Page 3 of Chasing Wildflowers
I’m back there.
Byron’s shadow filling the doorway. His face twisted in anger as I raised the gun.
My pulse thunders in my ears, my vision tunneling.
I slap a hand against the wall, fingers splayed on the cool, slightly sticky wood as I force air into my lungs.
In. Out. In. Out.
It was just fireworks, leftovers from last week's Fourth of July celebration. Not Byron. He’s dead, Lane.
My eyes scan the bar around me, letting it drag me back to this place, this life.
The stale stench of cigarettes that clings to the walls no matter how many times they are scrubbed. The burn holes scattered like constellations across the ugly brown carpet that takes up the front half of the bar. The jukebox humming in the corner, waiting for someone to feed it a dollar.
Seriously, who puts carpet in a bar?
The absurdity is what grounds me. That, and the fact that Byron Knox is rotting six feet under.
I made sure of it.
The memory resurfaces again before I can stop it. His shocked expression, frozen in place like a grotesque portrait. The recoil of the gun vibrating through my bones. The acrid sting of gunpowder that clung to my skin and stung the back of my throat.
I squeeze my eyes shut. Breathe. You’re Lane Maddox now. Not Ceciley.
Lane Maddox lives in New Haven, Pennsylvania. The population here is small enough that the biggest scandal in the last five years was a floral sabotage. It was a whole deal. Mrs. Webster supposedly put lime in Mrs. Porter's hydrangeas, turning them the wrong color for the “Best in Bloom” contest, pushing her out of the ribbon contention.
Nobody in this town would recognize the socialite wife I used to be. Nobody’s looking for her here. I pour drinks and mop sticky floors, scraping by in a divebar where smoking is still legal and the fryer groans like a dying dinosaur. It’s not glamorous. It’s not much.
But it’s mine. I changed my name. I changed my hair. Hell, I’ve even changed my damn soul.
My breathing steadies but the tremor in my hands remains. I crouch down to clean up the mess of broken glass and vodka that glitters across the floor. I hiss when my fingers close around a small jagged piece, the sharp edge slicing into my skin. “Damn it,” I mutter, just as the front door squeaks open.
“Hey, Lane. Everything alright?” Hank’s familiar voice carries across the bar. He ambles toward his usual spot, gray t-shirt shrugging against his wide shoulders, the kind of man who has been middle-aged since thirty.
I straighten and plaster on a smile. “Yeah, Hank. All good. Just a little clumsy today.” I wipe my hands on a clean towel and pick up a pint glass. “Your usual?” I ask, already reaching for the PBR.
“You know me too well, darling.” He lowers himself onto his creaking throne at the end of the bar, eyes roaming the empty space. “Bar’s quiet today.”
“It’s still early.” I pull the tap and it sticks halfway like it always does. I give it the practiced yank and golden liquid fills his glass. “How’s Martha?” I ask, sliding it across on a coaster so faded you can barely read the wordBudweiser.
“She’s still pissed that I spend more time here than at home.” He leans back, the stool groaning in protest.
I snort, one hip propped against the bar. “Well, maybe you should tip me better, then I’d lie for you when she calls.”
He barks a laugh. “Yeah, right. After 37 years of marriage, she’s got a sixth sense when it comes to my bullshit.”
Despite the sting of vodka in the air and the memory that still clings like smoke, a smile pulls at my lips. I mop the mess with practiced strokes, the rhythm calming me. This bar, this town; they saved me in ways they’ll never know.
Chip, the bear of a man who gave me the job even though my ‘bartending experience’ was a bald-faced lie. Kam, who taught me how to choose furniture for comfort rather than appearance. The regulars who make me feel like I’ve always belonged here.
I never pictured myself tending bar in a hole-in-the-wall where the neon sign buzzes louder than the crowd and the fryer coughs grease like it’s on life support.
But now, it feels like freedom.
Nobody tells me what to wear. Nobody controls when I speak. Nobody puts bruises on my body for breathing the wrong way.
I’m free.
