Colt
I swing the mallet, the crack of wood hitting wood echoing through the loblolly pines.
The fence post sinks another satisfying inch into the red clay.
My hands, calloused from eight years in the Corps, sting with the vibration of each strike.
Already, I’m sweating through my shirt, the fabric clinging to my back in the August heat.
I stop, wiping the salt from my eyes with the back of a work glove. This fence is a piece of shit. Half the rails are rotting, and the wire is rusted through where deer pushed their way into the makeshift garden—one of Mom’s many temporary hobbies, each lasting as long as her sobriety.
I don’t know why I’m even bothering. Within weeks, some family or developer looking for a fixer-upper will own this one-point-five acreage, and they’ll probably tear the whole damn fence down anyway. But repairing the perimeter feels cathartic, like maybe there’s one thing I can set right again.
Leaning against the post, I pull from a lukewarm gallon of water. Then I rip off my gloves and stare down at my hands.
I can still feel her.
In my head, Alice had remained thirteen or fourteen years old with braces. She was the little girl who sprinted down the river dock barefoot before curling her body into a tiny cannonball. But the Alice walking toward me last night was no child.
She was wearing a top that draped over curves I had no business noticing. Her hair was pulled back in one of those buns that could be let down in seconds, and her eyes—those wide, blue eyes—were locked on mine. She looked happy. Genuinely, heartbreakingly happy to see me.
And I stood there like an idiot when she hugged me. Until my brain caught up with what was happening. Then I’d wrapped my arms around her, pulling her flush against me.
And that was the mistake.
Because when I held her, I felt the press of her breasts against my chest, the narrowness of her waist, the heat of her breath against my skin. My body—which apparently has zero loyalty to my best friend—instantly reacts to the memory.
“Absolutely the fuck not,” I mutter. Shoving my hands back into the gloves, I pick up the next rail and slide it into the notches, determined not to think about her. Or the way she felt.
Dalton mentioned that she’s been working at the diner. I wonder, for the tenth time today, if she’s there now. She seemed upset last night. It’d only be right to check on her.
I drop the tools where I stand and start walking.
Ten minutes down a blacktop road, the oaks and pines give way to boutiques, antique shops, and an ice cream stand where children chase each other, sticky-faced and laughing. Overhead, the sky stretches wide and blue the way only a Texas sky does.
The scent of the river carries on the breeze.
It’s a muddy, earthy smell that’s always grounded me.
I can’t remember how long it’s been since I took a swim, but Grant, Alice, and I used to spend every Sunday at the bend, jumping off the cypress knees until our skin wrinkled and we raced back home for fried chicken.
I reach the diner—The Buttermilk Cafe.
I walk past it.
When I get to the end of the block, I stare at a window display of knitted scarves and fall leaves, then turn around and walk back. I do this twice more, approaching the front door only to bypass it. My heart is thundering against my ribs in a way I haven’t felt since I was on point in a hot zone.
But I can’t return to working on the fence until I see her. I need to know she’s okay.
I push the door open. Overhead, a bell jingles so loudly that I wince. Anyone in the tristate area now knows I’ve entered The Buttermilk Cafe.
The air smells of bacon, maple syrup, and burnt coffee. My eyes immediately sweep the restaurant, searching for her, but she’s nowhere in sight. The diner is packed with the lunch crowd, so I slide into a vinyl booth in the corner, trying to make myself small, which is comedic given my frame.
"Afternoon. What can I get you?"
A girl who looks like she should be in a high school geometry class instead of a waitress apron stands over me. Her name tag reads Suzanne. She’s got a wad of bubblegum in her mouth and a look of rehearsed exhaustion on her face.
"Coffee. And…" I glance down at the menu. “Two eggs, over easy. Grits. Bacon.” I pause, my gaze darting to the pancake section. “Couple of pancakes.”
"Anyone else joining you?"
“Nope, just me. Thanks.” I hand her the menu, and she flits away.
I scan the room again. Through the kitchen pass-through window, Frank—a man who’s owned this place for as long as I can remember—argues with the cook.
I spot a group of ladies drinking from red plastic cups and sharing a plate of fries, and a few tables down, I see two boys—one older and one younger—that immediately remind me of Warren.
My food arrives quickly, and I dig in, glancing up every few seconds, pretending like it doesn’t matter who I see.
The counter is lined with butts on barstools, cowboy hats resting nearby.
Between every third patron is an arrangement of orange and yellow flowers protruding from a miniature pumpkin, undoubtedly purchased from the florist next door.
The stuff is inescapable. I have no doubt its purpose is to instill a sense of festivity and drive sales of—I check the chalkboard—pumpkin pancakes and apple pie French toast. And yet, the militant fall decorating happening across this entire town makes me feel hollow inside.
“Listen,” a voice booms from the kitchen. “I know meat. Hear me? I know what I’m talkin’ about.”
