14. Blair
14
BLAIR
I slam the tow truck door and stomp into the garage, my hands shaking as I fumble with the keys. "Goddammit!" Finally getting the door unlocked, I flick on the lights, slam the door behind me, and grab a wrench, desperate for something to do with my hands.
Ransom. After all these years. My chest tightens just thinking of his name. I start tinkering with an old Chevy, not even sure what I'm doing. My mind keeps replaying the scene on the side of the road. I thought I would handle seeing him again better. I thought I would be more prepared. I thought I would be cool.
I was wrong.
His stupid face, looking at me with those eyes. Like he had any right to be here, to crash back into my life. I want to hate him. I should hate him. But seeing him there, my heart did this stupid little flip. For a split second, I was that girl again, the one who thought he hung the moon.
That stupid, stupid girl.
I throw the wrench across the garage. "Dammit!" I yell into the empty space. My voice echoes back at me, mocking me.
I can't go home. The quiet house will just make me think more. About what could have been. About the life I thought we'd have. About all the broken promises. Plus, Maggie's at home. Sick Maggie. Dying Maggie. No, I'm sure as fuck not going there right now. I'm too raw, and I don't think I can keep my shit together around her.
But I can't stay here either. Every tool, every car reminds me of working alongside Dad. And now Dad's gone, and Ransom's back, and it's all mixed up in my head. It's a big ball of sadness and anger and love and hate. I hate them both for leaving me.
But Dad didn't go by choice.
Ransom did.
I slide down against the wall, my coveralls catching on the rough concrete. My hands smell like oil and metal. It's comforting and familiar. It didn't used to be. Dad was a cop back in the city. He smelled like sweat and coffee when he'd come home. When we moved here, everything changed. The sounds were different; the smells were different. And I didn't like it.
At first.
But the second Dad tugged me over and put a wrench in my hand, everything changed. Fixing things that are broken is what lights me up. With cars, there's always a way. It might be expensive or time-consuming, but I know what I'm doing. I can fix anything.
But I can't fix the way I feel. I can't manage it.
I'm angry. At Ransom, yeah, but also at myself for still caring. I want to scream, to break something. But I'm also tired. So damn tired of carrying this hurt around.
Seeing him brought it all back. The good and the bad. The way he made me laugh. The way he left without a word. The dreams we shared. The trust he shattered.
I pull my knees to my chest, feeling small in the big, empty garage. But it's not as comforting as it usually is. It's home, more than any house. It's my sanctuary. It's what I've chosen.
And now he's back to ruin everything. Even if he turns around and leaves like I told him to, it's still ruined. Because I can't lie to myself anymore. I can't pretend he doesn't matter anymore.
And that little traitorous corner of my heart is whispering, What if? What if he's changed? What if it was all a mistake? What if he really did love me?
My heart is a fucking fool.
I shake my head, trying to clear my thoughts. It doesn't matter what I feel. He made his choice years ago. I've made mine every day since.
My thoughts are spinning out of control, and I need a distraction. Without really thinking about it, I find myself walking the few blocks to O'Malley's, the local bar. It's a Thursday night, but there's not much to do in this town, so everyone seems to gather at the bar. Even the sewing circle from the church meets here.
As I push open the heavy wooden door, the familiar smell of beer and fries washes over me. The low hum of conversation fills the air, and I spot a group of familiar faces gathered around a large table in the corner. There's music, but not loud enough to drown out the conversation. Because this might be a bar, but most people come here for the community, not the booze. Well, except for a few die-hards bellied up to the bar. But even those folks are part of the community and come here to be a part of things in their own way. I trade nods with a few other people as I make my way over to the group.
"Blair!" Angie calls out, waving me over. "We were just talking about you!"
I slide into an empty chair, grateful for the company. "Well, fuck. Why?"
Angie snorts and pours me a beer from the jug on the table. "Relax. It's nothing bad. We've been talking, and I figured someone should call you to be a part of it all. And you just waltz right in, like you know we needed you."
