Sealed Vindication.

Sealed Vindication. Fiction Workshop, 2005ish.

Cobwebs in the gaps of the gritty brick siding on Ellie’s house twitched in the chilly May morning breeze. There were tiny goose bumps between the blonde hairs on Dylan’s arms. He stood up against the side of the house, broken webs stuck to the back of his grey t-shirt. He watched Ellie as she gently dusted the surface of the old picnic table off with a white rag. Its rust colored paint was chipping off and the wood on the benches was slightly cracked. The rising sun painted their long, dark silhouettes on the black asphalt.

“Hey, wanna help me move this out onto the driveway?” she asked.

“Sure,” Dylan said, leaving his spot against the wall. His shaggy chestnut brown hair was not brushed and the hair on his face looked like it had been neglected for two or three days. He looked like a bug in his huge, white, plastic-framed sunglasses. They were smudged with dirty fingerprints.

Cardboard boxes were stacked in the garage next to Ellie’s Delta Eighty-Eight Oldsmobile. They moved the old picnic table out onto the driveway next to Dylan’s white F-150. Ellie took off her sweatshirt and tied it around her waist. Her tired sea-green eyes looked like they hadn’t seen sleep in days.

“I hope nobody thinks I’m selling my truck,” Dylan said. It had been his first ‘adult’ purchase six months earlier. Working for their Uncle Bill’s electric company fresh out of high school gave him that leisure. Ellie, on the other hand, was still driving the old beat-up hand-me-down from their parents. The right front headlight was bashed in and three of the four hubcaps were missing. The roof over the driver’s side also leaked. On rainy days, she would cover the seat with a large, black garbage bag and then carefully dump the pooled water onto the ground next to the car. Having to pay college tuition and rent humbled her.

“No one will. We’ll put a ‘Not for Sale’ sign on it, okay?” she said. They each grabbed a cardboard box from the stack inside the garage and set it down on the picnic table. Ellie’s box landed with a thud, freeing the dust that smothered its surface. She opened the box, displaying its contents.

“Jesus, El. Are we really going to sell all of that crap? Where did this stuff even come from? Looks like stuff from Mom’s house.”

“Yeah, I’m really not sure what some of this is,” she said, dumping the stuff onto the table. She began neatly lining up the items in rows. First she laid out a rusty old harmonica, a jewelry box, and a handful of Harlequin romance novels. She marked them ‘50 cents,’ ‘$1.00,’ and ’25 cents each,’ respectively. “Those must have been Mom’s. No one else would read that shit,” she said, laughing.

Dylan opened his box and found several of his dad’s old cardigan sweaters – the kind with the little alligator in the upper right hand corner. “We can’t sell these!” he said, snatching the green one that lay on top and holding it up in front of him. “That will never fit you,” Ellie said. Dylan, who apparently saw it as a challenge, pulled the sweater over his head. His grey t-shirt wrinkled underneath the small sweater and peeked out around the bottom. His body was stiff and his arms hung awkwardly away from his body. “See, you look ridiculous. Take it off, you idiot,” she said.

“No, I’m keeping this one. Dad would have wanted me to wear it,” he said. He left the sweater on and began folding the rest of the clothes that remained in the box.

“Dylan, no one will buy them if you leave them wadded up on the table like that.”

“Good, then maybe I can keep them all. Like this brown one. Isn’t argyle the cool thing to wear lately?”

“Sure, I guess,” Ellie said. She turned on the radio in the garage to the local oldies station. They sang along as they unpacked the rest of the boxes and hauled the larger items up from the basement.

Chipped antique tea cup set. Maternal grandma’s.

Exercise bike. Dad’s. Hardly used.

Orange, brown, and tan tweed couch. Vintage. For sale against Ellie’s will.

Pin-striped pants. Dad’s. Too short for any man taller than 5’6”.

Board games: Trouble, Operation, Sorry, Mancala. All free. Lots of missing pieces.

A huge bulletin board decorated with hundreds of tiny pinholes.

Disgusting hot pink prom dress. Sequined and poofy. Ellie’s identity mistake.

Limp stuffed teddy bear. Dylan’s childhood security blanket.

Mom’s old wooden rocking chair. Purchased at a garage sale fourteen years ago.

Barbie dolls and paraphernalia.

Transformers and Legos.

Old brass picture frames. And more brass picture frames.

Ice cream bucket of crap. Mystery trinkets. All free.

Ellie found an envelope at the bottom of the sixth box. It was stained yellow and still sealed. She opened it and found several photographs. They were pictures from their parents’ wedding.

“My god. Why would these be in a box of stuff for the garage sale?” she said. She looked at Dylan who just shrugged his shoulders. He opened the last box. Inside it were more pictures along with postcards, letters and pressed flowers.

“Wow. Look at all of this stuff,” Dylan said leafing through the pictures. “Maybe we should just box them all back up and I’ll take them back home with me to Mom’s house.” He packed everything back into the box and labeled it ‘Mom and Dad’s wedding stuff’ and set it down inside the garage.

It had been two years since their dad had passed away. Lung cancer. It was the same fall that Dylan broke his leg playing football and Ellie moved into the old brick house two cities away. When Dylan’s leg healed in the spring, he started working at the electric company for their Uncle Bill. They reminisced about Jack a lot. Uncle Bill would tell stories about his dad teaching Jack and him how to hunt and fish. He told Dylan about how they used to swipe whiskey from the liquor cabinet and hide the empty bottles in the woods. And he had endless stories about Jack and him playing practical jokes on their sister, Belle. Hiding her car keys, prank calling her boyfriends, making animal noises from her bedroom closet while she was sleeping, and generally just giving her hell.

Ellie, who was sitting on the picnic table bench in a daze, was jolted to reality when a blue Jeep pulled up alongside the road in front of her house. A thirty-something year old man and his daughter got out of the Jeep and made their way up the driveway.

“Hey there, good morning,” Dylan said, smiling at them. “Everything’s going. Well, except that truck.” Ellie rolled her eyes.

The young girl craned her neck over the picnic table, pointing at the Barbie dolls neatly lined up in a row. She picked up Disco Barbie by her hair and poked her dad’s leg with it. He handed Ellie two quarters. She thanked him and dropped the money into the empty fishing tackle box.