Frank has a way of both overenunciating every word that starts with a ‘wh’—as if attempting the sound for the first time—and adding a drawl to any others. His lips move aggressively with every ‘who, what’ and ‘where.’
The massive, horizontal man rounds the corner, throwing a rag over his shoulder.
He stops shy of the counter and puts his hands on his hips, inspecting the crowd the same way I did.
When he spots me, a thinking line forms between his eyes.
And then he grins as his mind connects the dots.
He tosses the rag onto a nearby table and makes his way across the room.
Frank stops when his belly presses against the edge of my table. He points at me. “I remember you. You’re that military boy.”
I smile. “I think there’s more than one of us in this town.”
“You come back for your mama’s funeral?”
My breath catches at the question. “How’d you know—?”
“Me and hers was friends. She was a beautiful woman, that one. Real beautiful.”
Horror grips me as I realize what he’s getting at. I try to focus on my eggs, slicing them so that the yolk runs yellow across the plate.
Frank drops his substantial weight into the booth across from me, and I lean back, my fork stilling.
He puts his forearms on the table. “Lotta’ beautiful women in this town.
I need to get out of this restaurant. I’m practically chained to it, you know.
I need to spread my wings.” He lowers his voice, but not by much. “And my seed.”
“Jesus,” I mutter.
Frank produces a pack of Marlboro Golds, taps it against his palm until one protrudes, and then yanks it out with his teeth. He lets it dangle there at the corner of his lips as he says, “Doctor says I gotta cut down on nicotine, so I traded out my Reds for these Golds.”
“I don’t think—”
“Hey,” he interrupts, shoving his heavy frame backward against the booth. The woman sitting on the opposite side throws a startled look over her shoulder. He points at me with the cigarette now, tucking the pack away. “That brother of yours doing alright? Where’d he end up anyhow?”
My eyes drop to my plate. “He’s in Oregon.”
Frank whistles. “Long way from Texas. What’s he doing out there?”
“Uh, he’s with a team of—”
I trail off when an older woman walks by and Frank practically breaks his neck watching her cross to the far side of the restaurant. When he catches her eye, he cocks his head in greeting. She purses her lips and sits down, smoothing her dress beneath her.
And then she returns his smile, just barely.
Frank guffaws and turns back to me. “Goddamn, women just get hotter and hotter as they age. They get that life experience in ‘em and they just don’t want our shit no more and that makes me want to crawl on all fours and bark like a dog, know what I mean?”
“Frank,” I say.
Frank slaps the table. “Well, go on then, tell me what your brother’s up to.”
I breathe in, losing a fighting battle against laughing. “He’s in Oregon. He’s been a firefighter for several years now.”
Frank nods thoughtfully and digs a lighter out of his shirt pocket. “Mm-hmm, mm-hmm. Both of you boys became men of the cloth. I like that. It’s fitting.”
“I think that’s…a religious thing.”
“What is?”
“Man of the cloth. It’s about, like, ministers and pastors.”
Frank flicks the grinder on his lighter and leans in. He sucks on his cigarette and then blows smoke out of the corner of his mouth while shaking his head. “No,” he says. “No, I don’t think so.”
The waitress materializes beside our table, appearing stricken. “Excuse me, Frank. There’s…” She glances around wildly, as if willing someone to save her. She softens her voice. “There’s no smoking in here.”
Frank scrunches up his face. “Says who, Suzanne?”
The girl’s eyes widen. “Y…you do.”
“These. Fuckin’. Rules.” Frank shakes his head, looking at me like I’ll back him up.
“Frank,” I say. “Give her a break.” I look at the girl. “He’s putting it out.”
“Like hell I am.”
I take the cigarette from him and, after considering where to put it, I drop it in my coffee.
“Goddammit, Colt. I’m not getting you another one!” Frank scooches over—the vinyl creaking beneath him—and then rises to his feet. He looks at Suzanne and jabs a thumb over his shoulder. “Grab him another coffee, will you?”
He points at me. “But only because you’re a vet. Otherwise, I’d kick your ass.” Frank thinks deeply for a second. “You think I could kick your ass?”
“Definitely,” I say, biting into a piece of bacon.
Frank sniffs the air and spins toward the kitchen. “What did I say about putting it on the grill?” he hollers, already headed in that direction.
It’s only when he moves that I see her.
Alice comes out of the kitchen with three plates balanced on her arms. Before I can stop myself, a smile forms.
She’s wearing a simple white t-shirt and jeans, a dark green apron tied around her waist. She’s moving through the chaos of the lunch rush with a grace that seems almost balletic. She beams at an older man, laughing at something he says as she refills his water. She looks happy. She looks capable.
She looks like she belongs here, in this sunshine-filled room with these jovial people who clearly adore her.
I should get up. I should leave cash on the table and disappear back into the pines. My brain is screaming at me to get the hell out and leave her to her serene life.
But I can’t move.
The letter in my wallet roots me in place.