Page 2 of Change of Course

There’s a notice in my feed that I can’t scroll past. My high school class is gearing up for our fifteen-year reunion. I first see the post on Instagram, but it says to go to the related Facebook post for the details.

My friend Brittany—once my second-in-command on the cheer squad, now apparently head of the reunion committee—has written:

That’s right. River Hills High School Class of 2008 is back, baby! Join us at the historic RiverView Hotel next Saturday night for an evening of hors d’oeuvres, cocktails, dancing, and catching up! Tickets are going fast but we don’t want to miss seeing any of you, so please reserve your ticket now! Go Eagles!

My immediate thought is, I don’t want to go.

Then I see the notification that I have no fewer than eight direct messages waiting for me. I open them, latest first. Courtney, who is the person I’d still call my closest friend, although I haven’t seen her for a couple of years, has messaged me four times, begging me to contact her because she misses me and she wants to see me at the reunion. My other squad girls have all messaged me, too: Brittany, Megan, Nicki, Anna, and Jessi. They’ve missed me. They hope I’m coming.

There are two messages from guys I dated at River Hills, as well: David Wray, a big old teddy bear of a linebacker who was sweet as he could be, and Jesse Mills, who played baseball and was more of a friend than a boyfriend, for at least a couple of reasons.

David says he hopes I’ll be at the reunion, and he’d like his wife to meet me. That’s sweet of him. Jesse says we need to catch up soon, at the reunion or some other way, because he’d love for me to meet his husband, and that’s sweet too.

There’s nothing from Jackson.

Not that I expected there to be. I haven’t heard from him since we broke up, and somebody told me he went to Alaska. It figures, Jackson Moore going as far away from everybody as he can manage to go.

Still, all my besties asking me to come? That’s significant. I should stop feeling bad about Mike’s decision to move on, and reconnect with my friends. Okay, okay, enough already, I’ll go.

Once again—for the dozenth time, maybe—I give in and search social media for the person I’d really like to see. Facebook pulls up twenty-nine separate Jackson Moores, none of whom are my Jackson. LinkedIn, Twitter, Instagram, Snapchat…I even try TikTok, but no luck.

Just for a moment, I allow myself to reminisce.

Beautiful, angry Jackson Moore. Bad boy from the other side of the tracks. Trouble on two very sexy legs. Not an athlete. Not a joiner, for that matter. Was argumentative with authority figures. Was obviously bright, but he only did what was necessary to pass his classes. Had a reputation for being rough. Was rumored to be a junior member of the Pagans motorcycle club, although he never wore insignia or anything of the kind. According to what was scratched into the door of one toilet stall in the girls’ locker room, he was a “stallion in the sheets.” Everybody said he smoked weed at school.

The rumors were untrue…except for being good in bed. That one, I can tell you, was absolute gospel. Jackson could make me come undone in mere minutes, but not by being rough. Not by being a bad boy who would make me prove myself or give him more than I wanted to offer. He’d unravel me with his pure need. By letting me see the inside part of him.

I let other people’s opinions—of him, and of me—drive me to the decision to break things off. As stupid as it was to marry Mike, the decision to dump Jackson was even stupider. Little Miss Perfect didn’t date the sexy kid from the other side of the tracks.

Dumbest thing I’ve ever done, and I include marrying Mike the roaming-penis douchebag.

Regrets aside, I’m going to this reunion.

I have to.

Chapter 2

JACKSON

I saw the reunion notice on Facebook.

Which is weird for me, you understand, because I don’t have any social media accounts. I mean zero. The people I consider friends already have my cell number. The people who need to contact me for business purposes can contact me through the City of Pittsburgh Department of Public Works.

I started working here last year, once I’d gotten my degree as a civil engineer. That only happened because I’d gotten injured on the rig and needed to find a new career, but I kinda love it. I use my practical, on-the-job knowledge as much as I use the college courses I completed online.

After twelve years working on an offshore oil rig in Alaska, Pittsburgh has seemed downright balmy. I guess it’s okay as far as cities go. The thing is, I keep feeling the pull to go home to Rivertown. It’s a small city nestled in the mountains of Virginia, and it will always and forever be home to me.

So once I started thinking about going home, I did some research. I reasoned that there had to be some job openings in Southwest Virginia; if they weren’t actually in Rivertown, they might be within driving distance. I started searching the Internet.

A link popped up for Rivertown Public Works Division, so I followed it, but turned out I couldn’t read everything unless I had an account.

Well, fuck it. If I was even considering going home, then there was no need to hide like some hermit. I set everything to private and pretty much just used the account to lurk.

I pulled up the Rivertown PWD’s page and started reading. There was an immediate opening for a civil engineer, since the head of the department, a guy in his seventies, had retired abruptly a few weeks ago due to health problems. They’d promoted from within, but that left one of the four engineer spots open, and the department was seeking a replacement.

That could be me, I thought, and the idea was exhilarating. See that old river again. Hike up Miller Mountain. Take in a Rowdies baseball game. My old lady would be happy to see me; I know she’s missed me ever since I took off for Alaska after high school. We have a standing phone call date every Sunday evening, but it’s not the same as being there.

I have a few misgivings. Who doesn’t get homesick from time to time? But I need to know if I could go back to living in a place that had practically declared me an teenage outlaw.

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