She and Dylan watched the blue Jeep drive away. She watched the ‘Garage Sale: 9-3’ sign sway backward and forward in sync with the sporadic gusts of wind. Old and young alike were out walking their dogs, jogging, and riding bikes through the city streets. The orange lilies neatly bordering the porch were in full bloom now and the summer humidity was creeping in. The sun continued its ascent into the sky as cars lined up in the street for the city block garage sales and other passer-bys slowed down only momentarily to see what was for sale at each house before continuing on down the street. The first Saturday in May was always like this.

“I really want to look through the stuff in that box. And I still wanna know how it ended up with all the other stuff to sell. Why would Mom want to get rid of it all?” Ellie said, eyeing the box again.

“I still don’t think it’s a good idea to go through that stuff. I’m sure it just ended up with everything else by accident. Besides, the stuff in there would probably just make you ask Mom a hundred questions. I think she’s kinda weird about talking about Dad now, ya know? Just promise me you won’t worry about it.” As Dylan tried to reason with her, four or five people browsed through the sale items on the picnic table. Before Ellie could respond with an argument, they both were quiet when they heard a familiar voice.

“Hi, kids.” They both turned to face their mother, who was walking up the driveway with their black lab, Zipper. Whether she had showered or changed clothes since she woke up was questionable. She wore a pair of old navy blue mesh basketball shorts and a baggy green t-shirt. Her curly hair was pulled back with a purple bandana and her baby blue flip-flops and toes were covered in dirt.

“What’s up, Mom,” Dylan said, casually giving her a hug.

“Oh, nothing. I just thought I’d stop by to see how things have been going. Need any help?” she asked, tugging on Zipper’s leash. He stretched his neck out toward the young couple testing out the plaid couch and sniffed.

“We’re doing all right so far. Are you okay Mom, you look tired,” Ellie said. She sounded concerned.

“Yeah, I’m fine. I’ve been working in the vegetable garden since 6 o’clock. I didn’t get much done though because Zipper ran off into the stream after a rabbit again and I had to chase him four blocks – in my flip-flops. Then I had to give him a bath. It’s just been a rough morning,” she said, sighing. “Oh. And the coffee maker broke, too.” She made a pouty face for a minute as if begging for sympathy.

“I think you’ll live,” Dylan said, putting an arm around her. She laughed.

“Anyway, are you still coming for dinner tonight, El? Dylan, don’t forget to call Uncle Bill. He left me a message earlier to see if you wanted to work overtime next weekend. He has a side project and asked –“ Mom stopped mid-sentence. She leaned to the side and squinted. She put her hand up to her chest. “Oh dear. What’s that?” she said, finally noticing the box sitting on the garage floor. “Where did you get that?”

Dylan and Ellie exchanged worried glances as they watched their mom make a beeline toward the box. They watched as she opened the box and began rummaging through it. Her eyes turned glassy. Ellie shot Dylan a glance, gesturing for him to talk, but he shook his head no at her, giving her a nudge toward Mom.

“Uh, well, we found it in with the garage sale stuff. We didn’t know how it got there or what to do with it, so we just set it aside. Dylan was gonna bring it home with him later,” she said, waiting for a reaction.

“Say somethin,” Dylan said, biting his lip. “Do you want me to put it in my truck and take it back to the house now?” he asked. Ellie just stood frozen, not knowing what to say or do.

“No,” Mom said, sounding a little bit irritated at her own response. “Now probably isn’t the best time to talk about it anyway. Just keep it here until you guys finish with the garage sale. I’ll figure out what to do with it later.” She swallowed hard. “So I’ll see you guys for dinner?”

“Yeah, we’ll be there, definitely,” Dylan said. His voice sounded reassuring.

“Okay. I’ll see you guys soon. Come on, Zipper,” Mom said. Her words sounded choked. She yanked Zipper toward her and headed back down the driveway scuffing her flip-flops along the way.

Ellie nudged Dylan in the side with her elbow. “Don’t you think you should go after her?” she asked, her sea-green eyes pleading. “Something about that box obviously upset her. Why else would she act like that?”

“Yeah, but I can’t see her wanting to talk about it either.”

“Okay, but think about what’s in there. That isn’t unimportant stuff. Sounds like it could be a big deal to me,” Ellie said.

“I don’t know, maybe you’re right,” Dylan said. He took a deep breath and sighed, blowing chestnut brown strands of hair away from his eyes. “I’ll go see what’s up,” he said, taking off after her down the street.

“Mom!” he called after her. Once he caught up to her, he grabbed her shoulder and faced her. “You okay? We’ll do whatever you want with the box of stuff.” She stared at him blanket with innocent confusion. “Mom, talk to me, please.”

“Oh, hell Dylan.” She leaned her head up against his chest and started to cry, leaving a circle of damp tears on his green sweater. Suddenly recognizing the sweater, she backed away from him. “Oh my god, where did you get that sweater?”

“Well, it was in one of the boxes. I assumed it was Dad’s,” he said. Her face turned a pale combination of green and yellow.

“Oh my god,” she said again. She cupped her right hand over her mouth and her brown eyes grew wide.

“What?” Dylan said, staring her in the eyes.

“I’m so sorry.” That was all she said before she turned around and continued walking away from Ellie’s house. Dylan, dumbfounded by what had just happened, could only stand there and watch her disappear as other pedestrians traveled in both directions past him. Defeated, he headed back toward the house.

Dylan took off the green sweater on the way up the driveway. Ellie’s eyes were inquisitive but all Dylan could do was shrug and say, “I tried.”

For the past two years, their mom’s behavior had been fairly unpredictable. Some days, she was fine. But as soon as anything reminded her of Jack, she was as good as a teenage girl going through her first break-up. She had gone mad trying to keep herself busy since Jack’s death. In addition to her day job at the art museum, she picked up weekend shifts at the local flower shop and waitressed at a Mexican restaurant three nights a week. She had begun calling up her friends and relatives to see if they needed a cleaning lady. Most of them, knowing what she had been going through, told her she didn’t need to offer. She always insisted anyway. Dylan and Ellie had made themselves available to talk hundreds of times but were usually left feeling helpless and excluded.

“Hey, do you think you can hold down the fort for a while I go get us some sandwiches for lunch?” Dylan asked, checking his watch. “It’s almost noon.” The sidewalk was crawling with garage sale browsers now. Pedestrians filtered through the streets like ants making their way through a maze.

“Yeah, that’s fine. Just get me the regular,” she said. As he drove away, she brought her attention back to being an efficient salesperson. When Dylan returned with lunch, about half of what they had originally started with was still there.

“Let’s just mark everything that’s left for half price so we can wrap it up soon. I’m worried about Mom,” Dylan said.

