Page 119 of Once Upon A Small Town Secret
It’s not shouted. He doesn’t throw the beer. He doesn’t sneer or make a scene. But the words slice at me like a fingernail on the skin.
“Excuse me?” I say slowly.
“Not much heritage,” Seed Cap offers, voice lazy. “More like theft.”
It’s quiet in a way that’s not quiet at all. The room inhales. To my left, Mark’s shoulders go tight. To my right, a regular at Table Four sets her fork down so carefully it doesn’t make a sound.
My blood goes cold and hot in the same second. “You can leave,” I say, very calmly, because if I let anything else into my voice, I might not be able to pull it back out. “Now.”
Belt Buckle lifts his palms. “We’re customers here,” he says, all innocence.
“You’re not welcome here,” I say, braced for whatever they’re planning on throwing next.
Because they did plan this. From the moment they walked in.
Seed Cap smiles small and mean. “Touched a nerve, did we?”
“Door’s that way,” I say, nodding toward it. “Mark,” I call without looking away from them. “Would you open the door and show these confused gentlemen the way out?”
Mark is already moving. He’d have had it open if I hadn’t said a word.
Button-Down stands. He leaves his beer exactly half-full and aligns it with the coaster. “We remember things in this town,” he says conversationally. “Some of us were here back when men were honest.”
“I brew my own beer,” I say. “In a building you can see from this seat. If you’ve got an accusation, make it like a man. If you’ve got nothing but empty words, use them somewhere else.”
His smile dries up. “Careful, boy,” he says, and his voice is different now, meaner. “You’re not who you think you are.” He claps Seed Cap on the shoulder and nods at Belt Buckle. “Come on. We’ve wasted enough time.”
They start for the door. As he passes, Seed Cap leans in just enough for me to smell stale cigarettes on his breath. “Hoffmans are good-for-nothings. Always have been, always will be. You ain’t nothing compared to the Richards, and it’s time you learned your place.” He pats the bar twice like he’s blessing it and steps back.
The door swings shut behind them. The bell rings its stupid, cheerful note, and then the room stays absolutely still.
I’m not sure what my face is doing. My body feels like it’s teleported to a dozen different ages at once.
I’m eighteen and the condo door won’t open. The key between my fingers is suddenly a piece of useless metal. I’m nineteen, and everything I do is to prove to someone who left me behind that I’m worth something. I’m ten, and I’m sitting in my room, listening to my parents throw cruel words at each other before the door slams, and I never see my mother again.
My hands are on the bar. My thumb has gone white where it presses against wood. The glass behind the taps throws back my reflection—fine, composed, the man in charge—as if a trick of light can keep me from splitting down the middle.
“Ben?” Charlotte’s voice is careful at my shoulder. “You want the back?”
“I’m fine,” I say, but the words don’t sound like they came from my mouth
Mark lines up their half-drunk beers and pours them into the dump sink with a clean, final motion. The sound of liquid hitting steel makes my stomach flip. Somebody at Table Six says, “What was that about?” and somebody else shushes her like they’re in church.
“Take the stick,” I say to nobody and everybody. I can’t hear my voice. The bell rings again, and I whip my head up, but it’s not them. It’s a man and a woman, walking in and laughing as they make their way to seats.
“Boss.” Charlotte is in front of me now, not touching, exactly in my eyeline. Not cornering me, but it still feels like it. “Everything all right?” she asks, very quietly. “Who were those guys?”
I inhale. The air snags in my chest like I swallowed a handful of gravel. My fingers won’t unclench. I blink and the bar doubles, edges sharp and wrong. Sound turns to cotton. The room narrows like someone is pushing the walls in on me.
I know this feeling. A panic attack, the kind I haven’t had in years. Not since I stopped trying to prove myself to people who left me behind.
The first time, I was eighteen. Standing at my door with a useless hunk of metal in my hand. It was our first trip back from campus, and Jason had just dropped me off with my backpack full of laundry and a head full of grades I couldn’t wait to hand tohimlike proof that I was worth something.
I remember the metal plate around the keyhole being a little loose, the way my key went in and turned, then stopped. I remember thinking I should oil it. I remember knocking with three little raps because I didn’t want to be annoying. I remember knocking again, harder, then calling his name through the door.
I remember the way my knocking got desperate and the way my voice cracked because, though I wanted to pretend otherwise, I was still just a kid.
Then there were footsteps in the hallway, and just a moment of relief before the door opened and an unfamiliar woman’s face appeared in the crack made by the chain.
