Page 6 of Brett and Rowdy
“So what are we eating?”
“There’s this place in Toccoa that Daddy Dan likes.”
“It’s not Mexican food, right?” That was a travesty waiting to happen. Mexican food in the Georgia and Carolina region…
“No, Daddy. That’s not nice. No, this is called X-Factor. They have fried pickles and that popcorn shrimp you like and stuff.”
“That’ll work.” Dan had pretty good taste in food, and if Madison liked it enough to stop, it would do.
He was ready to get him some fried pickles.
That kind of stuff? Yeah, it was better here.
Chapter Three
Brett looked at himself in the mirror for a long moment, making sure his little hipster tie was straight and that his hair was… contained. That was the best he could ask for.
He had made it a point never to buy a pair of khaki pants, so he wore his good dark jeans and a burgundy shirt, and he was now going to walk out the door before he freaked out and changed.
Brett figured he was who he was.
The statue dedication had gone well. Really well. The town had been very appreciative, several people had come to shake his hand, and their old principal had offered to take him to lunch…
Lord. He’d gotten out of that by telling the man he was going to the opening reception for the reunion, and he needed the room in his jeans for canapes. Which he hoped was true.
He needed to get something out of this mess.
Finally, he decided that he was going to be late, and he headed out to his truck. If he failed to meet Crystal at the damn kickoff reception thing, she would probably send the cops to do a welfare check or something just to humiliate him.
And fuck knew, he didn’t need that.
He grimaced, then turned out of his place and into town, traveling along the county road that remained largely unchanged since he was a kid. A lot of places in Pickens and Oconee County had grown a ton. Clemson, for example, was largely unrecognizable from what he remembered as a wide-eyed five-year-old going to Death Valley for his first college football game. That wall of orange had been so awesome.
But his little corner of Gomillion was like the land that time forgot.
He cruised into town, circling around to the high school. There he parked, where he sat with his hands on the wheel for a moment, wanting to flee. Then he took a deep breath and let go so he could text Crystal.
I’m here
Okay, cool. It’s what? 6:45?
Yeah
Still have 15 to sign in. Meet you at the small gym door
Ugh. He hopped out of the truck, trudging up to the door, where people way more “dressed” than he was wandered in, mostly in pairs. He kept his eyes down, not wanting to?—
“Brett!” That was Ann Marie Combs, who had been on the committee he’d had to submit his sculpture to. “Are you here by yourself?”
“No, ma’am. Crystal is on her way.”
“Oh.”
The temptation to just turn around and walk away was huge, but he resisted.
“My kids love her when she brings the bookmobile around. It’s just… it’s always such a blessing.”
“Yep. Blessing, that’s what it is.” He did not roll his eyes. He did not. He wanted to, but he didn’t. God, he wanted a cigarette. He’d quit a good ten years ago. It was a waste of money, and he’d seen what lung cancer could do.