“Hey, I have an idea,” Ellie said. Her eyes lit up. “Let’s not sell the picture frames and the bulletin board. We could make a collage for Mom with the stuff in the box.” She looked at Dylan for approval.

“I dunno, El. What if she doesn’t want us lookin’ through all that stuff?”

“Oh c’mon. She loves it when we give her hand-made projects. Let’s just work on it at 3 o’clock. That way, we’ll be done in time to go over there for dinner. It can be a Mother’s Day gift.” She looked at him with pleading eyes.

“Yeah, maybe it’ll cheer her up. For today anyway.”

* * *

“Pass me the tacks,” Dylan said. He and Ellie had the pictures, postcards, and letters sprawled out on the living room floor. They cut and framed some of the wedding pictures and tacked the letters and postcards to the bulletin board. Ellie outlined the bulletin board with red, pink, and white ribbons. She attached the pressed flowers around the edges. At the bottom she wrote: ‘We Love You, Mom’ in silver glitter.

* * *

Dylan’s white truck pulled into the driveway. Ellie’s Oldsmobile followed. They let themselves inside. Dylan carried the picture frames in the original box and Ellie followed, carrying the collage in a black, plastic garbage bag she found lying in the back seat of her car.

“Mom, we’re home,” Dylan said. Ellie put her purse and keys on the kitchen table. Zipper greeted them with slobbery licking. “Mom?” Dylan called, wandering down the hallway. He walked into the bedroom and found her lying on the bed. She was still wearing the bandana and her dirty flip-flops. “Hey, c’mon we’ll help you make dinner.”

She rubbed her eyes and slowly sat up. Her eyes were bloodshot and puffy, as if she had been crying. Ellie appeared in the doorway. Zipper nudged his way between them, jumped up onto the bed and started licking Mom’s face.

“Okay. Lasagna or something on the grill?” she asked standing up and stretching.

“Ooo, let’s do burgers on the grill,” Dylan said.

“Burgers it is,” Mom said, escorting them back into the kitchen.

“Hey, before we start the grill up, we have something we wanna give you. Sit down,” Ellie said, pulling out the chair at the kitchen table. “I know it’s early, but we,” she looked at Dylan, “I mean I, couldn’t wait until next weekend to give it to you,” she said. She set the plastic bag on the table. Dylan set the cardboard box in front of Mom. He had taped a card over the words ‘Mom and Dad’s wedding stuff’ that read ‘Happy Mother’s Day.’

Mom took the first picture frame out of the box. The 5x7” brass frame, slightly tarnished, held a black and white photo of Jack feeding her a piece of wedding cake. Ellie and Dylan looked at her waiting for a reaction. At first she said nothing. She held it in her small, fragile hands and stared at it for what seemed like minutes. Just as Dylan opened his mouth as if he were about to say something, she lifted the frame above her head and slammed it hard down against the table. The glass shattered and Ellie tried to stifle a shriek.

Mom buried her head in her palms and began sobbing. “No!” she said, sniffling. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this.” Ellie and Dylan stared in horror.

“Mom, what’s wrong? Why can’t you tell us? We want to help you,” Ellie said, rubbing her back. Mom took a few deep breaths and tried to calm herself.

“It’s all my fault,” Mom said, wiping tears away from her puffy eyes. “That green sweater…” she trailed off.

“What about it?” Dylan said, prompting her for more.

“Well, remember six days before Dad died, you two had to take him to the hospital because he had a heart attack?”

“Yeah, the night you were working at the restaurant, right?” Ellie said. Tears started streaming down mom’s rosy cheeks again.

“Oh you guys are going to hate me. I can’t say it,” she said, burying her head in her palms again.

“No, Mom. Not this time. Tell us,” Dylan said, firmly.

She bit her lip and looked at him with apologetic eyes. “I never worked as a waitress at the restaurant. That sweater isn’t Dad’s.” She swallowed hard. “I had an affair.”

Ellie and Dylan were quiet for a minute. They tried to hide their shock. “Why didn’t you tell us before?” Dylan asked, finally.

“How could I? I wanted to tell your dad so many times, but I couldn’t, especially after the heart attack. Everything was so complicated then. And then after he died…” She started to tear up again.

“Mom, it’s okay,” Ellie said. Her eyes were forgiving.

“I couldn’t sit around and do nothing while I lived with such a horrible lie. So I tried to do whatever I could to keep my mind occupied. I loved Jack. I did. And I was so stupid. I’m so sorry. I can’t believe this is happening. What if you hadn’t found the box? I might have never told you,” she said. “You guys must hate me.”

“Mom, that’s ridiculous,” Dylan said. “We just wanted to know what’s been eating away at you. Now we do. And oddly enough, I’m not mad,” he said. His voice was gentle. She squeezed his hand tightly.

“We’ll get through this, Mom,” Ellie said, hugging her. A tear rolled down Ellie’s cheek.

“I’m so, so sorry,” she said, closing her eyes and resting her head on Ellie’s shoulder.

Bresa del Rio.

Bresa del Rio. 2006ish.

Otsego, Michigan is known state-wide for basically three things: its status as being located in a county that ranks high in meth-amphetamine lab busts, its Bittersweet Ski Resort, and its infamous western saloon and dance emporium, Bresa del Rio. In fact, I hear people from miles away talking about Bittersweet and Bresa all the time. Apparently the meth-amphetamine situation is one that people don’t like to talk about as much.

Having lived in the small town of Otsego for the last twelve years, it probably seems unlikely that I never really knew about Bresa del Rio until I was in high school. Upon finding out what it was, I swore that I would never go there. Maybe this was my secret way of disclaiming myself as an Otsego resident in general and suggesting my preference for the downtown city scene to farmland and countryside.

But in an attempt to reconnect with a long-lost high school friend and break myself of my own cynical preconception, I agreed to go with Kim to Bresa del Rio. I met up with she and her friend, Kim, at a restaurant so that they could do what they called ‘pre-gaming.’ I ate. They drank. Apparently drinking and driving was of little concern to them. I followed them to Bresa in my Buick LeSabre. Its boat-sized frame would keep me safe on the country roads should either of them have to answer their cell phone, fix their hair or makeup, or check for spinach between their teeth while they were driving.

