Page 14 of Broken Bayou
The answer is no, the voice in my head says.
But I am hungry, and I need to eat somewhere, and those boxes are fine for now. I found what I needed. Taking an hour to regroup and eat something isn’t going to make a damn bit of difference. Those tapes are worthless until I can figure out a way to watch them.
Besides, avoidance as a coping mechanism doesn’t sound so awful at the moment.
“Breakfast sounds good,” I say.
Chapter Five
Travis navigates his truck down the narrow lane, away from Shadow Bluff. The truck is spotless. A Ford F-250 with a leather interior and a dashboard that looks like the inside of a cockpit. A siren rests on the top of the dash.
“Nice truck,” I say.
“Thanks. Took me forever to save up for it.”
“No patrol car?”
He laughs, and there goes the dimple again. “Hell, no. Even the chief doesn’t have a patrol car. No damn money. We’re lucky we even have a police department. Lots of small towns have lost theirs. It’s just me, the chief, and two other officers in a run-down rented building north of Bridge Street. Oh, and we do have Margie, who works the front, but she volunteers because she’s married to the chief.” He side-eyes me and winks. “A real coup.” He glances at me again. “You know, Nan’s is pretty casual.”
I look down at the suit pants and navy-and-white-striped blouse. Silk, like the one I ruined onFort Worth Live. “Unfortunately, this is my casual.”
“Suit yourself.” He slides his gaze at me with a smile. “No pun intended.”
I roll my eyes. It’s strange, being in a car with him again. One of the last times I was in a car with him, Travis snuck me to a spot outside the town. His uncle’s place, where Travis worked during the summer.Then he took me for a joyride. In a crop duster. I remember the sinking drops in my stomach as he dipped over the fields. I was laughing and crying at the same time. No roller coaster came close. I’d never been that out of control. And by the time we finally landed, I’d discovered a piece of me actually liked it.
I gaze out the window. The town looks tired. The ditches are overgrown with weeds, and the small houses are sagging, some even boarded up. The complete opposite of the town down the road. St. Francisville capitalized on its antebellum homes and gardens, and created a quaint place for tourists to ooh and aah over a past we have no business oohing and aahing over. Maybe that was Broken Bayou’s hope for Shadow Bluff. Even though Shadow Bluff isn’t technically antebellum. It’s old, yes. But not a plantation. The Aunts liked to brag it was, but it’s just an imitation. I looked it up, researched it when I was in middle school and looking for a history project. Shadow Bluff was built in the nineteenth century but well after the Civil War ended. Beautiful, but never even had a crop. And as I look around, I don’t think the restoration of that place will bring this town back to life. Broken Bayou looks ... broken.
Travis pulls into the parking lot of Nan’s Café, a small box building with windows on two sides. We hop out, and Travis opens the glass front door for me. A lively hive of clinking silverware and slow southern drawls greets us. Inside, it looks like most small diners. Booths against one wall, tables in the middle, and in the back, a long counter with stools facing the open kitchen. A menagerie of jelly packets, salt and pepper shakers, and Louisiana-brand hot sauce jars adorn every table. Beige walls and linoleum floors finish out the look. No cutesy decor like I expect in a southern establishment, only kids’ drawings taped on the walls. Which is odd considering there don’t seem to be many kids here.
We head for an empty booth. It’s overly warm and smells like sweet perfume and bacon. Topics of conversation float around us as we weave through the tables, most people commenting on the worst drought in this region’s history. As we pass, one man takes off his cap, rubs histhinning hair, and says to the waitress taking his order, “Some people talk about hundred-year floods. Well, this here’s the hundred-year drought.”
We slide into the booth, and a waitress with a messy ponytail and a sour look on her face approaches, turns over our ceramic coffee mugs, and pours coffee before we ask. Then she abruptly leaves.
“So much for southern hospitality,” I say.
“The locals can be a little cranky.” Travis nods to a table in the back. “You look like one ofthem.”
I look around more closely and notice a table where the customers are dressed like me, suits and slick city hair. “What’s going on?”
“Media.”
The waitress reappears, tops off my mug to overflowing, and onto the table, drops two plastic menus that announce Nan’s proudly serves breakfast all day. Before she can walk off, Travis stops her and orders spicy sausage and biscuits with white gravy, a side of fried green tomatoes, and a crabmeat omelet with grits.
I stare at him with my mouth open. “Really?”
“You have to try all the house favorites. Besides, I remember you liking a big breakfast.”
My cheeks flush, and I study the menu until it subsides. When I look up, he’s watching me.
“What else do you remember?” I say.
His smile mirrors mine. “I remember it all.”
What doesthatmean? His tone is flirty, playful, but so is mine. Maybe he’s following my lead. Or maybe he’s testing me. Or maybe I’m overthinking it all, and it means absolutely nothing.
I need to think of something to say. Anything that keeps the conversation from drifting to the past.
“How’s your mom? Your dad?” I say and immediately regret it. That might be the worst topic I could’ve picked.
