Page 3 of Salvation

Again, and again, and again.

But that line of thinking only forces me to see the faces of everyone who will miss me. And I promise myself that if I survive this, I’ll tell Mama. I will tell her everything. Maybe Wes, too. If only I survive.

Again, and again, and – “Again, thank you for flying with us today, and welcome to Clover-Hills.”

I jolt awake, the pilot’s voice cutting through the overhead speakers. I murmur an apology to the older gentleman I spooked and try to blink the sleep from my eyes and steady my breathing. My neck is drenched with sweat, and my palms are clammy with nerves. I must have slept the entirety of the flight, which I no doubt can thank my hangover for. I sigh as I open the window, pressing my pounding head to the cool glass, willing the pain to fade.

I can still hear that crack from his hand, the sound rattling in my bones and echoing in my heart. I haven’t been home in years. Which means I haven’t had a dream in at least the past three, yet the minute I sense where I am, all the progress I’ve made seems to fly out the window. Rubbing my temples, I recall the moments that led up to such a ridiculous decision. The last thing I’ve ever wanted to do was return to this crappy little town, but after leaving my job, boyfriend, and getting roaring drunk with Vivienne, I woke up to a packed bag (courtesy of my best friend)and a non-refundable one-way plane ticket to my hometown that I must have purchased after the second bottle of wine. Or maybe the third.

“Ma’am, did you need help with your bags?”

I pull my face from the window as a petite blonde dressed in a deep, blue uniform leans over the row of seats before me.

“Uh, sorry?” I say, blinking hard and trying to shake off that dream.

“Everyone else has deboarded. Did you need help?” she asks again.

“Oh, no. Sorry. I guess I’m still waking up,” I respond quickly, embarrassment flooding my system. The flight attendant gives me a weird look but nods and walks back down the aisle without another word. I gather all my things and follow. I’m certain that if anyone was standing close enough, they could hear the booming thud of my heart against my ribcage. I clutch my bag tighter and force myself to step off the plane and back into Clover-Hills.

Chapter 3

Wesley

Wyatt:

Thanks for your help, man. I’ll drop in at the bar later to see you.

Closing out the text from my brother, I slam the door of my old, rusted truck shut. I watch as blue paint chips crumble to the dirt road beneath my feet.

“You know you can afford something new. Why bother with that old shit-wagon?” My mom chirps from her rocker on the front porch, sipping what I can only assume is her ‘homemade’ lemonade. Which means vodka with a dash of lemon.

I shake my head as I near the old yellow steps of my childhood home. I don’t linger on the fact that she’s right, I can afford something new – another truck or car that I wouldn’t have to constantly fix and worry about breaking down on the side ofthe road. I inherited the old Ford the year my dad passed and avoided it like the plague for quite some time. The idea of riding around in it without him was always too painful.

Over a year ago, I was feeling sentimental and lonely enough that I dug it out of the garage. Somehow, it’s still a long way from being anything but an eyesore. I don’t have the heart to scrap it or sell it just to buy something pretty and polished. So, I’ll keep reviving it as long as it’ll let me.

“We’ve already talked about this,” I said, nodding toward the drink in her hand, hoping to steer the conversation in a new direction, “and don’t you think it’s a bit early in the day?”

“You know what they say,” she winks and swishes around her drink, “it’s 5 o’clock somewhere.”

Raising my eyebrows and forcing back the smirk creeping up my lips, I glance at my watch, knowing I want to work on a few things before heading to the bar. I have a knack for never telling my mom no, which is exactly why I showed up in the first place. Helping Wyatt get the loose cattle back where they belong took up the majority of my day and I need to get a move on.

“What did you need me for?” I ask, maybe a little too bluntly.

“Such a charmer, my boy,” she sighs as she sets down her glass and shuffles out of her chair. “I need you to take some stuff to El’s.”

El, or Elise, is her best and possiblyonlyfriend. The two are as thick as thieves. I can’t remember a time when they weren’t attached at the hip. I’ve known El for as long as I’ve known my mother, which easily makes her just as hard to say no to. I follow my mom inside, and the smell of baked goods immediately hits my nose, filling me with a comfort that can only come from the woman in front of me. Early-morning baking and running around in the yard with her are some of my fondest memories. While I no doubt inherited her skills in the kitchen, mine havenever tasted as good as hers. I reach to snag a muffin off the table.

“Oh, you shouldn’t ha-" But she slaps it from my hand before I have a chance to stuff the freshly baked muffin into my mouth.

“No, you neanderthal! This is all for Elise,”she grumbles. She adds something under her breath about how I"haven’t changed a bit"and then begins loading a tower of dishes into my hands.

“Whyexactly does she need fifty different flavors of muffins?”I mutter, rubbing my temple with a free hand.

The last time she baked this much was after my father’s funeral. And when Elise served her husband divorce papers.

“You ask too many questions. And it’s a hundred, not fifty. Now get going. They’ll only stay fresh for so long,”she says, shooing me out of the kitchen.

She’s slamming the door on my ass before I can ask any more questions, and I’m left with the sinking feeling that my mother’s up to another one of her schemes. One that I wantnopart in.

---