Page 3 of Unstable

But alas, here I am, waiting to once again face my first love in the tiny ranching town where nothing ever happens…except my worst nightmares.

Well, that’s not completely true, more my skewed opinion silently speaking in exaggerations. There’s church, where everyone shows up, dressed in their best attire and polite smiles, but the sermon is never practiced outside the chapel walls. Oh, and let’s not forget the coveted weekend rodeos, followed directly by post-event field parties, with all the underage drinking, subsequent fighting and non-promising pregnancies one might expect to find when small-town high school kids have too much time on their hands.

I doubt anything’s changed for the current generation of teenagers occupying this little, unknown corner of the Earth.

And if ever you feel like you’ve missed out on some vital nugget of gossip, fear not, for you can conveniently wander into the one and only diner in town, on any day that ends in “y” to get caught up. ‘Cause the “town elders” will be there, sitting in the same booth every morning, recapping all the latest “news” in even less enthusiastic voices than they used the day before, over their stained mugs of stale coffee.

I doubt that’s changed either.

But this girl got out.

For the most hellish of reasons, my catalyst and destination both far more horrifying than the dismal life I just described, but…I got out. And yet, I’d give anything, even my own life, to be able to go back and change things so that I didn’t ever have to leave.

Just a cinch tighter. One final tug.

And after all these years, one step back into town and the shame and guilt I’ve long carried, weighs heavier than ever. Because a deep, dark place within me that contradicts everything I just thought…is, indeed, still glad I escaped.

I couldn’t change things, and I wouldn’t have survived here after what happened. Ashfall and all it stood for would’ve suffocated what little fight for survival I had left in me. And a second horrific ending doesn’t rewrite the first one. Unfortunately, it just doesn’t work that way.

If it did, I would have gladly planted both feet firmly in place and taken any torture necessary to undo my grave mistake.

It’s ironic and sickening— the one thing that saved what little was left of me will always be painfully intertwined with the one thing that killed the part that’s not.

I squeeze my eyes shut and start to chant in my head all the “self-help” quotes I’d been taught…and just as my breathing evens out and I’m able to open my eyes again, determined to not hide, but face things head-on like the adult I now am, he appears.

Walking toward me with a cool, easy stride, is Merrick Watson, as gorgeous as the day I left him. Left it all.

He looks great, age doing nothing but putting a distinguished polish on his undeniable good looks. Nearly every fond memory I’ve kept locked away comes rushing back over me like a waterfall with one glance at his vibrant, aqua blue eyes. A cascade of all that was my young adult life, innocence, discovery…and sadness, heartbreak and loss; a painful clash of everything that molded me and everything that damn near shattered me beyond repair bombarding my mind and senses more intensely with each step he takes closer. That same “hometown prince” smile that snared my attention, then whole heart, in the first place very much alive on his handsome face.

“Henley Gene Calvert, get over here.” He grins, riddled with nostalgia, spoiled by sympathy. He holds his arms open wide as if I’ll just waltz right into them for a hug.

Which I don’t.

After several, cramped seconds, he realizes I’m not gonna budge and drops those arms that were once my solace awkwardly to his sides. “So,” he clears his throat, “it’s good to see you, even considering,” he tugs at the starched collar of his pin-striped dress shirt and shifts his weight in palpable discomfort. “Shall we head back to my office and go over a few things?”

“That’s what I’m here for,” I answer and stand.

“Addison,” he turns and almost knocks over his receptionist, whose name I never would’ve remembered…had I been trying. She’s standing right at his side and interloping on our conversation, which I’m almost positive is well beyond the scope of her job description. “Hold all my calls.”

“Yes Sir, Mr. Watson,” she purrs her obedient reply and prostitute prances back behind the desk. “Welcome home, Henley,” she adds for good show in front of her boss.

This isn’t my home, not anymore, and we both know it. Just like we both know what she really just meant was “Fuck off, Henley.” Reconfirming what I already knew and didn’t fall for— nothing and no one in this town ever changes, and her initial friendliness, if you want to generously call it that, was just a hunting expedition for any gossip she could get out of me.

Glad to see she’s grown so much since high school.

Well, her ass has. That’s at least something. Good for her.

Shame on you, Henley. Just because your entire life now lays in unfixable ruins and she called you “crazy” right out the gate, doesn’t mean you have to stoop to her level.

Not sure why she’s so contemptuous of me anyway. I wasn’t mean to her in school. And if she’s worried I’m here to get in between whatever it is she already has, highly likely, or wants, with Merrick, she’s as delusional on that as she is in thinking she’s getting under my skin.

“Right this way.” Merrick extends an arm as my guide and I follow, keeping a speakable distance. One that clearly says I need no further guidance, such as his hand on my back, just in case he was thinking that’d in any way fly with me.

He closes the door behind us, and I take in his office; exactly what I’d expect— clinical, screaming of his prestigious heritage (as prestigious as it gets in a postage-stamp-sized town anyway) in the most sterile, yet pompous, way possible.

For instance, the picture on his desk? It’s of him and Krista, her name I remember, and it isn’t just a casual shot snapped one day while they were hanging out. Couldn’t possibly have that. No, it’s a photograph of them dressed in tux and ball gown, with a banner boasting the name of the charity event they’re at in the background. A charity I’m sure neither of them have ever researched or spent any time volunteering at for even a second. And let’s not fail to take a moment to appreciate the sterling silver frame, complete with a pretentious engraving.

It’s posed, cliché, and classic “Watson Family Values.”

---