Page 129 of Five Mountain Daddies

If people remembered that Atticus, they’d be sad. Instead, they all remember the drug addict, the junkie, the thief, the asshole. That’s the Atticus these peopleremember.

All except for him. I look across the gravesite as the priest says his words. There aren’t many people here, just my mother looking distraught, a few of her friends, a few other distant relatives I barely remember, and then him. The guy I remember so fondly, the guy I’ve thought about so many times over theyears.

Wyatt Reap, my brother’s bestfriend.

He’s tall now, a lot taller than I remembered. The last time I saw him was in high school, and he’s probably grown a few inches since then, definitely put on more muscle. There’s stubble on his handsome face, the sort of face that girls used to go insane over back when we were younger. His full hair of thick hair is styled neatly, though cut short, and his black suit fits him perfectly. He stands straight, a frown on his face, looking like he actually gives a shit that my brother’s beingburied.

Wyatt and Atticus were as close as you could possibly be with another human being from the time they were six or seven up until Atticus found drugs. That was sophomore year of high school, when they were only fifteen. I was three years younger, an awkward twelve-year-old on the verge of growing up, and I still remember it allvividly.

The fights they used to have, how angry Wyatt would get when all Atticus wanted to do was sit around and smoke pot, sometimes drink stolen liquor, sometimes drop LSD and stare at the wall for hours. Wyatt was a star football player, and eventually Atticus started hanging out with the other troubled druggie kids, and their relationship was basically dead by senioryear.

I’m honestly surprised to see him here. I didn’t know he kept in touch with Atticus, although he might not have. It wouldn’t surprise me if Wyatt just heard about Atticus’s death and, despite all the bad shit that happened since they were last friends, he decided to show up and do the rightthing.

When the service ends and the casket is lowered, I wander away from my mother and her annoying friends. She’s already half-drunk anyway, and there’s nothing I can say to her right now that won’t come off as me trying to start a fight. It’s pretty insane of her to be drunk at her son’s funeral, especially considering substance abuse is a huge reason he’s dead, but try explaining that to her. She only drinks, Atticus had the realproblem.

Not to mention my dead father, another old-school alcoholic. Cancer got him before we turned three. He’s a legend around town, or at least he was until Atticus slowly overshadowedhim.

I sigh to myself. I should have seen this coming, but I couldn’t do anything for Atticus. I tried so many times and failed so many times. I’m the only one left in my whole family that has her shit together, and I can’t let them drag medown.

But Atticus is still family, and I love him, despite itall.

I spot Wyatt walking away toward the cars. I head over toward him, heart beating fast. He looks up, his slight frown turning into a smile suddenly. I can’t help but smile back athim.

“Cora Lewis,” he says. “All grownup.”

“You’re grown up yourself,” I say to him. I give him a hug and he kisses me on the cheek. He glances past my shoulder at my mother, whimpering as she gets into her car, and quickly looks back atme.

I know what that look means. He’s wondering if she should be driving now, and no, she definitely shouldn’t. But I’ve tried to take her keys away before, and I have the scars to proveit.

“You look great,” he says to me. “Really, and I’m sorry about Atticus. He was tooyoung.”

“He was,” I say. “But it’s really good of you to show up. When was the last time you talked tohim?”

He shrugs. “He called me once, a couple years back. He was in trouble, wanted to see if I couldhelp.”

I laugh. “That’s Atticus, all right. But why could youhelp?”

“I’m a cop over in Chicago,” hesays.

I raise my eyebrows. “I heard you were doing well outthere.”

“Well, I’m a detective now,” he says, shrugging. “After college I was a little lost, trying to figure out what to do, and I guess I watched a little too muchCSI.”

I grin at him, but inwardly my brain’s moving a million miles an hour. “That’s amazing,” I say. “You’re young for a detective, aren’tyou?”

He shrugs, trying to play it off. “Sure, it’s no bigdeal.”

“Listen, want to grab some coffee? I don’t feel like going homeyet.”

“Of course,” hesays.

“Meet at the GreatAmerican?”

“Sure,” he answers, laughing. “I can’t believe that place is stillopen.”

“It’s immortal, that’s for sure,” I say. The Great American Pub and Diner is just about the trashiest place in our town, but I love it. “See youthere.”

I head over to my car, trying to avoid any relatives. I have to stop and hug some distant uncle and a cousin, but I pull out a few minutes later without too much hassle. I know how they all feel about Atticus, I’ve heard it enough over the years, and now they’re playing nice because he’sdead.

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