Chapter 5
Nate
“Everything okay?” Marge asks as she pops a scone into a white paper bag and hands it over the scarred wood of the counter. “You look concerned.”
Looking up from my phone, I take the bag and give her a smile. I’m not concerned at all, actually. Surprised, maybe, and a little stressed, because this doesn’t give me much notice. I kind of figured I’d have more of a heads-up before she got here.
Rory’s always been rational, to the point of overthinking almost every situation. So I’m not sure why Rory is deciding to come up today on what feels like a whim, although I’m realizing that after ten years, I may not know her at all. Maybe this is her now.
The short notice has my stomach churning, although the bright spot is that hopefully this means we can clear the air sooner.
“Everything’s fine. I told you my ten-year high school reunion is coming up, right?”
Marge puts a hand to her chest and tosses her head of gray hair back with dramatic flair. “So you said, but it’s hard to believe. All these kids growing up around me, and yet here I haven’t aged a day.”
I don’t even bother to hold back my snort of laughter. The coffee shop owner is at least sixty, her weathered face a testament to her years and wisdom. She’s been running Lone Brews as long as I can remember, and the shop hasn’t changed since we were kids.
Besides being a fixture as the only coffee shop in town, Marge and her cafe also serve as the hub for town gossip. This is where people come to talk about their neighbors, comment on their lives, and speculate about pretty much everything.
I wonder off-handedly where HiLo residents gathered to talk about one another before Marge opened her shop in the old bookstore.
“You don’t look a day over thirty, Marge.” I bite into the scone, the sweetness of the vanilla icing spreading over my tongue. “You remember Rory Kelley?”
Marge wipes down the countertop with a rag. “Of course I remember little Aurora. How’s she doing? I remember what that girl did to you in high school, of course. I hope she’s apologized for that.”
Not exactly. That’s part of the reason I wanted her to come and stay with me.
We have a lot to talk about. Not just the breakup, but the reasons behind it.
It’s been ten years, and I still don’t understand why she dumped me.
It’s made it hard to have closure and to move on, no matter how hard I’ve tried.
Rory said it was for the best, that she was doing it for me, but there had to be more explanation for the out-of-the-blue breakup.
“She’s doing well,” I say. “That voicemail I just got was from her. She’s headed up here. She’s going to stay in town for a little bit before the reunion. I’ll have to have her come by and say hi.”
Marge’s eyes light up. I’m not sure if it’s in response to the idea of seeing Rory, who hasn’t been back to HiLo in years, or in response to the tidbit of gossip I just fed her.
“Oh, isn’t that lovely? You’ll tell her I said hi, won’t you? Better yet, you two should stop by the shop. I’ll make her a latte or a cold brew or whatever the kids these days are drinking.”
I chuckle, taking another bite of the scone.
These things are fantastic. Marge gets all her baked goods locally, most of them made by Janet, who owns a pastry shop just off High Street.
She and Mom were friends while I was growing up, and we got to taste test her new creations. I’d always save some to bring to Rory.
But Rory’s all grown up now.
“She’s not exactly a kid anymore, either, Marge. Twenty-eight, almost. Her birthday is right after the reunion.”
For Rory and me, twenty-eight is an important milestone. Because twenty-eight felt like a million years away back when we made our pact. We thought we’d be grown-ups by then, have the world figured out.
Turns out the joke was on us. I know how to pay taxes and fix a blown fuse and clean my gutters now, but I’m pretty far from having the world figured out.
I check my watch. If there’s no traffic, she should be here in just under an hour. I cross my fingers that she actually sees my text and stops by to see me.
“I need to get going, Marge. I’ll tell Rory to stop in. Tomorrow, maybe.”
Marge holds up a hand to make me wait. “Here”—she reaches into the cabinet—“take a scone for her.”
She pops the scone into a paper bag and hands it to me.
“Thanks, Marge,” I say, my mouth watering, even though I just barely finished my own pastry. Rory will never know if I eat this one, right?
Her sharp gaze narrows on me. “Don’t go eating that yourself. It’s for Rory.”
Hanna’s Market is the closest thing we have to a grocery store in town.
There’s a larger supermarket about thirty minutes away that I try to hit every couple of weeks, but Hanna’s carries the essentials, most at a steep markup for the convenience.
And we all gladly pay the extra cost because the idea of driving thirty minutes in the snow and ice that buries this town in the winter is a daunting prospect.
I pick up the essentials—bread, milk, cheese, apples, and a frozen pizza. A couple of bananas to put in a fruit bowl with the apples to make it seem like I’m a functional adult who has a fruit bowl.
I pick up a bowl, too.
I pause by the alternative milks. I swear this section grows every time I’m in this store. It seems like so many people are off dairy these days. I peruse the options. Almond milk, oat milk, coconut, cashew, pea protein.
Hold up. Pea protein? That’s a milk? How the…
Never mind. I’m better off not knowing.
I shake my head as I turn away from the dairy cooler—or non-dairy cooler, as it were.
If Rory ends up staying with me and wants something other than good old-fashioned milk from a cow, she can come choose her own beverage.
There are too many options here, and several of them are more than a little suspicious.
Seriously. Pea protein? I didn’t know peas had protein, and if they do, how do they get the protein out of the peas and then make it into milk? Is the milk green?
Still trying to figure out the wonder of pea protein milk, I wander down the pet aisle, where I pick up a couple of chew toys for Ollie and toss them into my basket.
I draw the line at buying a six-pack of beer for a couple of reasons.
The most important is that I truly do want to have a conversation with Rory, and I don’t want her fuzzy-headed.
Also, state law dictates that any alcoholic beverage sold outside of a licensed liquor store can only contain, at most, 3.
2 percent alcohol. And only tourists fall into the trap of buying three-two beer, as we call it.