As we approached our destination, the houses became more sporadic and the distance between them was replaced with rolling hills and snow-covered farmland. As I pulled into the parking lot, the headlights of my Buick LeSabre bobbled up and down like a mini seismograph in the puddled and potholed parking lot. There were already cars lined up in undesignated parking spots and it was only 8:00p.m. The cold, dry February air eased the scent of truck exhaust. From the outside, it was difficult to tell which building was meant for the horses and which building was intended for the Saturday night country bar crowd. Since it was dark, I wasn’t even sure that the horses and the people didn’t share the same building.

I got out of my car to meet with Kim #1 and #2 in the parking lot and concentrated on not slipping and falling on the ice in my $3 tweed high heels. I thought back to the only other time I had been to a bar and remembered feeling underdressed in a t-shirt and jeans. For this occasion, Kim had advised, “Wear your cowboy boots!” I don’t have cowboy boots. The closest thing I had was a nice pair of jeans, a teal ‘girly’ shirt, hair down, and these shoes. She wasn’t even wearing cowboy boots which made me wonder if people really wore cowboy boots here. Who knows. She had, however, outdone me in the hair, makeup, and outfit categories. Her skin screamed ‘I have a lifetime pass to the tanning salon’ and her bleached blonde and red streaky hair was neatly curled and sprayed in place. “Do I look okay?” she had asked, probably three or four times already. I said, “Yes,” but questioned my own authorization to answer such a question since we were entering her stomping ground, not mine. I longed for the jeans, t-shirt, and tennis shoes lying at home on my bedroom floor that I would have worn to Fourth Coast, my favorite coffee shop in downtown Kalamazoo.

Upon entering the bar, I was greeted by a beat-up road sign leaning up against the old door that read: “HORSE X-ING.” The man checking ID’s secured a blue bracelet around my right wrist indicating that I was free to explore the western subculture inside the glorified barn and consume as much alcohol as I pleased. Typically I’m not a drinker, but I decided I would wait to see how much fun I was or wasn’t having before I declared myself as a nondrinker at Bresa that night.

A series of wooden 2x4’s fenced in the line dancing floor. An unseen disc jockey had the country music going. A handful of people – all female – filed into lines on the dance floor as a few spectators sitting in white plastic lawn chairs around card tables served as the audience. Behind the dancers, an unlit stage with microphone stands and guitar amplifiers stood as figures against a large white banner on the wall revealing the planned entertainment for later that night: The Doug James Band. I had no idea who that was.

“I love this song!” Kim said as she stripped down into her white tank top, hurled her black jacket at me, and joined the other women on the dance floor. Kim #2 went to greet her other friends and I decided to take the opportunity to use the bathroom. Upon entering, I noticed that there were no locks on the stall doors. The toilets were clogged, too. I honestly wasn’t sure whether my ass was wet after I was done peeing because the toilet sprayed onto the seat when it flushed or if people were just completely losing bladder control and pissing all over. Hopefully not the latter. It was then that I learned that I would start inspecting the toilet seat before sitting down. The ice cold water and lack of paper towel completed my first sub-par trip to the Bresa del Rio bathroom.

When I opened the door, the country music went from muffled to vibrant and alive. I scanned the crowd for Kim. She was on the opposite side of the dance floor chatting with some girls. I compared their outfits to mine to see if I was closer to socially acceptable this time. They were in jeans, tennis shoes, and oversized hooded sweatshirts. It figures. I didn’t recognize any of them as girls from Otsego. In fact, I didn’t see a single person in the bar I recognized. It was then that I started to realize that there probably weren’t many other country bars in west Michigan and that a lot of the people there were probably out-of-towners. Maybe Bresa had something going here.

“I swear there is no one here yet. It gets a lot busier around 10 or 11,” Kim reassured me as if I were worried that I might not have a chance to run into any hometown faces. Actually, I didn’t think I wanted that. How would I explain how I had gone from a shy, straight-edge, Indie nerd to a cowboy and country music line dancer enthusiast? I looked at her and said, “It’s okay, I believe you.” And I did.

I helped myself to a white lawn chair in the corner near the line dancing floor and watched shyly as the Kims danced to the songs they knew. I waited for a song I knew, but none came. Her friends politely said “Hi” and then proceeded to ignore me while I sat and people-watched for an hour or so. Having experienced this in other first-time places where I only knew one person, I was used to feeling awkward and out of place.

At 9 o’clock, a woman’s voice announced that she would be instructing a dancing lesson. With that, a plethora of women made a beeline for the dance floor. Some of them dragged their daughters or significant others along. “Wanna go, Em? It’ll be fun!” Kim said, gesturing toward the dance floor. I thought about the time I went to a hip-hop club my first weekend at college. I had just been trying to make friends with the girls I the dorm, so I went. I remembered how ridiculous I looked trying to dance and knew I would look the same way trying to line dance, especially given that here, there was a right and wrong way to do the dance. I bit my lip as I assessed the slippery wooden floor. In high heels, this could be a death trap. Even so, I followed her, carefully placing one foot in front of the other. I requested that we find a place somewhere near the back so spectators would have fewer opportunities to laugh at my lack of coordination. I made Kim stand in front of me so I could watch her.

The short, blond-haired instructor began calling out the dance steps as she demonstrated them in front of the group: Step, 2, 3, 4, left together, right together…” I could do that. Sort of. I saw some following confidently while others, including myself, glanced around looking for help. The other inexperienced dancers were usually a step or two behind the instructor and laughed as they stepped on each other’s feet or ran into the people in front of them. I just concentrated really hard. I don’t know why. Being a good country line dancer wasn’t something I aspired to, but I hate doing anything half-assed. The instructor continued: “Right heel, left heel, step 2, 3, 4…” Assorted footwear clomped out of sync on the wooden floor as the instructor’s voice boomed into the microphone, creating a cacophony of chaotic sound. I was still doing okay. “Paddle 2, 3, 4” she called out as we swung our bodies around our right legs until we were facing the adjacent wall dedicated to posters with country singer faces, Shania Twain being the only one I recognized. I couldn’t figure out how to do the ‘paddle’ thing so I just kind of turned in the same direction they were turning and picked back up with: “Step 2, 3, 4…” Around we went, past the wall displaying assorted styles of cowboy hats and Nascar banners and then past the replica of a horse head tacked up onto a tall wooden pillar hanging over the B-93 country music station banner. When the teaching session ended, we tried out the steps to music.