"It's fate," I say dryly, taking a sip of the beer. It's already flat. The bubbles are the only good thing about beer, so I stick out my tongue and breathe the taste away, then shove it toward Mike sitting on my other side. He shakes his head at me.
"Why the fuck do you even give her beer, Angie? You know she doesn't like it."
Angie just shrugs and leans back in her chair, yelling out to the bartender. "Sarah, can you bring Blair her usual?"
"Yep," Sarah yells back as she pops the tops off the six bottles lined up on the bar. She makes it look so easy and cool. Everything about Sarah is cool, from the tattoos lining her arms to the earrings that go all the way up her ear.
"Maybe I should get my ears pierced."
Angie winces. "Honey, I'm not sure that's a great idea. You remember how it went last time?"
"Yeah. But I didn't mean to punch him. And I'm older now. I could handle it."
Tom, the science teacher/football coach from the high school, chokes and pounds on his chest. "Wasn't that just last year?"
"Yeah," I say, staring at him. "Like I said, I'm older now." Tom shuts up, but he's got a look on his face that makes me want to twist his nipple.
Angie reaches out and pats my hand. "Yeah, you are, honey. I'm sure it'll go better this time. But you're going to have to find someone else to do it. Pretty sure that guy put a picture of your face up in his shop with a big red line through it."
"I wouldn't want to go back there anyway. He probably had a ton of health violations."
Angie just rolls her eyes. "Sure, honey. We'll go somewhere else. You let me know when, and I'll be there." She says it in a patronizing way, like she's just humoring me.
I glare at her, but she just raises an eyebrow, unfazed. "You're annoying. Why are we friends?"
"I ask myself that very thing all the time. The only answer I can come up with? Because this is a small town, and there just aren't that many options."
"Make sense," I mutter as I thank the waitress who delivers my drink. I take a long sip through the straw and sigh. "That's more like it."
Mike groans. "My teeth hurt just looking at that."
I take another long draw of my Shirley Temple and show him my teeth. "Good thing I'm not interested in sharing."
"Did you hear about the Johnsons?" Erin asks, her voice tinged with sadness. "They're moving to the city next month. Said there's just not enough opportunity here for their kids."
A collective sigh ripples through the group. It's a story we've heard too many times lately. It’s not a new story either. Dad spouted the same stuff. I guess it’s true. If you’re not farming, or own some sort of business serving farmers, it’s a grind. I do okay, but not everyone has. It feels like ever year, a few more stores get boarded up.
"That's the third family this year," Mike grumbles, running a hand through his dark hair.
My chest is tight. I hate the changes I see every day. The town has been struggling for years, but it seems to be getting worse. "What are we going to do?" I ask, not really expecting an answer.
Angie's eyes light up. "I've been thinking about that," she says, leaning forward. "What if we formed a town committee? You know, of our generation. The young ones."
Tom snorts into his beer. "Hate to break it to you, Ang, but we're all pushing forty. Not sure anyone would call us young anymore."
"Yeah, when did that happen?" I mutter, more to myself than anyone else. I don't feel like I'm in my forties. I feel the same as I did twenty years ago.
Okay, that's a lie. My shoulder's funny, and my right knee has started making a little clicking noise when I go up the steps. Max thinks it's funny. I think it's fucked.
But other than the physical stuff, I still feel like a kid wishing Dad was around to make everything all better. Only there's no one left but me to make things right. No one left but me to take care of everything and everyone.
And some days, that's crushing.
Angie waves her hand dismissively. "That's exactly my point," she insists. "Look around. In this town, we are the young ones. There aren't enough kids, enough families. We need to find a way to draw them back."
The table falls silent as we all consider her words. She's right, of course. The town is aging, and if we don't do something soon, it might not survive. I know I've been thinking it. Anyone who's been here more than twenty years is, too. It's like we're watching something die a slow, painful death.
But this isn't like Maggie. I can do something about this death. Or at least, I can try.
