Page 14 of Highball Rush
Another deep breath and another sip of whiskey. I’d lied to him tonight. Lied right to his face.
But he’d known me—said my old name. That had been such a shock. I looked different than I had thirteen years ago. The altercation that had prompted me to run away had left me with a broken nose and a scar on my cheek. I’d had surgery to repair my nose, but it was more sloped now. And I hadn’t received medical attention right away, so there hadn’t been much they could do about my cheek.
Between that, my dyed hair, and aging from sixteen to twenty-nine, I’d thought I looked different enough that I wouldn’t be recognized so easily.
Apparently I was wrong.
That meant I needed to leave. Get myself out of West Virginia as quickly as I could. Even after all these years, I wasn’t safe here. Not as Callie Kendall.
The postcards I’d sent to Jonah Bodine had been the one thing I’d allowed myself—the last connection to my old life. He’d done so much for me. As the years went by and I healed, I’d wanted him to know that I wasn’t just okay. That with the loving help of my new family, I’d put the pieces of a shattered girl back together. I’d wanted him to be proud. To know that the risk he’d taken for me—a girl he hadn’t even known—had been worth it.
Jonah Bodine was dead. The man who saved my life—my hero—was gone. And there were no more ties to the town I’d once loved.
Until I’d heard Gibson Bodine’s voice.
Damn it.
I looked up his video on my phone and played it for about the millionth time. Whoever had recorded it had been sitting to the side, leaving parts of the crowd visible in the frame. There were faces I recognized in that crowd. People I hadn’t seen in years. Not since I’d been Callie.
They were adults, now. What were their lives like? So many seemed to still be there. I caught a glimpse of Scarlett Bodine, dancing with someone. God, she wasn’t a little girl anymore. Neither was Cassidy Tucker. Was that Bowie Bodine’s arm draped around her shoulders? And a woman who had to be June Tucker crossed the corner of the frame for a few seconds. She held hands with a tall, muscular guy.
How many of them were married now? Starting families? They were planting roots, and half the time I didn’t know what time zone I was in.
A tear trailed down my cheek. I missed them. The stupid box wouldn’t stay closed.
And what about Gibson? Was he with someone? Seemed crazy to think he wouldn’t be. He’d be in his thirties now. Some Bootleg girl had no doubt snatched him up. There were probably three or four little Bodines running around that town—little boys and girls with their daddy’s blue eyes.
Why did that notion make me so sad? This place was messing with my head. I hoped Gibson was happily married with a family of his own. Maybe that was why he wasn’t interested in a record deal. He had responsibilities at home. Made sense.
It also made my stomach hurt. Or maybe that was the cheap whiskey.
I glanced at my phone. I hadn’t called Quincy and Henna since I’d been here. It was late, but I knew hearing their voices would help me calm down. I brought up their number and hit send.
I waited while the phone rang several times. My adoptive parents eschewed a lot of modern technology, including cell phones. They had one house phone in the kitchen. It looked like something out of a movie from the eighties, with a long twisty cord so they could walk around while they talked. I’d tried to convince them to get cell phones a few times, but they said the radiation was bad for their auras.
It was the same reason they didn’t own a television or a microwave.
“Hello?” Henna answered.
“Hey, it’s Maya.”
“Hi, sunflower,” she said. “It’s so nice to hear your voice.”
“Sorry to call so late.”
“Is it late? I hadn’t noticed.”
I laughed. Of course not. Henna had always lived by her own calendar—one that had little to do with actual time. “Good, I’m glad I didn’t wake you.”
“Not at all, sweet girl. I’ve been on the porch, painting in the nude by moonlight. It’s wonderful.”
“That sounds awesome. Is Quincy home?”
“Oh yes, he’s around.”
“How’s Blue Moon?” I asked and finished off the whiskey.
“Well, there was a nude protest at the farmer’s market last weekend. At least until everyone got sunburnt. Then there’s the Pierce’s goat. You remember Clementine?”
