Chapter 7 #3
Pop waves a hand. “He ain’t interested unless you fall in.”
We continue moving along. Trap after trap, we fill the coolers as the sun climbs higher. By the time we’re done, all the cold beer is gone, and we’ve got more than enough crawfish for today’s festivities.
We head back, the boats cutting through the now-bright water, the bayou fully awake around us.
A while later at Pop’s, the place comes alive quickly.
I haul the crawfish around the back of Pop’s house, dump them into large bins, run water through them, and start the purging process. The crawfish shift and snap as the water churns, cleaning them out.
Behind me, the rest of the guys start setting up boilers, grills, and tables. The scent of propane and charcoal mixes with everything else, with the promise of food and a long day settling into the air.
Hours pass.
And just like that, Pop’s yard is filled with family and friends.
Laughter and voices are layered over one another.
I stand off to the side for a minute, a cold beer in hand, watching it all unfold as I toss another log onto the burn pile for later, thinking to myself, this is my world, but their families.
And I’m part of it, but not quite inside it.
I take a pull from the beer, letting the cold cut through the heat of the day.
And for the hundredth time today, my eyes cut to her.
Ruby.
She’s standing with the women, tucked in close as if she’s wearing them like armor. She glances up. Our eyes meet, and just as quickly, she looks away.
Something in my chest shifts.
I exhale slowly, watching as the women subtly shift around her.
Protective.
Guarded.
Their eyes flick toward me. Their faces are neither hostile nor quite friendly, and that’s how I know that they know.
Of course, they do.
I take another drink, turn, and head toward the porch. Tossing the empty bottle in the trash, I grab another from the cooler and move to the steps, where I sit.
I don’t mean to keep looking at her.
But I do.
Ruby laughs at something one of the women says. Her body language is soft and easy, as though nothing bad has ever touched her.
But I know better.
My jaw tightens as the memory of that morning presses in.
Her face.
That tear.
“Son.” Pop’s voice cuts through.
I glance over. He’s in his rocking chair with a mason jar in his hand.
“You’re gonna wear a hole through that girl if you keep starin’ like that,” he says.
I huff a breath. “Ain’t starin’.”
Pop snorts. “Son, I’ve seen quieter storms do more damage.”
I don’t respond.
Don’t need to.
Pop rocks slowly, sipping from the jar. Silence settles between us for a minute before he speaks again, “Lovin’ again doesn’t mean you’re replacin’ someone.
” His words land quietly but heavily. I don’t look at him or react, but he keeps going, “Life doesn’t work like that,” he says.
“Ain’t like you got one seat in your heart and once it’s filled, that’s it. Done deal.”
I shift slightly, bottle resting between my hands.
Pop rocks again, slow and steady. “The heart is more like the bayou,” he continues. “You lose somethin’ out there, the water doesn’t stop flowin’. It keeps right on movin’. It keeps changin’. But it doesn’t mean what was there before didn’t matter. Just means there’s room for what comes next.”
My jaw tightens. “That ain’t how it feels,” I mutter.
“No,” he agrees. “It ain’t.” He leans forward slightly. “But feelin’ and truth ain’t always the same thing.”
I glance at him, understanding that loss has shaped every chapter of his journey too.
He smiles faintly, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.
He nods toward the horizon where the sun is starting to dip, painting everything in gold and fire.
“See that?” he says. “The sun goes down every day. Same damn way. People think it’s the end of somethin’.
” He takes a slow drink. “But it ain’t. It’s just the other side of it and the beginnin’ of somethin’ else. ”
I don’t say anything.
Don’t trust myself to.
Pop reaches beside his chair, grabs a larger mason jar, and hands it to me. “Drink.”
I take it, the liquid inside is clear, and I tip it back.
The burn hits hard.
Sharp.
Hot.
Like fire dragging down my throat and settling in my chest.
I cough once.
Pop chuckles. “That’ll wake you up.”
I stare out at the sunset, the sky bleeding into hues of oranges and deep reds. And before I can stop myself, I say, “I feel like I’m betrayin’ her.” The words come out rough and unsteady.
“Guilt ain’t love,” he says after a beat. “And holdin’ onto pain doesn’t honor the dead, son. It only keeps you from livin’.”
That lands deep, taking root, and I take another drink.
The burn doesn’t hit as hard this time.
We sit there in silence as the sun dips lower, fireflies start to flicker at the edges of the yard, and the air cools just enough to breathe easier. And for the first time in a long time, I don’t just think about what I lost. I think about what could be.
It isn’t clear.
But it’s there.
And maybe, just maybe…
That’s enough for now.