MALLORY
“Why are you doing this?” Josie Boots asks meekly, like the mouse that she is.
I adjust the gun in my hand, the barrel still pointing in the girl’s direction. She needs to know who’s in charge, instead of throwing around accusations. All these mouth breathers nowadays who have no business judging others.
“Derek disappeared for twenty-five years,” I continue.
“So imagine my surprise when several weeks ago, he walked into the gas station where I work. I froze on the spot. He’d barely changed.
Older, sure, but still a full head of black hair.
No wrinkles. Same confidence. For a second, a brief second, I thought he’d come back for me.
Too late, but I still would’ve given him a chance. ”
The sad thing is—and I don’t tell Josie Boots this, because it’s none of her business—he didn’t recognize me.
That was what ticked me off. He was flirting with some local mom, twenty years his junior, right there, in front of me, as he was getting a six-pack of beer.
And she laughed gaily, just like every girl had done decades ago in his presence. That was Derek’s charm. Still worked.
When he came over to the cash register to pay, I asked him for his driver’s license. He looked at me with interest. “What, you think I’m that young?” Same charming smile.
“Maybe?” I answered. Stupid, I know, but I wanted to see his name on the license. More than anything, I hoped that he’d hear my voice and recognize me.
James D Sickler, California, the license said. He lived in San Francisco, and I in Burnville.
Suddenly, I had a familiar itch. My body tingled all over. My hands, stomach, feet. A warmth spread all through it at the sight of him. He was back!
I stared at him, trying to bring back the memories in him. I should’ve washed my hair that morning. I should’ve dressed nicely.
“You from around here?” I asked.
“No, just visiting,” he said.
“Staying in the hotel? They are all pretty bad around here.” I was fishing for more information.
He narrowed his eyes on me. “No, just renting a place from old Kepner on Lauren Street.”
“Just as bad,” I murmured, and he smiled broadly, his gaze on me lingering for some time, giving me goose bumps. In twenty-five years, no man had had that effect on me but him.
When he left, I ran to the window, noted his car model and license plate. That very night, I dressed up, put on some makeup and perfume. Did my hair up like I used to back then. Drove to Lauren Street. His car was parked at one of the houses, so I knocked on the door.
He opened right away. “Can I help you?”
“It’s me,” I said.
He frowned. “From the gas station, right?”
“Mallory,” I said. “Remember?”
He looked around in suspicion. “Who?”
“Mallory Blain. Birdie.”
“Birdie, that’s right.” Didn’t look like he remembered, though.
“Can I come in?” I asked.
He let me in, a shitty place with a mattress, old stuff left from the previous tenants. He offered me a Budweiser. What happened to the guy who drank whiskey?
I reminded him who I was, and he smiled, though there was no recognition in his eyes.
“So, why are you back here?” I asked.
And then he told me.