I looked around as thirty-something-year-old women in tiny black shirts swayed about the dance floor, their pierced belly buttons and leathery skin protruding above their tight blue jeans. Their Farrah Fawcett hair resembled strands of hay as it reflected against the fringy gold strips and white Christmas lights hanging from the bar (or barn?) ceiling. Some high school girls and boys in t-shirts, jeans, and tennis shoes stumbled around on the floor, trying to keep up with the experienced dancers. Men decked out in full cowboy outfits proudly displayed their shiny, oval belt buckles. Two young blondes with the infamous black X’s on their hands danced around in the front in short denim skirts and cowboy boots for almost every song as spectators lined up along the U-shaped wall around the dance floor to watch them. During partner dances, they stood especially close together, exciting nearby men. Probably women, too. This bothered me for two reasons. One, they men staring them up and down and whistling at them were drunk and probably in their 40’s. And two, although these girls were obviously under 21, they didn’t seem creeped out at all. They acted as if this were normal and socially acceptable. I suppose I should have just been thankful that I wasn’t being stared at. But who would stare at some uncoordinated girl who couldn’t even paddle the right way.

Once the song that we learned the dance floor was over, I returned to my white plastic lawn chair nearby. I sat quietly and watched as other dancers filed on and off the floor as songs they knew or didn’t know started and stopped. Or when they needed a drink or a cigarette. Sometimes they danced in lines, other times around in a circle, showing no mercy to the clumsy followers.

By about 10 o’clock, Kim had probably had three or four beers. It was then that she realized that I hadn’t had anything to drink yet. Being that I considered myself a bar virgin, I didn’t think it was odd that I’d never had a tequila shot. She, however, found this unacceptable. She escorted me to the bar where she insisted that I take my first tequila shot ever with her. Kim gave a friendly hello to the bartender wearing a black leather fringed vest. She ordered two shots and when the woman set the shot glasses on the counter, I looked at Kim with a “What the hell is all of this stuff for?” expression on my face. I looked at the shot glass, the salt shaker, and the lime with innocent confusion. Kim was the teacher, I was the student.

“Okay, first sprinkle salt on your hand. Right between your thumb and finger – like this.” I raised my eyebrow at her, but did it anyway. “Okay, now you’re gonna lick the salt off of your hand, drink, then bite down on the lime.” I nodded, pretending like I understood why there was such a ridiculous procedure for such a thing. On the count of three, we drank. When I was finished, I wondered how the hell drunk people had enough coordination to do this. I could barely do it stone sober; I felt like I needed three hands. “Yay, you just did your first tequila shot with me! Did you like it?” I responded with, “Yeah!” I tried to match her enthusiasm. I wasn’t nearly as excited as she was, but at least I’d never have to re-learn how to do it.

As we wandered back out to our corner, the music changed to what I recognized as a Will Smith song. I’m not very keen on identifying hip-hop/R&B/rap tunes, but I was puzzled as to why Will Smith was being played in a country bar. However, I learned that night that people can also line dance to this kind of music. I got the sense that the Bresa crowd was partial specifically to him because his three or four songs were the only non-country songs that the DJ played all night. I watched in amusement as the crowd on the dance floor simply found a series of steps that appropriately matched Will Smith’s beat and began dancing.

By 10:30, The Doug James band was on stage ready to play. “Somebody shout!” the singer called out, segueing into the first song. Everyone shouted. His face was sunburned and wrinkly and he wore an American flag button-up shirt and the country man’s signature accessory: the cowboy hat. The band played a series of covers while the strobe light over the middle of the dance floor flashed on and off, highlighting the smoke circulating throughout the open room. Between songs, the middle-aged singer singled out random people on the floor, usually an underage female, to publicly flirt with. He told us that he wanted it to be summer so he could see young women in bikinis and at one point said, “Somebody’s gonna get naked tonight!” People cheered and that worried me. I hoped it wouldn’t be him. I left to get my first beer.

When the band ‘slowed things down,’ one of Kim’s friends asked me to dance. This dude was huge – probably 6’4”, 350 pounds. He was wearing a black t-shirt tucked in and had a large silver belt buckle holding up his denim jeans. I could barely fit my arms around him. Droplets of sweat shined on his forehead. He seemed genuinely polite and we tried to make conversation but found that we quickly ran out of things to say. “Are you from around here?” I asked. “Fennville,” he responded. “Where you from?” he said. “I’m from here. Otsego. But I go to school at Grand Valley State University. I’m just home for the weekend.” And that was pretty much it. Being that I am awkward even slow-dancing with males I am well acquainted with, this wasn’t exactly a relaxing moment. It all kind of reminded me of high school dances after the football game. The lights dimmed and couples rocked back and forth on the dance floor as the singer’s lazy twang serenaded the crowd. Any man on the dance floor who was wearing a cowboy hat would remove it for the dance and rest it against the small of his partner’s back. My dancing partner followed the rule.

After the slow song, the band picked it up again, covering a series of songs I had only vaguely remembered hearing on the few occasions I had ridden as a passenger in my brother’s truck. They were about drinking bones being connected to lonely bones and staying out all night long, double XL’s, and sexy tractors or something. “Somebody scream!” the singer said at the end of the song. Everyone screamed. He then dumped a pile of hats onto the edge of the stage, urging people to try them on and ‘be somebody else’ for fun. A Santa Claus hat. A multicolored helicopter hat. A jester hat. And a sombrero among others. I found the idea of wearing a hat that hundreds of other people had already worn to be a little bit disturbing so I opted to not be somebody else that night. On my third trip to the bar (this time to just buy the cheapest beer they had), American flag shirt man announced that there were costumes available for getting pictures taken. I didn’t get a very close look at the costume rack, but as soon as I saw pink and poofy and other odd items that didn’t look like anything I would be caught dead in, I kept walking.

By this time, the bar was probably at its maximum capacity. I kept looking around for familiar faces expecting to see people from high school that hadn’t left Otsego yet. Nothing. Then in true girl fashion, Kim and I left together on a mission to the bathroom. She later let me in on the secret that she wanted to get a boy named Dustin’s attention. He just happened to be sitting in the pathway to the bathroom. On our way back, he waved us over.

I had never seen this guy in my life, but apparently he remembered me and claimed to be ‘really good friends’ with my high school sweetheart. Next to him I noticed two other guys, probably in their early 20’s whispering and looking at Kim and me. They introduced themselves as Michael and Ryan. Apparently they both remembered me from high school and their names sounded vaguely familiar, but they still looked like strangers to me. Michael was wearing a Miller High Life t-shirt under a vertically striped shirt, unbuttoned. Ryan wore a t-shirt representing his favorite Kalamazoo band, Mustard Plug. As a disclaimer, they both stated that they were not usual Bresa goers either.

