Page 8 of Full Circle

“It was my fault,” I insisted. “I didn’t wanna leave the creek and I made her stay, too.”

The look on Marla’s face warned me that she didn’t believe me. Her stern expression darted back and forth between us before she finally released a heavy sigh.

“Look, I’m gonna let this slide once, but that’s all you get.” Marla pointed a finger at us in warning. “Wesley, if you’re gonna be around much this summer, you better learn my rules. Lunch is at 11 before the rush. Supper at six. Y’all are always welcome to come by and get a snack or I’ll pack something up for you. D’you hear me?”

I risked a glance to my left and saw Celeste was still hanging her head.

“Don’t you look at her, Wesley! You’re dealing with me!” Marla snapped. “It ain’t her place to save you.”

I frowned at her, unwilling to yield to someone without any authority over me. “I hear you loud and clear.” Turning on my heel, I stormed out the door, allowing it to slam behind me as I sped down the street. I couldn’t even remember where Aunt Shirley’s house was.

A few minutes later, a large pickup truck pulled up beside me and rolled down the passenger window. The man had a neatly trimmed beard and the same facial features as Celeste.

“Are you Wesley?” the man asked.

I didn’t say anything, though my hands balled into fists at my side. He continued to creep next to me in his rusty red pickup.

“The name’s Doug Hendricks. I reckon you and I need to have a little chat,” he said.

So he was Celeste’s father. That brought me up short.

Mr. Hendricks stopped and unlocked the door so I could climb in. I was still too irritated to look at him, but I knew Celeste would never speak to me again if I disrespected her father. Even in the short time I had known her, I already gathered that her family meant everything to her.

He headed to the outskirts of the main street where River’s Run’s lone traffic light blinked red. There would be next to no traffic at this time of night. This town had a 9 o’clock curfew because everything closed by 8 p.m.

“Listen,” Mr. Hendricks began, “I don’t know you and you don’t have to explain yourself to me. You’re not my kid, so it’s not my place. But I expect certain manners and courtesy for me and my family. That includes my daughter and my wife’s best friend.”

I could feel his stare boring into the side of my face, a look I refused to acknowledge.

“Are we clear?”

Swallowing hard, I let out a deep breath and nodded. All my anger dissipated.

“What was that?” he asked gruffly.

“Yes, sir,” I replied.

From my peripheral I saw him nod his approval. “Then we have no hard feelings. We’ll get a fresh start tomorrow. I’m assuming I’ll see you tomorrow?”

Mr. Hendricks pulled up to Aunt Shirley’s house where all the lights were on downstairs. She had probably fallen asleep in front of the tv like she did last night.

Despite pulling up, Mr. Hendricks put the truck in park and turned to face me. His eyes were kind, reminding me of Celeste’s even though they weren’t the same color as hers. “Now I’m sure that things are a lot different here than what you’re used to. It’ll get better if you really give this place a chance. Celeste has her mama’s big heart. She’ll help you so long as you let her.”

I could detect the sorrow in his voice when he spoke of his wife. I felt sorry for him in a way that I never felt for Celeste when she talked about it. Her grief was still fresh. Mr. Hendricks’ sounded like it was embedded in his bones. How would it feel to love someone like that?

How would it feel if someone loved me like that?

I tried to let his words sink in as I nodded. “Yes, sir. I can do that.”

Mr. Hendricks offered me a small smile that was so reminiscent of Celeste’s I couldn’t help but grin back.

“Thank you for driving me home, sir,” I said, climbing out of the truck.

As I rounded the front end, Mr. Hendricks rolled down his window and leaned one elbow out. “There’s good people around here, son, so don’t take so much to heart.”

The moniker he chose instantly rubbed me the wrong way and I felt my hackles rise. In the back of my mind I knew he didn’t mean anything by it, but I hated being called “son.” My own father never called me that, and he was the most condescending person I knew. I didn’t belong to anybody—that much had always been clear—and I refused to allow a stranger to think he could talk down to me because of it.

There was an edge to my voice that I knew Mr. Hendricks didn’t deserve as I ground out, “Don’t call me that! You’re just a shitty old man!”

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