Page 13 of The Rest is History

BC: You’re kidding.

BC: Don’t let me come over there and find you in Iowa with a fucking man.

Me: He’s my friend. And besides, he’s married.

BC: You just got divorced. Your child just fucking died four months ago. And the first thing you want to do is go looking for a homosexual who was going to ruin YOUR life? This is so like you. All you’re good at is burying your head in the sand or running away. If this is how you’re going to behave, then you’re better off not being a father. You wouldn’t know the first thing about protecting your children. You’re just like your mother.

I rub my palm lightly over my chest. It won’t help the ache there. Is it better or worse that I can read these words and not have the urge to fall into a pathetic heap and cry? Is it better or worse to be so dead inside that not even words like these can move you to utter despair?

The texts keep coming.

BC: You have twenty-four hours to get back home. If you’re not back home, consider yourself fired.

I lose some of my confidence.

Me: I need to do this, Dad. Please understand.

BC: In that case, you’re fired. And you no longer have access to any financial support with immediate effect.

He goes offline.

I guess I can now add unemployed and broke to the list of Worst Things About Me. I’m sure I’m the first person in the world to get fired and disowned over text. With a resigned sigh, I close my eyes for a minute, trying to shake off the weight of my father’s words. My bones feel limp inside my flesh. I’m so tired.

The sound of the GPS telling us to turn left in eight hundred feet onto Woodland Drive rouses me from my sleep.

Woodland Drive. I slept almost the whole ride. We’re almost there.

The town of Linksfield greets us with a sign that says:

WELCOME TO LINKSFIELD

POPULATION: 4753

EST: 1874

The thick black letters are surrounded by pink and white roses and a bright yellow corn stalk covering the left side of the board, and an oak tree on the right.

The Uber creeps up a slight incline in the road and enters what looks like the town center. Although it’s still months away from the national election, you can see campaign posters on almost every open space, from the streetlights to garbage cans. There’s slightly more red than blue, but not by much, and some of the slogans printed in bright red on cardboard posters are interesting: PROTECT FAMILIES and PRESERVE FAMILY VALUES.

The place is crawling with residents going about their business.

To my left is a large red and white building with the words LINKSFIELD GENERAL STORE written across the top. Next to it, a post office, and next to the post office, a bakery named DOTTY’S BAKE SHOP with a flower and gift shop attached to it on the left. A few tables and chairs occupy the area next to the sidewalk and, although the weather is shit, people sit outside drinking coffee.

On the other side of the street a crowd of boys in football jerseys, with an emblem of a blue and white eagle with its wings stretched out, take up the entire sidewalk in front of a diner called AL’S DINER: WE FEED THE EAGLES.

Apart from the election campaigning colors, the town seems to have their own color scheme – pale yellow and baby blue. The awnings over the building entrances are yellow and blue – all of them. The old lamp posts are yellow. The tablecloths are checkered blue or checkered yellow. Very calming and peaceful.

I could live here.

Hold on. It’s a bit of a jolt, that thought.

Asher was right. It’s nothing like back home, but I could see myself living a small, quiet life here.

The Uber driver angles his head over his shoulder. “Almost there.”

I manage a smile.

“You visit’n?”

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