Page 9 of New Hope, Old Grudges

I did not have experience being attractive. In high school, I was what people would call an ugly duckling. I went through puberty late, which, of course, made my menstruation party all the more mortifying since everyone else in my class had gotten their periods years before.

So while my classmates were developing breasts and discovering the power of their sexuality, I was gangly, all limbs, flat-chested, wore glasses and on Accutane to calm my acne.

I didn’t ‘blossom’—as my mother called it—until right before college. Right when I left this town only to come back for fleeting holiday visits when I holed myself up at home, eating my mom’s gingerbread cookies, hanging out with my dad in the forge, tinkering with jewelry, the thing that would propel me to a short-lived period of fame and fortune in L.A.

I knew it was common practice for those who came home to their small towns for the holidays to congregate in the bar, to see each other, catch up on old times, brag about their lives, glimpse that old flame to reassure yourself you made the right choice or remind you of some bad decision-making as you strolled down memory lane. At least that’s what popular culture told me.

Again, I didn’t have any experience with these small-town phenomena, but the bar I entered the week before Thanksgiving seemed to communicate that kind of vibe.

My eyes scanned the large room. I’d never been inside it, not once. I’d seen it from the outside, with the quaint wooden sign, the frosted windows so you couldn’t see in. I’d expected it to be dark, maybe even seedy. But the inside was well lit and nicely decorated. Definitely leaning into the Colorado mountain theme with a long wooden bar, a lot of earth tones. But no mounted heads on the walls. Just art by local artists—which I could spot only because my mother also stocked art by local artists and had posed nude for more than one.

Though not every head turned at my arrival, I did notice a few stares. Confidence wasn’t even close to one of my qualities, yet I had learned a bit in L.A.—mostly ‘fake it ‘til you make it.’

I jutted my head upward and walked like I didn’t have a care in the world, like I owned the room and like I wasn’t at all self-conscious about walking into a bar alone on a Friday night.

Luckily, there was an empty stool close to the door, so I didn’t have to do too much walking and didn’t have to meet the eye of anyone staring. I’d probably catch someone I went to high school with.

I settled onto the comfortable stool. The couple to my left were having a heated argument, and the man to my right was engrossed in the game on the TV, therefore, no one was thinking that me sitting at the bar meant I wanted to make friends.

Perfect.

“What can I get you?”

I jerked at the voice, husky like she smoked a pack of cigarettes a day. The bartender’s weathered, tanned skin added to that theory. Her hair was bleached blonde, her skinny, muscular arms were exposed in a Harley Davidson tank, and she was wearing jeans that looked like they were painted on. She was pretty, in a harsh type of way.

I fumbled to think of a drink that would make a woman like this respect me.

“Whiskey. Neat.” The words out of my mouth had never once been uttered in the past. If I did drink—though I rarely did—it was sweet white wine, chilled to perfection. Or red wine with my mother.

The bartender’s kohl-rimmed eyes regarded me for a second, taking measure with an expert gaze I guess she’d honed being a bartender. I felt uncomfortable under it. Like I was being weighed for sturdiness and coming up lacking.

Then again, my resilience had already been established; I was here at a bar in my hometown with nothing to show for my years away. A cliché.

I thought she was going to refuse to serve me on account of being a failure. But of course not. She was a bartender. Failures were her bread and butter. Therefore, she just nodded. “Preference?”

My mouth went dry. I couldn’t think of a name of a whiskey if my life depended on it. “Dealer’s choice,” I said.

Again, the probing look, then another nod.

Seconds later, a glass tumbler was set in front of me with amber colored liquid in it. I regarded it for a split second then grabbed the glass and took a meager sip.

I had to school my expression, and it took everything in me not to cough and splutter like a teenager trying cheap booze for the first time.

I’d never been a teenager trying cheap booze for the first time. Our house always had expensive wine, and we’d been offered it since we were fifteen. My mother was ‘European’ that way.

My father didn’t drink hard liquor. Maybe a sip of wine here and there. But he didn’t like alcohol, and I’d followed his lead, as I always did, wanting to earn his respect even though he’d never made me feel like it was something I had to earn.

Even though my father rarely drank, had the odd cigar on special occasions, hiked out in the woods and ate heartily but healthy, he’d died of a heart attack at sixty.

On that thought, I downed the rest of the glass, wincing at the burn but embracing the softening of my thoughts that came afterward.

It was after I downed the drink that my gaze wandered down the bar. I was now feeling brave enough to see who else was at the local watering hole, to see if I could glimpse a familiar face.

I didn’t have anyone that I was hoping to see, not a single kindred spirit with whom I had hung out with in social Siberia. When you’re from a small town, a small high school and labeled persona non grata, even the ‘nerds’ didn’t want you in their crew.

But whatever. I survived, didn’t I?

Just.

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