Chapter 3 #2
I don’t mind the gossip. I really don’t.
If it bothered me that much, I would have stayed in Glenwood Springs after college or moved down to Denver.
Or even done something crazy and moved out of state, the way a lot of the older folks do, when shoveling snow and making sure pipes don’t freeze gets to be too much.
It’s what my mom did, and I don’t blame her for it at all.
But I love High Lonesome. I love the donkey races down High Street in the fall, the winter parade each November where one of the retired folks dresses up like Jack Frost and scares kids with their face paint.
The ridiculous bet on when the lake will melt each spring, timed by a large, bright-orange box set in the center of the frozen lake once the ice is thick enough to walk on.
When the box falls through the ice, whoever picked that day is the winner.
Even the weird opera festival thing is kind of fun.
This is home, and it’ll always be home. I don’t mind people knowing about my past, because I know all about theirs, too.
I lean back in my chair, looking out at the mountain peaks that are visible through the window. It’s fucking gorgeous up here all year round, which is one of the things I love most. It helps make up for the fact that it’s so cold that you can’t feel your nuts for about five months of the year.
I run a hand over my chin. I’m clean shaven for now, but once it gets colder, I’ll grow a beard for insulation against the harsh winds of the HiLo winters.
I wonder what Rory would think of the beard.
Back in high school, I was always clean shaven, even in winter. Actually, that implies that I had something to shave. My ability to grow facial hair didn’t really kick in until freshman year of college, around the same time I grew another four inches to top out at six foot four.
With the height and my muscular build, I’d have made a damn good city cop. During the winter months, the beard adds another layer of intimidation that’s mostly wasted in a small town where I rescue cats from trees.
“So, when is the reunion?” Conrad’s back to tossing his ball, throwing it directly upward and catching it on the way down.
“Just under two weeks. They didn’t exactly plan ahead on this one, but a lot of us live in town.
The ones who live farther away probably wouldn’t make it anyway.
” I heard about it a week and a half ago, before the invitations went out, because I overheard Yvonne Parrish talking in her usual loud, self-important voice at the coffee shop.
Of all the people who decided to leave town after school, she’s one of the few I wish hadn’t decided to stay.
Our radios crackle with static at the same time as the dispatcher requests an officer to an address a few streets over.
“Your turn,” I say to Conrad.
We know the address well. It’s Mrs. Alpert’s house.
She’s a seventy-something-year-old widow and a former teacher at the high school.
She’s a lovely woman, if a bit lonely, and she has a vivid imagination.
We’re called over there at least once a week, usually when she thinks someone is in her bushes or putting something in her mailbox or hiding in a tree outside her bedroom window.
Once, she called to alert us that her prize rosebush had been stolen. Conrad had to dig through the icy layers on the front lawn to assure her that the bush was still there, just hidden beneath the snow.
But it’s usually the same—we search the small property, reassure her that there’s no threat, and in return for our service, she gives us tea and cookies.
I’ve wondered, the last few times I’ve been out there, if it’s really that she’s imagining the concerns she calls in or if she’s just looking for company.
Conrad puts on his Lonesome High Police baseball cap as he heads for his cruiser, leaving Ollie and me alone in the station.
I try to focus on the paperwork in front of me, but every time I read a line, another memory floats into my mind.
Several memories, really, blending together like a montage in a movie.
Kissing Rory for the first time behind the bleachers after the Lonesome Pine Hawks won the homecoming football game.
Walking through the hallways between class periods hand in hand.
Cheering her on at her field hockey games on those rare occasions she dragged herself away from the barn.
Dancing together at the homecoming dance.
At prom.
Standing together in the high school gym in our caps and gowns, waiting to be handed our diplomas so we could start our lives.
I push a hand through my hair. Every memory of that time in my life has her in it. It’s not that I haven’t thought of her until now. I think about her all the time. She’s the one who got away, my high school sweetheart I thought I was destined to marry.
The one who makes me still hold on to a thread of hope that maybe, someday, we’ll have another chance.
My phone lights up with a text.
Rory
I’ve been thinking some more.
I’m going to come to the reunion.
Will you be my date? We don’t have to make a big deal out of it. I’ll stay at the motel or with my parents and we can just meet there or whatever.
A smile spreads across my face. Maybe all these years of carrying the proverbial torch for Rory weren’t useless. This could be our chance to reconnect.
I start to type out a reply, then frown.
I don’t want her staying in a motel. The one motel in town isn’t exactly the Ritz.
And if it’s up to me, I do want to make a big deal out of it.
I want to talk to her, get to know about her life, and hear everything about what she’s been up to in the last ten years.
I want to remind her about our pact, the one we made that day in the high school gym.
I’m happy to be your date. But don’t stay in a motel. I have a house. You can stay with me.
Thank you, but no need. I’ll check with my parents. And I don’t mind staying at the motel if I have to.
I take a breath. This is a gamble, and she could just decide to take someone else as her date. But I have to give it a shot.
You want me as your date, you stay at my place. I’ll send you the address.