Chapter 7 Brynn #2
“You mean apart from the fact that the only honest, authentic words that ever come out of your mouth are the ones you don’t mean for anyone
to hear?”
“Yes! Apart from that!” Hang on. “I mean...”
He crossed his arms and laughed, so pleased with himself. Who is this guy?
I pointed my finger in his face. “No, listen. That’s not fair. That’s not what I meant. I’m not saying you’re right.”
“I know that it all came too easy to you.”
“What did?”
“Success. Fame.”
I scoffed. “Nothing came easy. Nothing . But by all means, please feel free to speak as the authority on my life story. And remind me... What was it you said you do for a living?”
“Maybe if you had stopped talking for ten seconds—”
“Oh no.” I shook my head. “I heard you. City councilor. Driver. Bartender. House of ill repute.” His smirk mellowed.
That’s right. I’m not the self-absorbed dingbat you think I am.
“But it’s the newspaper thing that’s probably the key here.
You’re a journalist, right? Because you’re resurrecting a little
town newspaper that was only ever good for town gossip and articles stolen from real newspapers? Great. Good for you. I’m sure, in your mind, that qualifies you to look down your nose at me with your journalistic
integrity and your ‘fourth estate’ self-righteousness because you would never make the same mistake I made. Am I close?”
He glowered at me for a couple of seconds and then turned away from me, muttering to himself as he did. Interesting. I’d touched on something finally.
“Is that it? Are you hoping to get some story on me for a nice little column in your nice little paper? Is bringing out the worst in me supposed to lead to your big break?”
“Now you’re just embarrassing yourself. As if you haven’t done that enough already.” He stormed back over to me. “Listen,
I don’t know what you expected, but there’s no big welcome wagon waiting for you. I think that if you hope to save yourself
from further embarrassment, it’s important you understand that. No one is looking forward to seeing you. No one wanted you
to come. That’s the truth.”
I think I’d known that. At least I’d suspected. That didn’t keep it from stinging a little, but that didn’t matter. Not really.
I wasn’t here to deal with the skeletons of my past or make sure we all got back on each other’s Christmas card lists. I just
needed to put on a good performance. To create some good television. And once that happened, none of us had to be in the same
room ever again.
“Besides,” he continued, “I wouldn’t run that piece if my only options were an in-depth exposé on you or the raccoon that keeps turning over garbage cans on Banyon.”
“Oh, you’re hilarious. Well, let me give you a little advice, journalist to journalist—”
A scornful expression overtook his face. “You’re no journalist.”
“But you are, I suppose?”
He opened his mouth, but no words came out. I crossed my arms and raised my eyebrows, anxiously awaiting whatever gem was
about to fill the air between us, but he disappointed me.
“I’ll be back at eight tomorrow morning.” I nodded, feeling a bit of whiplash from the sudden pivot to logistics. But disdain
was back, lickety-split. “If you’re going to have breakfast, you need to do it before then. I’ll drive you and Orly around,
but I’m not your tour guide and I’m not your den mother. I’m not here to serve you. I’m here to keep you in check. I’m running this. Not you.”
Without another word, not even so much as a cordial “Get out of my way,” he walked past me and slammed the passenger-side door closed. Then he circumnavigated the vehicle, climbed in the driver’s seat, and screeched back onto Main Street.
It remained to be seen whether or not I would reunite with old friends, but it was pretty evident I would not be making any
new ones.
***
I grumbled to myself as I watched his taillights fade into the night. Finally, I was thinking of comebacks. Of all the things
I should have said. Too little, too late—but there was always tomorrow.
I looked up at the familiar old house and sighed. Adrenaline subsided and blood resumed its normal flow, and once again I
felt the wind and realized how cold it was. That was reason enough to go in, even if everything else in me would have just
as soon headed to the highway, stuck out my thumb, and hopped in with the first non-axe-murdery-looking person to come along.
Wouldn’t have been the first time.
I walked up the wooden steps and peeked in as much as I could through the frosted glass window in the door. I could see shapes
and light, but nothing to give me any indication as to whether I would be greeted on the other side by friend or foe.
“Here goes nothing,” I muttered.
I turned the knob and walked inside and, thankfully, saw Orly first thing. Oh yeah. I did have a friend here. Or at least one person who maybe didn’t absolutely hate me. He was sitting on a leather couch in front
of a fireplace that I didn’t remember being there in the past. No one else was around.
“Everything okay?” he asked, craning his neck over his shoulder.
I looked around the room and tried to reconcile the old memories with the new observations.
It didn’t look all that different, actually.
Yes, the fireplace was new, and there was a reservation desk by the door where Laila’s grandparents had housed their china hutch, but it wasn’t so different that I couldn’t still see Addie playfully hiding in the corner behind the coatrack when Doc came to pick her up, or Wes and Cole politely hanging out in the foyer, acting like they weren’t over here all the time when Clarence and Hazel were away.
“How do you know that Sebastian guy?” I asked Orly as I plopped down in the armchair next to the couch where he sat.
A yawn escaped from him before he lowered his feet from the ottoman in front of him and turned to face me. “We worked together.”
