know?
Instead, all I have is an intense need to know how Lauren is reacting to it. She has to know. It’s her best friend. And then my feet are moving. I’m by Troy where he’s finished taping the last corner of the poster to the window. “I gotta go. I’m already two hours past shift and I’m late for something.”
I don’t wait for his response. I push through the employee door to the back to grab my coat and helmet. Then I get on my beat-up Harley and go.
The shop’s a little outside of town. I appreciate the growl of the engine under me as I take corners a little too sharply and drive a little too fast. My head is a swirling mix of Kadence and Lauren, and dwelling on that shit will make me reckless, so instead I focus my thoughts on the machine underneath me.
My bike is the closest thing I have to a religion. I built her up from a stripped frame I found in this old lady’s barn that her son paid me to clean out back when I was living at Mom’s. It took me a year to buy all the parts second hand and rebuild the bike, with a lot of advice from Ben, this ancient guy at the garage where I worked.
I get to a straightaway and gun the motor, really letting her loose. It’s April and damn-it-all freezing, but I appreciate the bite that slowly burns into numb, even through my thick gloves. I stay focused on the road, only slowing when I come into town.
The square is what some might call picturesque. It was nominated one of America’s most beautiful towns in some useless national poll by a crap Internet magazine. I park the bike and stomp out the kickstand. Yeah, beautiful, my ass. Guess they didn’t get the double-wides in that picture. Or the guys laid off from the factory.
Even as I’m walking down a side street to cut over to the coffee shop, I see a skinny homeless guy walking all hunched over, staring at the ground like he’s hoping that his next meal or his next fix is gonna pop right up out of the pavement. He’s got a bright turquoise and lime-green backpack on though, so you’ve got to give him points for style.
Soon enough I’m on Main Street and walking into Cuppa Cuppa. Lauren’s probably not even here. She usually works mornings on the weekends. But here I am anyway. I scan the room.
And there she is.
There are a bunch of people in line, and I duck behind an especially tall, wide guy. I still have enough of a vantage point that I can watch her. Damn it, that sounds creepy. What the hell am I even doing here? Her back is turned to me as she reaches for a syrup bottle that’s high on a shelf. She’s so short that she can barely grab the thing. It makes my mouth twitch with an almost-smile as a rush of memories hit me.
When we were kids, she was always asking me to reach things for her. There was that long, lazy summer between sixth and seventh grade. I’d just had a growth spurt and was super tall all of a sudden. The acne was getting bad by then, but she never even mentioned it. She treated me the same as she always had, ever since we’d met in third grade when I’d asked her for a pencil. Instead of giving me one of her spare yellow number twos, she gave me a fancy mechanical one with an Iron Man graphic on the side. I thought, Wow, what a cool girl.
We were f
riends after that. So I’d ride my bike over to her house every day that summer. I had a pedal bike back then. She’d make us peanut butter and honey sandwiches and then we’d spend the afternoon under a tree reading for an hour or two, nerdy as hell, but we didn’t care. She was reading Les Misérables that summer, the unabridged version. I was more into graphic novels. Then we’d go on long walks around her neighborhood or sometimes in the woods behind my house with my dog, Coco. We never actually went into my house. The inside of my place never felt like the inside of Lauren’s.
Like with the peanut butter. It never ran out at Lauren’s house. Her parents never forgot to go grocery shopping. Or to, you know, buy her new clothes when her old ones were too small. I think her mom still tucked her in at night, at least until sixth grade when she started complaining about it. I remember thinking how awesome that would be, since more often than not, I was the one pulling my mom off the floor and trying to put her in bed, or at least onto the couch. Dad was a pro by then at ignoring things, so it wasn’t like he was gonna do it.
There’s this one day that sticks out in my memory especially. It had been a bad scene with my mom the night before. I was only, what, twelve, maybe thirteen? But I could tell Mom was changing. Acting different than she did when she was drunk. Sometimes she’d come home giggling and laughing and wanting to dance, but she could turn mean and start screaming just as fast, or go quiet and get real, real sad. Then she’d cry and not stop.