"How the fuck are we supposed to do that?" Tom asks, muscled shoulders bunching as he scrubs at his jaw. It's a good question. How the hell do we draw people to this town? Angie's last plan, or her ex-fiancé's plan, the mini-mansions, fell flat on its fucking face.
"What if we started a yearly festival?" Erin suggests, her eyes lighting up. "Or build something unique that could draw people from all over."
"Like what? The world's largest ball of twine?" Mike snorts.
"Actually, that's not a bad idea. People love weird stuff like that." I love weird stuff like that.
"Yes!" Erin says. "I drove to a library conference in Michigan last summer, and I stopped in a few small towns along the way. I like to visit other little libraries to see what they're doing. Some of them had little roadside tourist attractions that pulled people in."
"Okay, but let's think bigger," Angie says, tapping her fingers on the table. "What about a music festival? We've got that big field just outside town."
Tom shakes his head. "Where would we get the bands? And the equipment? That's a huge undertaking. And not cheap."
"Fair point," Angie concedes. "But we're onto something with events. What else could we do?"
"Ooh, I've got it!" Sarah chimes in from behind the bar. "Extreme knitting championships!"
The rest of the table bursts out laughing, but I don't see why. It's not a bad idea. Yarn folk are a little nuts, so I could see that drawing people in. "Yeah, that'll really bring in the crowds," I say.
"Hey, don't knock it," Sarah defends. "You'd be surprised how competitive knitters can get."
I want to explain to her that I wasn't knocking it, but the conversation's already moved on. I'll have to tell her later. This isn't the first time someone got the wrong idea, and I've learned it's easier to clarify myself later. It's a 'face and voice doesn't match words' thing. I'm better than I used to be; I've practiced, but once in a while, this still happens.
I don't let it bother me much anymore. And if it's really important, I'm not shy about correcting people right at the moment. And everyone at this table—people I've known for years, and in some cases decades—have learned this about me, so I don't have to worry about offending or upsetting them.
It makes my life a fuck of a lot more comfortable.
As the night wears on, the ideas get wilder. Mike suggests a cheese-rolling competition down Main Street. Erin proposes a literary festival featuring only books about small towns. Tom, after a few more beers, even floats the idea of a nude calendar featuring the town's "finest specimens" to raise money.
"Alright, alright," Angie says, trying to rein us in. "Some of these are... interesting. But we need something practical."
I lean back in my chair, thinking. "What about focusing on what we already have? We have a lot of classic car enthusiasts in the area. I see some beauties come through the garage. Maybe we could expand on that?" Dad and I built a reputation for quality work, so it's not unusual for someone to drive an hour or two to have me take care of their precious babies. I like the work, and I like the people—most of them are happy to sit in a lawn chair in the garage and chat while we work.
Small talk annoys me, but I can talk about cars for hours.
"A classic car show?" Tom perks up. "That could work. We've got the space for it."
"And it would bring in people with money to spend," Angie adds, nodding very enthusiastically, her chin nearly tipping her glass over. How many beers has she had?
"We could tie it in with other local businesses," Erin suggests. "Like, have a 50s-themed weekend. The diner could do special menus; we could have dance lessons in the town square..."
The energy at the table shifts. Suddenly, it feels like we're onto something real.
"This is good," Angie says, her eyes sparkling. "This is the kind of thinking we need. But we can't just leave it as bar talk. We need to make it happen."
She stands up, swaying slightly. "I propose we form an official town revitalization committee. Who's in?"
There's a moment of hesitation. We all look at each other, gauging reactions.
"Fuck it," I say, raising my hand. "I'm in."
One by one, the others join in. Even Sarah, wiping down the bar, raises her hand.
"Alright then," Angie grins, looking around at all of us. "Committee formed. We'll have our first official meeting next week. Same time, same place?"
We all nod, some of us a little more enthusiastically than others. No way would anyone agree to a committee a few hours ago, but the booze has made them think they could pull it off.
And I hope they're right, because I'm all in on this town. My whole world is here, and I am not going anywhere. But if the town just... fades away, there will be nothing left for me. Maybe I would just fade away too.
No way am I going to let that happen.