I did a double take. Small-town city councilman, driver, bartender, black-market trader, and self-proclaimed journalist. I
didn’t know much about Orly’s background, but one of those careers seemed like a more probable meeting point for the two of
them than the others. Still, Orly was obviously significantly older. And if he’d been working at the network level long enough
to be a favorite of Brokaw or Jennings or Rather or whichever of them I’d heard through the grapevine had considered Orly
the one they depended on, it was unlikely he and Sebastian had ever inhabited a local affiliate studio together.
“Did you used to moonlight at a bar or something? Were you and Sebastian some Tom Cruise and Bryan Brown–type Cocktail duo?” I smiled. “‘Hippy Hippy Shake’ and all that?”
It was his turn to do a double take. And then he just kept staring at me, his jaw slack and his eyes wide.
“What?” I finally asked with a shrug. “I’m kidding, obviously.”
He looked around the empty room and then turned back to me and whispered, “He’s Sebastian Sudworth.”
What was it going to take for me to get the two of them to understand those words meant nothing to me? “Okay . . .”
“Oh, wow.” He began laughing as he pushed himself up from the couch. “I’m heading to bed. See you in the morning.”
“Hang on!” I jumped up and hurried after him as he walked past the registration desk toward the staircase. My mind was suddenly
full of questions, but first things first. “Where are you going? Where am I supposed to go?” I looked around the room as he had a moment earlier, not that there was much point. We were alone. “Is anyone
going to get us checked in?”
He pointed toward my suitcase and overnight bag by the desk. On top of them sat a key on a big, vintage-looking key chain
with the number 9 on it in gold lettering. “The innkeeper was here and got me checked in, and then she excused herself to her room. She said
we’re the only guests, so just make ourselves at home. There are some cold cuts in the fridge if you’re hungry.”
“Oh. Okay.” Only two visitors passing through town at any given time. Some things hadn’t changed at all.
“Good night,” he said as he yawned once again and began walking up the stairs.
“Good night, Orly.” I glanced down at my watch and then studied it, trying to make sense of what I was seeing. Was it really
only 8:00 p.m.? I would have sworn it was much later. But then again, both Orly and I operated on the Sunup schedule, which began each day long before the sun was actually up.
I turned around and faced the front door to make sure I had shut it behind me when I came in and was surprised to see there
was still as much sunlight as moonlight reflecting off the snow plowed on the side of the road. Oh, good grief. I looked down at my Apple Watch again and fidgeted around to turn off Airplane Mode. The time instantly changed to 6:01 p.m.,
and I was somehow more exhausted than I had been when I was still operating on Eastern time.
I moseyed into the kitchen and discovered that apart from an island that had been added and some updated appliances, it looked pretty much the same as it had twenty years prior.
Muscle memory kicked in, and I felt my hand reaching for the cabinet with the plates; my other hand reaching to pull out the utensil drawer.
I knew I would find bread in the bread box next to the toaster and a cutting board in the cabinet next to the sink.
The familiarity seemed to chase away my appetite.
I reached into the refrigerator and grabbed a slice of cheddar cheese from the prepared tray of cold cuts, folded it over,
and stuffed it into my mouth. I picked up another slice for good measure before closing the fridge and pocketed an apple from
the fruit bowl on the counter before heading back to the entryway. I picked up the key Orly had left on my luggage and turned
the key chain over in my hand.
The Inn Between
Adelaide Springs, Colorado
Josephine Stoddard, Proprietor
A lump formed in my throat at the sight of her name, and I was suddenly grateful that my aggravating time with Sebastian had
kept me outside until Mrs. Stoddard excused herself for the night. I wondered if I could manage to leave before she got up
and get in after she went to bed for the entire week.
Talk about someone I was pretty sure had already been ancient when I was a child...
Mrs. Stoddard had been our teacher in second grade and again in fifth when they were still bussing us to the elementary school in the next county.
By high school, when the district no longer had the funds to transport us the thirty-something miles to Del Norte every day, and Adelaide Springs reopened its own school for the first time in a couple of generations, Mrs. Stoddard pretty much taught us everything.
She’d been the principal in addition to teaching every math class through all four years, and she also stepped in as the most frequent substitute in every subject across every grade.
She’d also served as our de facto guidance counselor and, to steal Sebastian’s term, den mother. Sometimes she’d been closer
to an actual mother. Addie lost hers in fifth grade, but she still had Doc. When Wes lost his mom senior year, he didn’t have anyone.
And, of course, I might as well not have had a mother. Most days, I wished I didn’t.
Mrs. Stoddard stepped in for all of us.
I looked down at my watch one more time—6:04 p.m. I stuffed the second piece of cheese into my mouth and then carried my bags
up the stairs and peered down the hall. There were five doors with numbers on them, and none of them were mine. With dread
but also a sense of inevitability, I looked up the next flight of stairs. Of course room 9 was the clubhouse. Of course Mrs.
Stoddard had put me in the room where I would, undoubtedly, be assaulted by memories across every square foot.
A little touch of hypothermia in the back of Sebastian’s Bronco was starting to sound pretty appealing.