We leaned in around the table and tried to hold a conversation over the noise behind us. I think within fifteen minutes of meeting these guys, Michael gave me a strange proposition. “I’ll give you $2 if you punch Fritz in the head,” he said, pointing at Ryan. What??? I thought to myself. Who are these guys? I politely declined, but he was persistent. “Come on, it’s $2. That’s enough for a beer. Fine, how about $5? 10?!” I stated that for no amount of money would I punch a stranger in the head. I laughed at their silly drunkenness and excused myself to get a beer with my own $2. By the time I got back, I had been nicknamed ‘Emily Impossible’ for refusing his request. To go along with Kimpossible, the cartoon character, I guess. Clever.

When the band played the song that we learned during our dance lesson, we made our way to the dance floor. We were all so scrunched together that we spilled over into the ‘drinking’ section of the bar. I could feel Michael and Ryan watching us, but in a slightly less creepy way than the other 40-year-old men. Kim stayed for the next dance, but I exited the floor quickly so as to not get trampled over by eager dancers. I headed for the table where Michael and Ryan were rather than returning to the empty corner where I would be politely ignored. For some reason, they intrigued me more than the brick walls that waited for me on the other side of the bar. For the first time all night, I would be left without Kim to socialize with people by myself. This is the real test to see if I was capable of genuine human interaction, I told myself. Having four drinks helps.

When I came back, I found Dustin drinking tequila out of the ash tray. Michael and Ryan were pointing and laughing. Why I found any of this entertaining was beyond all comprehension. So this was what it felt like to get drunk and silly. Once they realized that I was back, Michael went back to prodding me to punch Ryan in the head. Was this his pathetic attempt at flirting? No, maybe he was just trying to see how manipulative he could be. Or maybe he was just drunk, too.

Shortly thereafter, I followed Kim onto the dance floor again for two more non-country songs. To my surprise, the country crowd was enthusiastic during “Brown-eyed Girl,” “Pour Some Sugar on Me,” and “You Shook Me All Night Long,” three songs that I actually knew the names of. I never thought I would be so excited to hear Van Morrison, Def Leppard, or AC/DC. Happy to see that there were not specific dances for these songs, Kim and I joined large group in the center of the dance floor where people had departed from their synchronized steps and were moving around freely. I’m pretty sure I had a silly huge smile on my face as I shouted the words at the top of my lungs and laughed at my own embarrassing dance ‘moves.’

Back the table after that, Michael and I were talking about music and movies we liked. I was delighted to know that we shared similar taste in both and he seemed ecstatic when he found out that I liked the movie Amelie. I think he thought we were a match made in heaven. In the back of my head, I was still puzzled by his persistent request to punch Ryan. I giggled to myself but didn’t let him in on my absurd thought.

We hadn’t been sitting for more than five minutes when The Doug James Band began their cover of Aerosmith’s “I Don’t Want to Miss a Thing.” Uh oh. This was a shy girl’s worst nightmare. I was sitting alone with a somewhat attractive boy at a table and he was looking at me with big blue pleading eyes. Or again, maybe just drunk pleading eyes. He didn’t give me a chance to sit the slow song out, something I had gotten really good at in high school. He asked me to dance anyway and held my hand on the way to the dance floor. Maybe he had seen me walking around clumsily in my high heels earlier and didn’t want to see me trip and fall. When we found a spot on the floor, he put his arms around my waist and I, though a short 5’3”, was able to put my arms around his shoulders in those high heels. I rocked back and forth like I had been taught to but kept a good distance from him. Having been single for three years, I still think that maybe I got a warm and fuzzy feeling inside. Or maybe the alcohol was just upsetting my stomach.

Once the song was over, it was nearly 2 o’clock in the morning and the stage lights were turned off. Apparently the last song the DJ played was the one that meant ‘get the hell out of here’ because as soon as it started, people started slamming beers, smushing their cigarette butts into the bottom of ash trays, and clearing the dance floor. Empty white plastic lawn chairs and plastic cups complemented the deserted dance floor as people filed out the door and scattered in different directions in the parking lot. I overheard people talking about coming back for the weekly Thursday dance lesson. As I replayed the night in my head, I thought about the drinks, the dances, the conversation, and the laughter. Maybe the alcohol in this bar had some competition.

Summer Fizzle.

Summer Fizzle. Fiction Workshop, 2005ish.

“Happy birthday dear Casey…happy birthday to yooooou”, the restaurant employees sang as the cute little waitress walked by the kitchen doorway. Her short, dark brown hair framed her ivory skin and blushing cheeks. “Just go do it!” one of the waitresses said. Casey walked away from them and approached the table where Brian and Micah were sitting.

“I can take that up whenever you’re ready,” the waitress said, smiling shyly at Brian.

“Thanks,” he said, retrieving the bill from her. He dug into his back pocket to get his wallet.

“Hey, look,” Micah said, pointing at the top of the bill: 569-3726 it said. Without thinking twice, Brian scribbled the number down onto his used napkin and put the money on the table next to the bill.

“Hey, that’s all set,” he said when she came back. “Oh, and happy birthday.” He shot her a flirty smile, and followed Micah out the front door.

* * *

“Fuck love,” Brian said, ashing his cigarette against the ledge of the truck window. He leaned back against the sticky grey leather seat and blew a stream of smoke at the dashboard. As the truck pulled up to a stop sign, Brian could feel droplets of sweat pooling on his bare back. The July air hung heavily inside the old F-150 in a way that magnified the smell of cow manure and freshly cut grass. He hung his head out the window and stared blankly at the yellow line painted on the side of the road.

“Hey man, you gotta just forget about it,” said Andy. He turned toward Brian, looking at him through his aviator sunglasses. “We’re too young for that shit. Besides, now we can use that money you got back from your tux to throw one hell of a house party sometime this summer.” He turned the radio up. It blared Steve Miller Band down the open country road.

As Brian sat there in the truck, he tried to remember what life before Casey was like, but he couldn’t. He thought back to five and a half years ago, the summer he turned nineteen. Casey had worked at one of the local restaurants as a waitress for years. Brian and his brother, Micah, came in most Saturdays to get lunch after playing basketball at the park. On her eighteenth birthday, she left her phone number on their bill. Three years later, they were engaged. Two years after that, they weren’t. This would be his first Fourth of July in years without her.

* * *

“Brian, please don’t do this,” Casey said, her blue eyes melting as she sniffled.