If we need to drink, we can hit either of the local bars.
There are two, one on either side of the town hall on High Street.
One—The Church Bar—is directly across from the market where I am now, while High Times is across from Lone Brews. Everyone has their favorite.
For the record, High Times has better wings.
Church has a better beer selection. It also gets extra points for the coolness factor of being a bar in an old church building.
When the local Methodist church combined with the one a couple of towns over and moved into their building permanently, a local bought the building and turned it into the bar, and the guys on the force have unanimously chosen Church as our preferred hangout.
“Hey, Nate. How’s it going?”
I turn to find the source of the voice. Officer Jake Dornbach is standing in the frozen foods section, holding two boxes in his hands. He’s in uniform, so my guess is he’s picking up something for dinner at the station.
I wander toward him. “Hey, Jake. You on duty?”
He snorts. “No, I just wear the uniform to pick up chicks. Yeah, I’m on duty. Think I should enjoy the culinary masterpiece that is frozen macaroni and cheese, or take a chance on the enchilada dish?”
I study the two boxes he’s holding. Really, all of us in the police department should learn to cook.
There’s a full kitchen at the station—plus, in our small town, most of us can go home while we’re on duty since we live within the town limits.
But most of us end up just like Jake, microwaving frozen dinners all too frequently.
I glance at the frozen pizza in my cart. At least it’s not like I’m the only one relying on pre-packaged frozen foods to keep me alive.
“I’d go mac and cheese, man. Or see if Mountain High Pizza is open.
” The pizza place is the only one in town, but when the pizza is as good as theirs, you only need one.
The frozen one in my cart suddenly seems sub-par, thinking of the pizza shop a few streets over from my house, and I stick the box back in the freezer.
“I checked. They closed early. It’s Mel’s kid’s birthday.”
Mel, the owner of Mountain High Pizza, was a few years ahead of me in school. Like plenty of town residents, she married her high school sweetheart, took over her dad’s business, and popped out three kids. One of whom has a birthday today, apparently.
“Well, in that case, I’d say mac and cheese.”
He nods, studying the box. “I’ve got to learn to cook, man.”
I laugh. “You and me both.” I give him a pat on the shoulder. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Good luck with the frozen dinners. If you cook it at the station, make sure you double the cook time in the microwave.”
Jake nods, distracted. He looks like he may be on the brink of an existential crisis.
When you live in a small town in the middle of nowhere, you get used to that look. I know I’ve displayed the look a time or two. When your life is condensed to a choice of two bars and a choice of two frozen dinners, you start to wonder if there’s more.
And the answer is, of course, yes. There is more.
But not in High Lonesome. And this is why we prefer to hire locals.
Because non-locals like Jake? They last a few seasons, at most. They love the charm of the small town, and they’re willing to stick it out through the shitty weather and weeks on end of sub-zero temperatures.
But when push comes to shove, they want more.
I think that’s what Rory thought I wanted, all those years ago. More.
Or maybe she’s the one who wanted more.
I put away the food and leave the scone from Marge on the counter, eyeing it as I tidy up the kitchen. Seriously, no one would know if I just ate it.
The sheets on the guest bed should be clean, since I haven’t had anyone visit in ages. It’s been over six months since I changed them, though, so I strip the bed and remake it with even cleaner sheets, just in case. I toss the not-really-dirty ones in the washer.
Maybe I’m being too hopeful that she’ll decide to stay with me. I don’t really know her, not anymore. She could be a completely different person.
I’m not under some delusion that she’s going to show up and we’re going to be back in love.
That ship sailed a long time ago. But maybe we can talk, rekindle the friendship that underpinned our relationship back in high school.
Figure out where we went wrong. And at the very least, maybe I can get some closure.
I settle on the couch with a book. A Walk in the Woods is an old favorite, one I can get lost in over and over. The story of an unlikely pair walking the Appalachian Trail interspersed with the history of the trail itself.
I hope she got my text. There’s always a chance she didn’t, and that she’s decided to stay with her brother or somewhere else. If she doesn’t turn up here, I’ll find out tomorrow at Marge’s. Nothing stays a secret in HiLo.
Plus, Rory will end up at Lone Brews herself if she’s a coffee drinker now. It’s the best in town.
Ollie looks at me as I turn the page. He’s probably confused since I tend to spend my evenings watching TV or out at the bar with the guys.
I enjoy reading, but it’s usually something I do in bed before I turn in, my back against a pillow.
Ollie sleeps in his crate in the living room, so he’s not privy to those habits.
“What do you think, Ollie?” I ask, looking over the top of the book. “Think she’ll come over?”
I’m not that worried, honestly. I’ve waited ten years. I can wait a little longer. But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t looking forward to seeing her.
“Just…stay there and don’t hump her leg when she gets here. If she gets here. Okay?”
He gives me a look. I don’t think he’s committed to the no-humping clause or to the good-behavior agreement in general.
Ollie is a force to be reckoned with when he’s wearing his vest, but when he’s off duty, he’s a dog.
A well-behaved one, but not at the level he is while on duty.
It’s what he needs and what’s best for him, but…
Shit. Sometimes I wish he were a perfectly behaved police dog all the time.
I open the book to the chapter where Bill Bryson waxes poetic about the extravagant nature of camping equipment. By the end of one page, I’m fully immersed, and I’m about to start a new chapter when Ollie stands at attention.
He doesn’t bark—he never barks unless instructed—but his ears perk up, listening and analyzing. It’s his way of telling me there’s someone coming to the door.
Usually, it just means there’s a package being dropped off or a food delivery. But I already know it’s not that. There’s only one person I’m expecting tonight.
So I’m already standing in front of the door, ready to answer, when the doorbell rings.