Page 9 of Barbed Wire Fences
I snap back to the present, Owen’s proposition lingering in the air.
Burgers, beer, and a football game with him. It’s dangerously close to reliving my teenage years. And though those years weren’t exactly golden, there had been good moments, too. Moments with Owen that were fun before everything fell apart. Besides, it’s not like I have any other plans while I’m in town. I don’t want to stay in my hotel hiding all month, and I’d be lying if I said that small thread of hope that someone will finally choose me is glowing faintly in the background of my mind.
I glance at him, his easy smile softening the hesitation that’s building in my chest.
“Sure,” I say finally. “That sounds fun.” I hesitate for a beat before adding, “Maybe I’ll text Molly and see if she and Colt want to join us, too.”
Owen grins, a spark of something familiar lighting in his eyes. “Nowthatsounds like a plan.”
And just like that, I start to wonder if I’m going to regret this decision and if Owen, just like the rest of this town, is something that I should have kept firmly rooted in my past.
Chapter 4 – Jael
Fifteen minutes later, I pull back into the gravel driveway in front of my mom’s trailer, armed with the green grabber tool and a half-baked plan to rescue Bentley’s bone. The place looks the same as always. One of the front window screens cracked, weeds snaking up the cheap paneling, but the empty driveway makes me exhale in relief. Her car is still gone. Thank God. That means I can handle this little mission and get back to my hotel without running into her.
I may be here because she asked me to come, but that doesn’t mean I’m interested in catching up on the years that she missed out on. Any conversations we do have will be strictly business about Dad’s passing, the lawyer, and whatever loose ends need tying so that I can get the hell out of town. Nothing more. It’s easier that way. Cleaner. Safer.
Steeling myself, I head back inside the home. The air conditioner is humming louder now, but the thermostat stubbornly reads a balmy 80 degrees Fahrenheit. It’s trying its best but doing absolutely nothing to cut through the suffocating, southern, summer heat.
Back to the toilet I go with a deep breath and the kind of determination I usually reserve for hospital emergencies. I lift the lid I’d carefully closed earlier and look in the bowl. It’s still only half full, gurgling now. Grabbing the plastic tool, I shove it into the hole as far as it will go, fishing around with what I can only describe as surgical precision—if surgery required blindly jamming a piece of plastic into the unknown.
For ten long, sweat-inducing minutes I poke and prod, the handle squeaking as I work it up and down. My frustration builds with every failed attempt, each scrape of plastic against porcelain making the situation feel even worse. By the time I’m done, I’ve accepted my fate. This is officially beyond me and I’m going to have to hire a plumber.
With a resigned sigh, I head to the fridge, looking for a phone book or some clue as to which local plumber my mom might trust. I could look it up online, sure, but this town isn’t brimming with businesses that maintain active websites, and knowing my mom, she’d have a very specific opinion about who she’d let step foot in her house to touch any of her belongings.
Finally, my eyes land on a magnet slapped onto the side of the fridge:Whitewood Creek Plumbing—Your Neighborly Solution for When You’re in a Jam!
Perfect. I dial the number, and a cheerful woman answers my call on the second ring.
“This is Florence of Whitewood Creek Plumbing; how may I serve you today?”
“Hi, Florence,” I say, exhaling as I lean against the counter while pressing my forehead into the cool fridge. “My dog tossed his toy down my mom’s toilet, and I’m in desperate need of a plumber before she gets home from work or I’m going to have to endure a long lecture that I’m not sure I can handle in this heat.”
She chuckles, her laugh warm and motherly. “I got you, sweetheart. What’s the address where I can send out the help?”
I rattle it off, and Florence promises to send someone within the hour. I thank her and hang up, the sense of impending doom easing slightly as I relax against the fridge.
Now what?
With some time to kill before I can head back to my hotel, I decide to snoop. I haven’t been back here in over a decade, and I’m curious to see what my mom’s been up to all these years, or maybe more accurately, what shehasn’tbeen up to because this place looks like it’s stuck in the past.
Not much has changed in her old trailer. The living room still holds a leaning stack of weathered magazines with furniture pictures that she’s cut out and never done anything with. There’s a faded, black and white photograph on the wall of her as a kid with her parents, which only reminds me of how little she acted like I existed growing up. The pantry is a sad collection of soup cans and cereal boxes, and the fridge is a predictable assortment of my dad’s beer bottles, and expired condiments.
I close it with a sigh, disappointed but not surprised. I don’t even know what I thought I’d find, maybe some hint that she’d changed, some sign of growth. But isn’t that just the story of my life? The people I most want to change, never do. And the ones I wish would stay steady and consistent, always seem to shift.
I wander toward the back of the trailer and stop at the door to my old bedroom. The sight freezes me. It’s like walking straight into a time capsule. The walls are still plastered with magazine cutouts of Shane West, Usher, Enrique Iglesias, and Brad Pitt, their glossy smiles frozen in time. The floor is still the same dirty, pink carpet that I was when we moved in. Even the comforter on the bed is the one that my parents bought mesecond-hand when we first moved here, back before everything unraveled.
I walk over to my old CD player, sitting in the corner like it’s been waiting for me. On a whim, I press play, curious about what’s inside. The Backstreet Boys’ harmonies fill the room, and I can’t help but smile as I listen to their voices.
I head to my closet and peek inside. Most of my clothes went with me to Richmond, later swapped out for a more grown-up wardrobe or donated, but a few dresses still hang in the back, tucked beside my graduation cap and gown.
My fingers skim the soft, dusty fabric, and for a second, I’m back on that night, graduation, the weight of the gown, the feeling of wanting so badly to escape this place but also stay in place and soak up the moment. I let go and quietly close the door, leaving it all where it is.
In the corner, my desk looks exactly as I left it. On the edge sits a neat stack of high school yearbooks. I lower myself into the chair, the squeak both familiar and strange, and flip open the top one as Joey’s voice croons in the background.
Turning to my class photo section, I immediately spot Owen. My stomach does a little flip, the kind it used to do when I was a shy eighth-grader, new to town with an embarrassingly huge crush on the popular kid. He was the golden boy back then, handsome, athletic, and so completely out of my league. Though I guess I wasn’t really in anyone’s league considering how shy I was at first. Practically every girl in school had a thing for him, and I felt like I’d never have a chance.
He didn’t really notice me until our senior year when I turned eighteen years old. We dated for a few months that spring before I ended up breaking things off. He hadn’t taken it well. And despite how it ended, I’m choosing to remember the good timesnow—the nights we’d sneak off to the corn fields, the way he used to make me smile until my face hurt.