That night she’d passed out on the floor, and when I moved her to the couch, she didn’t wake up or even mumble like normal. It was like she was in a coma. I’d seen that on TV. I stayed up with her to make sure she didn’t stop breathing. She woke up only long enough to vomit on the rug around three in the morning. I cleaned it up and spent the rest of the night so scared. I slept off and on, curled up on the recliner after the sun came up and Mom’s snores became loud and more regular. Around noon I showered and biked over to Lauren’s.
“What’s wrong with you today?” she asked after half an hour when I wasn’t as talkative as normal. I shrugged. Lauren was my best friend but sometimes I felt mad at her. Her house was so nice, her family so perfect. It made me want to punch things. That afternoon I wanted to go in her living room and start throwing all the ceramic figurines her mom had arranged so carefully on their mantelpiece. I wanted to see them shatter and then stomp on the tiny pieces until they were sharp shards lost in the soft carpet so her family would all cut up their feet.
Lauren rolled her eyes. “Sandwich time,” she said and headed toward the kitchen. The little metallic latches on her overalls jingled as she walked. I followed. I always followed, because in my craphole life, Lauren was a bright spark. That day though, not even she could break through.
I shoved my hands hard in the pockets of my thin, threadbare hoodie, eyes on the ground as she got the bread and plates ready. I managed to ignore her until she went for the stupid peanut butter. She seemed to sense my mood or maybe she was pissed that I wasn’t talking, because instead of asking me to grab it like she usually did, she pulled out the step stool and started climbing up to reach the top shelf of the pantry herself.
“Don’t be dumb,” I said. “I got it.” I stretched out my lanky frame and easily reached the jar.
She grinned at me, and for once we were face-to-face since she was already up on the step stool. I turned my face away, embarrassed because I had a breakout of especially large acne constellations on my upper cheeks. I’d dubbed it Acne Majorus. The movement shook my shaggy hair over my forehead and I felt better then, hoping it was hiding my skin.
“Why don’t you move the PB to a lower shelf?” I mumbled, moving back and sliding the jar along the counter closer to the bread where she was making the sandwiches.
She laughed, such an easy sound. God, it came so easy to her. “Why would I do that when I’ve got you around to grab it for me?” she asked, brushing by me and putting her hand on my arm for a brief moment as she went.
My whole body reacted to her touch. My heart rate doubled. Sweat broke out on my forehead. And then my stupid throat was closing up. Because yeah, ever since I started noticing how pretty she was, her touch made me feel a little horny. But it wasn’t just that. No one ever touched me. She made me feel like I could actually fix problems. As if being tall and useful could compensate for everything else. That was it for me. I was done for. That was the day I totally fell for Lauren DeSanto.
My jaw clenches at the memory of what a fool I was, pinning all my hopes on a girl who would rip my heart from my chest only months later.
Now I have to look away from Lauren, who has just turned around. But it’s too late. I’ve already caught a glimpse of her. She’s still so pretty. For a heavy moment, the old shame hits hard. I want to duck and cover, hide my face. No one could ever want me. My breaths start coming short and heavy. Damn it. A panic attack is the last thing I need right now.
I step out of line and turn to put my outer coat on the large rack by the door, but then stop and ball my hands into fists, taking deep breaths…in…out. In. Out. In. Out. I probably look like an angry, huffing bull to anyone glancing in my direction right now, but I can’t give a good goddamn. How can she still have the ability to affect me so much?
I’m not that stupid son of a bitch writing unrequited love letters any more. I’ve taken back the power. I got my payback. I mean, things might have gone a little farther than I planned, maybe even gotten completely out of hand…I scrub a hand down my face. But at least there’s no more reason to still feel like that shamed, ugly, awkward kid around her.
