Page 34 of Hot Mess Express
But when our game of Clue commences, I get an earful from Trey and Cody anyway, who have stories and more stories about the “rollercoaster” that is Anthony Myers. I hear about something that happened back in high school involving Anthony stealing the prom date of the mayor’s son, then everyone vilifying him. I hear about him wanting to be a vet, then giving up his dream because of bad grades and money. His attempt at joining the Army, which backfired when he injured himself in boot camp. Then his family dog dying just a year ago. I hear more than I want to hear.
But the gist is that he’s a troubled guy, and Trey is certain he’s sorry for grabbing the habanero hot sauce by mistake instead of the tasty A1 I very obviously asked for.
Yeah, that’s what I told everyone. That it was a big mistake. Anthony must’ve grabbed the wrong sauce.
I also insisted to them that I ordered my steak well-done.
I don’t know why I did that. Why I covered for Anthony. Why I felt struck with this completely misplaced ball of sympathy when I recovered from choking, half-hanging from Pete’s arms, staring at Anthony and the expression of terror on his face.
Even he knew it went too far.
I could see it.
The guilt burning in his pretty blue eyes.
“Wait, what the hell?” says Cody an hour into the game after all the suspects are drawn. He snatches the solution envelope and pulls out the three cards. “Mr. Green and Colonel Mustard in the study? There’s two people cards in here! No weapon! The fuck?”
“The weapon is in their pants,” says Pete with a smirk, “and I can guess what they were up to all alone in that cozy study …”
Cody shoves at Pete. “You went and put two people cards in here, doofus!”
“Big deal. I hate this game anyway.”
“Why didn’t you say so??”
“I wanted to play Monopoly andBoardwalkyour ass!”
“Boy, I’drailroadyou,bankruptyou, and send you tojail. Don’t pass go, don’t collect $200!”
While the old pals keep razzing each other back and forth, Trey quietly excusing himself to top off all our drinks, I sit back and stare at the pieces on the board, our respective characters, the weapons strewn out everywhere—tiny rope, tiny candlestick, tiny lead pipe, all of them.
I don’t need a game of Clue to figure out who put me in this funk. It was Anthony who did it. Anthony. In the restaurant. With the bite of steak—a weapon no one could’ve possibly predicted.
Morning comes. I do my jog, enjoy the peace and calm, and return before the sun’s even broken the horizon.
We eat a relaxed brunch at the house. Cody goes on bragging about his “grill game”, which he just can’t wait to show off tonight for dinner. We hit the town and meet several new faces, including the town doctor who we encounter outside a clothing store. While Pete and Cody look at boots, I learn that Trey isn’t just the young reverend taking over after his father, but also works at the clinic, having gone through med school to become a nurse. I reveal to Trey that I got a decent amount of medic training during my time in the Army, inspired by watching a particularly skilled nurse save a comrade of mine who suffered a terrible injury in training. “I’m sure it’s a heck of a lot calmer in a small-town clinic than on a field of battle,” says Trey. “Hey, maybe I should introduce you to Dr. Emory sometime. I think you’d like him.” I nod and thank Trey, appreciating that, as I find myself admiring the reverend in a new light. I guess that’s a thing in small towns, to wear many hats—and not in theliteralway Pete and Cody are demonstrating through the store window, having moved on from the boots.
The sun’s still up but on its way out for the day, and we’re all gathered back at the house in the backyard as Cody works his magic on the grill. A few friends and neighbors join, including a nurse named Marybeth from the clinic, as well as a couple guys from the church choir whose talents I actually got to hear Sunday morning, Jeremiah and Burton, along with Burton’s new girlfriend Cindy. Reverend Arnold and Ms. Davis decided notto come over, much to Trey’s increased suspicion about what they’re up to.
The eating and socializing carries into the night, and suddenly we’re saying goodbye, and not half an hour after that, Cody and Trey say goodnight, and I’m on the big couch in the dark by myself again, crickets singing their insect songs through the windows.
And the last thought I have before drifting off is what the hell Anthony was up to today.Hiding, I guess.
Another morning. Another jog. I’m getting used to the layout of Spruce already, forming routes in my head as I curve and wind my way around town. This time, I don’t race back. I sit at a bench in the park and watch as the sun breaks the dark sky into bright blue—a bright blue that reminds me too much of Anthony’s eyes.
On my way back in the warm morning sunlight, I jog past the market, and two of the guys there recognize me from before. Then I’m spotted by someone else across the street, someone I think we ran into our first night at Tumbleweeds, and I return their wave. A moment later finds me jogging past the clinic, and there Marybeth happens to be, walking from her car to the front of the building. She gives me a cheery wave, her purse clutched over a shoulder. I wave back, wondering if this is what life in a small town is really like after just a day or two, every person you pass knowing you.
But none of these faces are Anthony’s. It’s like one minute, I’m running into him everywhere. Now, the guy is a fucking ghost.
Seriously, is he hiding?
That evening, after we enjoy a tasty chicken dinner cooked by Trey, Pete and Cody take off together to check out something in town. (I told them to go without me; the two need their own time together.) Soon after they leave, I shrug on my denim jacketand join Trey out front by the colorful flowerbed. He tells me his dad planted the flowers ten years ago after his wife, Trey’s mother, passed away. Now that his dad moved out, it’s Trey’s responsibility to tend to them, though he often catches his father strolling past the house (he lives just down the road, anyway) and he’ll always stop to check on them. Once, Trey even caught his dad talking to the flowers. “I’m pretty sure he believes Mom’s spirit is in there somewhere, dancing in those tulips,” explains Trey thoughtfully. “Looking at the breathtaking colors, I think I believe it, too.”
I gaze at the white cross standing in the center of them with a new appreciation.
“I think he’s at the church,” says Trey.
I’m still gazing at the cross. “Your father?”