“What? What do you want me to say? That I forgive you?” Brian’s voice was shaking. He gritted his teeth as his eyes started to glaze over with tears.

“I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have gone down there to see him,” she said, reaching for his hand. He yanked it away from her.

“Casey, you used my credit card to fund a trip to go see your ex-boyfriend! And then you fucked him…and then lied to me about it – over and over. I had to find out from Micah. You must think I’m an idiot. I hope it was worth it. I’m going home.”

Casey sobbed as she watched Brian open the door to her apartment and slam it behind him.

* * *

“I think I’m gonna be sick, bro,” Brian said. His face was pale. “Pull over.” Andy slowed his truck, creating a cloud of dust around it from the dirt on the road shoulder. Brian opened the truck door, leaned over, and threw up into the ditch next to the truck. He sat there hunched over and coughing, the sun coming in through the windshield and reflecting off the sweat on his back.

“You all right, man?” Andy unbuckled his seatbelt and turned off the engine.

“Yeah,” Brian said, sitting back up. He shut the truck door and leaned back against the seat. He was sweating and breathing hard. “It’s just the summer heat. Let’s go.”

Andy started the truck and took off down the road, leaving acres of cornfields and burnt grass behind him.

* * *

Micah was in the front yard building a ramp for his new bike that his parents got him for graduation. Sweat saturated his shaggy, golden brown hair and bits of sawdust were caked to his arms and chest. His green and blue plaid boxer shorts peeked out above his ripped blue jeans. He had headphones on and sang while he worked.

“Johnny’s in the basement mixin’ up the medicine. I’m on the pavement, thinkin’ ‘bout the government…”

When he saw the old blue truck pull into the driveway, he stood up and brushed the dust off his jeans. The guys got out of truck and stretched.

“Hey kid,” Brian said, giving Micah half of a hug.

“Hey man, how’s it goin?” Andy said, scoping out the ramp.

“Good. Sweatin’ my ass off out here, though,” Micah said.

“Ya gonna be ready to go soon?” asked Brian.

“Yeah. Gimme a sec, I’m gonna go get something to drink and change.” Brian and Andy followed him in. Daisy, the family’s yellow lab, greeted them in the kitchen. Brian crouched down and petted her. Andy helped himself to a cold glass of ice water and sat down at the kitchen table. Brian looked around. Not much had changed since he moved out. His high school football picture was still on the refrigerator next to the picture of Micah and his girlfriend, Cheryl. The family photograph that was taken six years earlier was still in a frame on the kitchen wall over the sink.

Micah wandered back into the kitchen, pulling a white t-shirt over his head. It had yellow pit stains. He stopped at the table to scribble a note:

Went to the beach with Bri and Andy for the night.

Love, Micah

“All right, let’s roll,” Micah said. He smelled like Old Spice. Brian and Andy followed him out the door. Brian got in the front seat of Micah’s beat up Toyota Camry and Andy climbed into the back seat next to the cases of beer. They turned out of the driveway. Brian flicked his cigarette butt out window and watched it tumble onto the pavement behind them. Forget about her, he told himself. He reached for the radio dial and turned it up.

* * *

The scarlet sky complemented the hot, tranquil air. Brian could see the setting sun reflecting off of the lake water between the beach houses and willowy trees. He took a deep breath. This time it smelled of beach sand and fish.

“Okay, which road did Jonas say it was?” Micah asked, turning the radio down.

“It’s right past that little convenience store. Probably two or three blocks from here. Then you turn right onto Boardwalk,” Brian said.

Micah looked out the window as they passed a group of girls in bikinis sauntering down the sidewalk. They had towels wrapped around their waists and red plastic cups in their hands. “Turn here,” Brian said. They turned onto Boardwalk and idled their way down the street behind a long line of brake lights. Passing pedestrians crowded the sidewalks, talking and laughing loudly as they made their way toward the water. Twenty-somethings in mixed company sat outside on porches in plastic lawn chairs drinking beer. Girls were sprawled out on front lawns in their bikinis, oblivious to the footballs soaring back and forth over their heads.

“522…530…546, that’s the place.” Micah pulled the car into the driveway next to the big white beach house. The three of them got out, each carrying a case of beer. Marcy, Brian’s friend from grade school, greeted him first.

“Bri! Hey man, what the hell! Get your ass over here and give me a hug,” she said, setting her drink down on the porch railing. She wrapped her arms around him and squeezed. Her long brown hair danced around her emerald green eyes and toothy smile. She looked the same as she always did in high school except her fake tan was gone and she had a tiny little gut hanging out over her bikini bottoms. She also had a little stud on the right side of her nose.

“What’s goin’ on, Marcy?” said Brian. He set the case of beer down next to him. “This looks like it’s gonna be a pretty killer party. It’s good to see you. I’m gonna go inside and find Jonas. I’m sure I’ll see ya ‘round here tonight.” He flashed her a crooked smile and headed toward the front door. Andy and Micah walked around to the back side of the house where a group of guys were playing poker at a picnic table. As he approached the door, he spotted Jonas chatting with his cousin, Jeff, and walking toward him.

“Hey man, I’m glad you came out tonight,” he said, putting his arm around Brian and walking him back outside. “I’m sorry ‘bout Casey. That’s so shitty. But you just gotta forget ‘bout her and have a good time tonight. Check out babes in bikinis, get totally shitfaced, set off some fireworks, bullshit with your friends…all that good stuff. Go put your suit on and we’ll get some people to go down to the beach and drink some beers with us.”

Brian retrieved his swimsuit from Micah’s car and went back inside to change. He stopped by the hallway mirror and stared at his reflection. His face was sunburned and he hadn’t shaved in almost a week. He approached the bathroom door and knocked. No answer. He turned the handle and let himself in. He found a blonde-haired girl on her knees in front of the toilet. Her left arm was resting on the rim and her right arm was wrapped around the toilet tank. She was coughing and gagging.

“Hey, are you okay?” Brian said, looking concerned. He approached her and she looked up at him with tired eyes and flushed cheeks. He filled two paper cups of water, got her two ibuprofen from the bathroom cabinet, and handed them to her. “Alice? Is that you?”

“Do I know you?” she asked, sitting up. Her face was pale and the ends of her blonde hair dripped toilet water onto the bathroom tile.

“Yeah, we had geometry together in high school. You were always asking me if I wanted to go with you to the races to see your cousin.” Brian sat down across from her on the floor and leaned up against the towel cabinet door.