I take another deep breath. I shake out my shoulders to loosen them and stand up straight. Right. Fuck ’em all. I smooth my hands down my leather bomber jacket. It’s slim enough to fit underneath the thicker coat I gotta wear when I take the bike. I never leave home without it. It’s as much armor as it is a signature piece. This is who I am now.
I turn around and rejoin the line that’s slimmed down considerably. Time to see how well Lauren’s doing now that Queen Bitch is missing from the picture. Just one person between her and me, and she finishes with them right as I stride up.
She’s just handed the last customer his change, and I speak before she can look up.
“I’ll have an espresso, three shots, straight up.”
She starts scribbling on her pad. “Is that all, sir?” She glances up and her breath catches. “Nathan,” she whispers.
This is the first time I’ve spoken directly to her since I came back last August. I wasn’t sure if she’d even recognized me. No one else did, except Kadence, but that was only after I told her who I was. Then again, Lauren and I weren’t exactly on speaking terms when I left at the end of sophomore year. So maybe she’s known it was me this whole time and just didn’t know what to say.
I want to swallow but instead stick on a smooth smile. “It’s Jude. I go by my middle name now.”
She keeps staring at me, her pen frozen over the little pad.
“Jude,” she finally echoes, as if trying out my new name on her tongue. “Nathan Jude Williams.”
It does things to me, hearing her say my name. Especially my new name for the new me. She says it with her voice all low and raspy, like she’s been a smoker all her life. I know it means she can’t sing, and the sound of it sends another mix of emotions pounding through my skull. I’m turned on, happy in her misfortune, then deeply ashamed, then just sad for both her and me.
“That’s going to be hard to get used to,” she says. Then she asks, “What are you doing here?”
I smile my most confident grin. “Getting coffee.” I tap the pad where she wrote down my order, almost brushing her hand. She yanks her hand back and I hide a smile. I’m unnerving her. Good. Her best friend is missing and then her good ol’ buddy, ol’ pal Nathan, who she stabbed in the heart, shows back up in her life. All in the same day. Must suck to be Lauren.
&nb
sp; “Right.” She looks flustered. “I’ll just get this made for you.”
I know other customers often sit down and wait for her to call out their orders, but I lean my hip against the counter and watch her as she tamps down the espresso and sets up the shot. The machine growls to life as she puts the little cups underneath to catch the dark brown liquid that pours out.
“You been working here long?” I ask, even though I know the answer right down to the day.
She shrugs, setting up the next shot as soon as the first one finishes. I can tell she’d rather avoid conversation with me. Her neck is red and splotchy. It always does that when she’s nervous. The thought makes me smile internally, though on the outside I play it cool. This, I’ve learned, is the key. The appearance of indifference. Cool Guy 101. Looking like you don’t give a shit. Most the time I actually don’t. Except when it comes to Kadence and Lauren.
“I think I saw you working a couple nights ago at the show when your friend was singing.”
She shrugs again, pouring the shots into a cup and popping on the lid. I pull out my wallet as she comes back toward the register.
“Didn’t I hear something about you two, like, being a thing on the Internet a while ago?”
She cringes. “Yeah, something like that,” she murmurs, not meeting my eyes.
I hand her a five-dollar bill. She quickly makes change and I toss it in the tip jar. She’s about to move away, but I reach out and grab her hand.
“Hey,” I say, my voice softer. Damn, I don’t even know what I’m doing, but being this close to her, seeing her warm skin and not touching her, is killing me. A few strands of hair are stuck to her cheek, and it’s all I can do not to reach up and brush them behind her ear. “It’s good to see you again, Ren.”
Her eyes widen in surprise at the old nickname. “You too, Na—” She stops herself, pulling away from my touch. “Jude.” She shakes her head and looks me over. “You look good.” She smiles, but there’s a tinge of sadness in it. Maybe it’s me reading into it, but I feel like I can see everything that we had and lost, all in that one expression. And it suddenly strikes me—what if more than the bad feelings keep me coming back to Lauren? What if part of this compulsion is about all the good memories too? Hate, I know what to do with. But the other stuff?
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