Page 8 of Rhett & Moses
“I’m not one for speeches,” he continued, his voice gaining strength. “But I'm good at mixing drinks, which is basically the same skill set, combining elements that shouldn’t work together but somehow do.”
More laughter, more genuine this time. I felt a surge of pride watching him win over the room.
“Like this reunion,” he gestured around. “A mix of past and present, of who we were and who we’ve become. Some ingredients have mellowed with age..." he nodded toward a group of former football players whose wild days were clearly behind them, “, while others have only grown more potent.”
His eyes found mine as he said this, and heat crawled up my neck. Around me, I sensed a shift in attention, people following his gaze to where I stood.
“So, here’s to Gomillion High,” Moses raised an imaginary glass, “and to all of us, the complex, sometimes contradictory blend of experiences that have made us who we are today.”
The crowd erupted in cheers and applause as others shifted quickly from their seats as Moses hastily returned the microphone to Principal Bushman and made his way back toward the bar. I was about to follow him when I felt a tug on my arm.
“Not so fast, Romeo,” Vanessa said. “Give him a minute to recover. That took a lot out of him.”
“He did well,” I said, unable to keep the admiration from my voice.
“He did,” she agreed. “But public speaking isn’t what scares him. It’s being the center of attention in a town where his name is still synonymous with scandal.”
I frowned. “It’s been twenty years. Surely people have moved on?”
Vanessa gave me a pitying look. “Oh, sweet summer child. This is Gomillion. People are still talking about the Henderson affair of 1973, and both parties have been dead for a decade.”
She had a point. Small towns had long memories, and what Moses had done, defacing the beloved Paul Bunyan statue on graduation night, had been considered something close to sacrilege in Gomillion.
“Have you talked to him? Really talked?” Vanessa pressed.
“I tried earlier,” I admitted. “He’s... evasive.”
“Moses has always played things close to the chest,” she said thoughtfully. “But I think he might be ready to open up. Finally.”
“What makes you say that?”
She smiled mysteriously. “Let’s just say I’ve had some interesting conversations with our resident gin expert recently. He’s carrying something heavy, Rhett. Something he’s kept to himself for far too long.”
Before I could ask her to elaborate, a commotion near the bar caught our attention. A small group had gathered, voices rising in what sounded like confrontation. At the center stood Moses, his expression tight, facing off against a red-faced man I recognized as Tom Jenkins, one of the more conservative members of our graduating class.
“...just saying, it’s pretty rich for you to come back here acting like nothing happened,” Tom was saying loudly enough for his voice to carry. “Some of us still respect traditions in this town.”
“And some of us have moved beyond high school grudges, Tom,” Moses replied evenly, though I could see the tension in his jaw. “It was a statue, not the end of the world.”
“It was more than that, and you know it,” Tom pressed, stepping closer. “It was a symbol of this town, and you destroyed it because, what? You had some kind of breakdown? Or was it because of those rumors about you and..."
“That’s enough, Tom,” I interrupted, suddenly at Moses’s side though I had no recollection of crossing the room. “Whatever happened twenty years ago, we’re here to celebrate, not rehash ancient history.”
Tom’s bleary eyes focused on me, recognition dawning slowly. “Callahan. Should’ve known you’d defend him. You two were pretty tight before he went nuts and trashed the statue, weren’t you?”
I felt Moses stiffen beside me. “Tom, you’re drunk,” I said calmly. “Why don’t you go get some coffee and cool off?”
“I’m not the one who needs to cool off.” Tom sneered, his gaze shifting back to Moses. “Everyone knows why he did it. It wasn’t just teenage rebellion. It was because he couldn’t handle people finding out he’s..—"
“—an award-winning mixologist and successful business owner?” I cut in smoothly. “Yes, very shocking. Now, if you’ll excuse us, I believe Moses owes me a drink.”
I placed a hand on Moses’s lower back, guiding him away from Tom and the curious onlookers who had gathered. Moses let me lead him toward a quiet corner near the emergency exit, his breathing shallow and quick.
“You didn’t have to do that,” he said once we were out of earshot.
“I know,” I replied simply. “I wanted to.”
He looked at me then, really looked at me, his dark eyes searching mine for something I couldn’t name. “Why?”
