Page 10 of Forty

I was eighteen. I didn’t have the first idea of what to do with that kind of enthusiasm. I do now. Much good that does.

Besides. Who knows what’s happened with her? She was always so hyper, so crazy. If you didn’t feed her, she’d forget to eat, and even though her ass wouldn’t shrink an inch, her ribs would show. She’d get knots in her hair, in the back, and she wouldn’t notice. And she always had skinned knees or scabs from whatever stupid stunt she’d tried that ended badly.

That look doesn’t age well. A skinny, twenty-nine-year-old woman with knotted hair and scabs? That’s a drug addict.

Hell, what do I know? Maybe she’s done fine for herself. Calmed down, got married. Maybe she has a kid or two, and she’s going through a divorce, back in town to take a stroll down memory lane. My chest tightens. Now why does that possibility somehow bother me more than her ending up a mess? It shouldn’t. Only an asshole wishes people ill.

Amelia’s launching into the sequel to her broken-down car story. I can’t take it anymore. I wave for the check, and she blinks in surprise.

“Well! Time flies, I guess, right?” She licks her lips, a question in her eye. I guess it hasn’t escaped her that my mind is elsewhere. Shit.

“I’ll drop you off at home.” I grab her hand and squeeze. Friendly. Noncommittal.

Her face falls for a second, but she’s not the type to stay down. By the time I open my truck door for her, she’s telling me about a dog she used to have who shed too much. Not sure how we got there from the car with the bad clutch, but I’d be hard pressed to keep up my end of a conversation at this point, so I’m happy to listen.

When we get to her place, I open the door for her, and she kisses me as I help her down from the cab. Tastes like wax. She rubs the lipstick off with her thumb.

“Am I going to see you again?” Amelia smiles.

I like her. She’s not pushy; she’s confident. She reminds me of Deb, Pig Iron’s old lady. Deb does the books and keeps the clubhouse running. She wants things to be her way, and she’s tough enough to make it happen.

That’s the kind of woman who makes a good wife and mother. Maybe I judged Amelia too hastily. Kind of fucked up to rule out a woman ‘cause she wants your jock, anyway.

“I’ll call you.” I smile back.

Amelia hops down and moves in for a hug. She nestles her head against my chest. I give her a quick squeeze and a pat, and then I step back.

“I’ll watch until you’re inside.”

She pauses and cocks her head, taking my measure. Then she smiles and winks. “I’ll see you around.”

I nod.

I wait until the lights come on inside before I hop back in the truck. Without thinking, I head for Lou Ellis’ place on Barrow Road, death metal blaring, adrenaline rising in my veins, dick throbbing in my jeans.

I’m going to tell Nevaeh not to show her face in my club again.

I’m going to stake this thing in the heart.

I straighten my collar and crack my neck.

My boot is lead on the gas.

* * *

The lights are stillon when I get to the Ellis place, an old rancher out towards the river. I pull off onto the front lawn, and it’s like no time has passed. I haven’t been out this way since I came home. There’s been no reason. Barrow Road is a country lane that leads to nothing but shotgun shacks and flood plain.

As I slam the truck door, I can almost hear Nevaeh’s mom primly ordering me to stop tearin’ up the grass. Even in the dark with no porch light, it’s obvious no one much cares about the lawn these days. I heard that when Nevaeh’s stepdad passed, Mrs. Ellis moved to Florida, leaving Lou the house. Looks like he takes care of it about as well as any guy in his twenties who installs cable and plays bass in a jam band.

There are two overturned buckets by the front step with cigarette butts scattered around, a few empties on the step itself. Mrs. Ellis’ kissing Dutch couple is knocked over, and at some point, someone mowed around it, so the little boy and girl are lying flat in an island of tall weeds.

Lou’s work van, his bike, and a beat-up red Hyundai take up the short driveway. Must be Nevaeh’s ride. Back left tire is low.

Clearly, they’re home, and my truck’s not subtle. I’m surprised no one’s come out yet.

I hop up on the running board, reach through the open window, and lay on the horn. Mrs. Ellis used to hate when I did that. She’d hassle Nevaeh, tell her only sluts go running when a man honks. Nevaeh’d cry about it, but it was always easy to distract her. She was the kind of girl who wanted to be happy.

I told her I’d walk up to the door—it was the right thing to do, even I knew that—but she didn’t want me anywhere near her folks. Guess they didn’t approve of me.

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