“Oh yeah. I just wanted you to come out and do something fun. But you were always so shy.” Alice smiled. She had nice teeth. “Oh, sorry. Do you need the bathroom?” she asked.

“Oh, it’s no big deal, I was just gonna change into my swimsuit and go down to the beach with some of the guys and take a dip in the water. Wanna come?” Brian asked.

“I shouldn’t. I’m feelin’ pretty shitty right now. But thanks for checkin’ up on me.” Alice stood up and straightened out her jean skirt. “I’ll see ya, Bri,” she said, shutting the bathroom door behind her.

* * *

It was two o’clock in the morning on Brian’s twenty-third birthday. Lighted lampposts lined the walkway down Boardwalk Street. Bottle rockets soared into the hazy sky in all directions, accompanying the perpetuating chatter and thumping bass. Whipper snappers plopped sporadically onto the surrounding sidewalks. Swirls of cigarette smoke danced against the grey canopy of sky. They sat on a blanket along the shore. Casey leaned back against Brian’s chest, resting her head against his left shoulder.

“Let’s do this again next year,” she said, planting a kiss on his cheek.

“I love you,” was all Brian said. The water was still. The moon’s reflection painted a glassy reflection on its surface. Soon after, it disappeared behind a patch of clouds and was gone forever.

* * *

With a can of beer in each hand and a cigarette behind his right ear, Brian straggled along down the sidewalked path. The erratic gusts of humid wind made it hard to breathe. As he approached the shoreline, he noticed foamy waves sloshing away from the lake, leaving a trail of tiny rocks and debris and forming a topographical map on the sand. He was torn from his daze when he felt a tap on his shoulder.

“Hey.” It was Marcy. “Whatcha doin’ down here?”

“Oh, nothin’. Just checkin’ out the water.” Brian looked down at his feet and splashed them along the edge of the water. He could feel her curious stare.

“Wanna go for a swim?” she said. She smelled like beer and sun block.

“Sure, maybe for a little bit,” he said. He dropped the two full cans of beer on the sand and followed her into the water. He glanced down the water’s edge to where he could see silhouettes of his friends waving sparklers around in the air.

“So what’s new with you?” she asked, bobbing up and down in the water. The little diamond stud in her nose sparkled in the moonlight.

“Ah, nothin’ much. Just the same old shit.” He hoped she wouldn’t ask about Casey.

“Yeah, me too. But I love comin’ home for this kinda thing. Nothing ever changes ‘round here. It’s comforting to know that everything is the same as it was when we left it, ya know?”

“Yeah. I dunno though. Maybe I just need to get outta this place. I’ve got no reason to stick around.” Brian started to feel sick to his stomach again. Stop it, he told himself.

“I kept tellin’ myself I would get up and leave as soon as high school was over. But look at me. Five years later and I’m still here,” she said, laughing. “I can’t really figure out what it is about this place that’s keepin’ me from leavin’. I guess it’s cause of all these guys. I can’t walk out on ‘em. They need me. ‘Specially my sister. Besides, where would I go?”

“I wouldn’t be gone forever if I left. I’d come back home. Ya know, to see you guys and stuff,” Brian said. “But if I lived somewhere else for a while, maybe things would seem different when I came back cause I’da been away for so long.”

“Brian!” He looked up and down toward the lighthouse deck. He saw Jonas and Andy waving him over. “Hey, come down here, quick!” Jonas sounded frantic.

“I better go,” Brian said, giving Marcy an apologetic expression. “It was good talkin’ to you.”

Brian scrambled out of the water and headed toward the deck. As he got closer, he could see the guys crowding around someone in a green swimsuit. Two guys he didn’t know were holding either side of the boy’s arms and Andy was behind him trying to support his back. As Brian got closer, he started to recognize the boy as Micah.

“What happened to him?” Brian asked. The palm of Micah’s right hand had a long burn on it. Splotches of red skin encircled the burn. His left eye was bruised badly and was starting to swell.

“Well, let’s just say that fireworks and alcohol don’t mix,” Andy said. “He was kinda stumblin’ around and kinda looked like he was about to pass out. Before I could do anything, he just fell face-first onto that empty beer bottle,” he said, pointing at the mass of firework paraphernalia on the sand. “Good thing there wasn’t a bottle rocket in there.” Micah had big bags under his eyes and the tops of his cheeks and nose were rosy.

“Damn, why did you guys let him drink so much?” Brian said, trying to relieve his own guilt for not being there to stop him.

“We’re real sorry, Bri. We didn’t think he’d had that much,” Andy said.

“Oh, the kid’ll be just fine,” said Jonas. Brian frowned at him. The guys lowered Micah down onto the sand. Brian sat down next to him.

“What happened over here?” Marcy was standing next to Andy now. Jonas and the others scattered themselves in different directions back up the road toward random houses and lawn parties.

“He had an accident,” Brian said. “Hey, do you think you guys could go get him some ice or something?” he asked. “I’ll stay here with him.”

“Yeah, sure thing man,” Andy said. “C’mon, Marcy.”

* * *

Micah held the bag of ice up to his eye. “I bet you never did anything that dumb, huh?” he said, looking up at Brian. They walked alone down the long deck leading up to the red and white lighthouse. The noise coming from the houses was drowned out by the waves rolling into shore and the whistling wind. They walked to the very end of the deck and sat down, dangling their feet above the water below.

“Nah. I’ve done worse,” Brian said, smiling. He patted Micah on the back. The light from the lighthouse shot rays down around the end of the deck. The two of them sat there facing away from the rest of the world, their thin frames creating long shadows on the deck behind them. “It’s my fault anyway, man. I wasn’t there to keep you outta trouble. Sorry, kid.”

“It’s okay. I had a pretty damn good time tonight. But what’s with you? You don’t seem like Brian to me,” he said.

“I don’t know. It’s just that nothin’ around here ever changes. And everyone else seems to like it that way. I always kinda hated it. But ever since I broke off the engagement with Casey, I’m realizin’ that I thought I wanted everything to change, but now I don’t want it to.” His voice was shaky again and tears started welling up in his eyes.

“Yeah, I kinda figured you were still bummin’ kinda pretty hard about her, I just didn’t wanna be the one to bring it up. I know I can’t understand it,” Micah said.

“It’s okay. I can’t either,” said Brian, shrugging his shoulders. A tear streamed down his cheek. “Hey. Do you wanna go home?” he asked.

“Yeah.”