Page 32 of Nothing Ever Happens Here

“Well, it should feel like home, not like a punishment,” I say with some weird sense of authority. And I suppose I mean the words, but living here feels more like a punishment than home to me these days, so I guess I’m just reciting something I’m conditioned to say.

“Yeah. Good point. I’ve known you since middle school, so spending time with you definitely feels…more like home than like a punishment,” he says and his eyes meet mine. I feel myself blush against my will and I look away.

“Well then, you’re a real nut, because you’re drinking bottom shelf bourbon at a roadside bar after a wild-goose chase with the biggest pity case the town has ever seen…and you should think I’m crazy and shouldabsolutelyfeel like you’re being punished right now.”

“Don’t say that. You’re not a pity case. People just care…but in weird ways, because we’re all hardwired to be really bad at handling this sort of…trauma. It makes people uncomfortable, but that’s on them, not you,” he says.

“Thank you,” I say, feeling my heart lift just a tiny bit.

“Plus, I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t want to be,” he adds.

“Well, I did get you through ninth grade math, so you owe me.” I smile, and he chuckles at this.

“It was a dumb class. Why are we discussing Bobby buying forty watermelons and eating six of them and trading twenty of them for two coconuts each… I mean.”

“It was practical problem solving,” I laugh.

“What’s practical about buying that many watermelons? And why would Bobby be trading them with anyone? What sort of currency is that?” he asks.

“And how could he have managed any of that after eating six of them,” I say, realizing I’ve had a few too many sips of bourbon to the one Billy has been nursing. I feel suddenly a little bit woozy and lightheaded. “Okay,” I say, pushing the glass away and taking a deep breath. “I think I’ve amply prepared myself to open the phone.” I try to slide off the stool to crouch down and pick the phone up from where it’s propped by an outlet on the floor, but I lose my footing and stumble. He grabs my arm before I topple over.

“Yeah,” I say. “Okay then. I think I might be a little…buzzed,” I say, and he keeps hold of me until I safely sit back down. I turn on the phone and wait for it to come to life.

When it does, my hands shakily scroll through, clicking on contacts, texts, call history. I don’t see anything that stands out. I immediately wonder if he had a second phone for all these dirty dealings of his. He must have.

“No activity since it was turned on two weeks ago except the Netflix the tow truck driver was watching,” I mumble out loud. His last call was to me three hours before I got home that night to find him gone. Just calls to the guys, local businesses…then I see a number that he’s called a few times in the week before he disappeared—a number that’s not saved, but is local. I stare at it for a moment, then put a finger up to Billy to tell him “hold on a sec here” and I push the call button.

It rings twice before the upbeat voice of a young woman answers.

“Pop’s!”

“I’m sorry, what?” I ask confused.

“Pop’s Grill. Can I help you?” she asks, Billy looks at my perplexed expression and gives me a quizzical look back.

“Uhhh. I’m…sorry. Grill? No… I was looking for Leo Connolly. I must have…”

“Oh okay, hold on,” she says.

“What? He’s there?” I gasp.

“Well, he works here.” And I’m so stunned by her words that my grip loosens and the phone drops from my hand.

13

SHELBY

I sit on a wooden pew in the dark hospital chapel. The room is small and a candle burns on a wooden altar in the front. I’m the only one here, my soft crying piercing the eerie silence. I watch the red light flicker against the stained glass images, making Jesus and a white dove look lifelike on the window above me.

She’s okay. She’s fine. She was only in the water for a few seconds and could probably go home tonight if we wanted, but will stay just one night to be safe. Thank God, yes…but this does little to lessen the rage burning inside of me. And then, somewhere in the chaos of nurses and visitors I hear that word again. “Grateful.” We should be so grateful it wasn’t worse. I don’t know who said it, and whoever it was I know they only meant well, of course they did, but I still feel the urge to punch them in the throat. So I do a couple of Hail Marys and whisper a short prayer and on my way out, I pick up the Styrofoam cup of stale hospital coffee I left on the ledge by the door and flick away the tears that are starting to form in the corner of my eyes.

I asked Clay to bring Juju to my mother’s house for the night so we could stay with Poppy without traumatizing her any further,and I’m surprised when he’s not back after an hour. I call and it rings through, and so I call again and he answers in a hoarse whisper.

“Sorry,” he says. “June is upset. She doesn’t want me to go. She keeps asking if Poppy is gonna die.”

“Jesus,” I say. “She seemed okay when you left. She talked to Poppy. She knows she’s okay,” I say, confused.

“I know. She’s just tired, and it was a lot.”

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