Traditional Gravity

by Stephen Armstrong



  TRADITIONAL GRAVITY

  A Novel

  By Steve Armstrong

  Published by

  Alreadynotyet Books

  Cortlandt Manor, NY

  Printed on Createspace

  September 2015

  Copyright © 2015 by Steve Armstrong

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. Printed in the United States of America

  First Printing, 2015

  ISBN-13: 978-1517290115

  Alreadynotyet Books

  Cortlandt Manor, NY

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  About the Author

  Other Titles

  Chapter One

  I couldn't sleep Sunday night. A little past ten I began to drift off, blanketed by the sweet sensation of sadness and the comforting thought that life was meaningless. But when I closed my eyes I saw me.

  The high school version of me, at least, sprinkled with acne and filled with self-doubt. I sat in my grandparents' church, wedged in between my grandfather and my older brother Jordan. Grandma stood in the choir, preparing to sing.

  None of these details made this memory feel significant. No, the important part was that I kept looking behind me. These didn't seem like casual glances. I was looking for something, or more likely, someone. The person I searched for never came. Disappointed and distracted, I returned my gaze to the choir.

  I greeted the recollection with curiosity. Gradually, the soft melancholy of nostalgia sank to the bottom of my stomach until it morphed into something deeper. That day in the church somehow told the story of my life up until now, and served as a prophecy for everything that would happen in the future.

  I sat up in bed, surrounded by silence, except for the occasional sound of a passing car. A nearby streetlight cast a slight glow on the porch outside my window. I imagined walking to the door and pulling the sliding glass open. My apartment was on the fourth floor - it might have been high enough. I could have made it to the door in four steps, maybe five. It would have been easy.

  I wanted to get up but couldn't. Maybe I was dreaming, but my legs wouldn't respond. How long this paralysis lasted I couldn't tell. It might have been minutes or hours.

  As I languished in motionlessness, my phone rang. I checked the caller ID before answering - it was my brother Jordan.

  "Yeah?"

  "Did I wake you up?"

  "No. What's going on?"

  "I just got off the phone with Mom. Grandpa's dying."

  This was the same Grandpa in the memory I wrestled with for the last hour. "Is he sicker than the other times?"

  "I don't know, but they're preparing to say goodbye. I'm going up there Tuesday morning. Do you think you could come too?"

  I rubbed my eyes. "I'm not sure."

  Silence. "I think you should go."

  "We'll see. Bye."

  I put the phone down and recounted the steps to the balcony. This time I even visualized what it would look and feel like to take those steps. When my feet never hit the floor, I made a new resolution.

  A little before midnight, I decided to go home Monday morning. I didn't love the idea. If I went home, I would have to face my mother again. Regardless, the memory of the church, and the news about my grandfather pushed me in that direction. There was something I needed to find there. My decision to go introduced a momentary peace that finally allowed me to sleep.

  Chapter Two

  The next day, I called into work and told them I wouldn't be in. My grandfather's looming death gave me an unimpeachable excuse to take the week off at such late notice. They would manage easily enough without me anyway.

  While passing through the endless hills and valleys of central Pennsylvania and southern New York, I attempted to understand why the scene in the church made me count the steps to my balcony. It could have been Grandpa's imminent passing, but this was the third time in six months he had knocked at death's door - I didn't return home on any of those occasions. In fact, I had scarcely seen him for the last three years, while he languished in a nursing home. Besides, the memory preceded my brother's call about Grandpa.

  Maybe those longing glances in the memory held the key. Who was I looking for in the church? Probably a girl. I was always looking for a girl in high school, and little had changed now that I was twenty-six. The fact I was currently between relationships and consequently lonely possibly explained why this memory resonated the way it did. Still, I refused to believe my life could be summarized so simplistically. I was missing a vital piece of information.

  Most of my memories could be cataloged with the date, significance, and the overall context of the original moment - not this one, though. The only related detail I could dredge up involved eating a strange concoction of meat called ‘hamloaf’, which I eventually vomited up later that night. This detail did little to help me recall the rest of the memory, and failed to dissolve the cloud of despair gathering in my mind.

  Two hours later, I neared my destination and grew increasingly hesitant to see my family. I drove past the road that led to my grandfather's nursing home, where my mom and grandmother likely held vigil. Nor did I take the road that reached my parents' house, on the offhand chance my mother was still there. Instead, I decided to visit my alma mater. Attempting to decipher the scene in my grandparents' church had dislodged lots of other high school memories, so perhaps the detour might prove illuminating.

  As I navigated the familiar and somewhat dilapidated streets of Oleout Plains, NY, I could feel my past begin to gather around me. My time in high school, while not traumatic, was not exactly stellar either. I usually didn't yearn for the glory days of old, yet found myself longing for my hometown, and the heaviness of meaning I found there.

  The feeling of significance only intensified as I pulled into the mostly deserted school parking lot. Since it was the week before Easter, I assumed the school was off for spring break. No one saw me slip discreetly through the main entrance.

  Entering the doors to Oleout Plains Central High disoriented me further. I passed through the vacant corridors, my footsteps reverberating against the lightly speckled tile floor. Impressions of my history - classmates, teachers and entire scenes from my those days - formed like apparitions in the hallway as I walked. I found the general area where my locker stood. The one on the top row, four in from the left felt right.

  The click of heeled shoes interrupted my search and a teacher emerged from around the corner. Without her business casual attire, her youth and stature might have allowed her to pass as a student. I grew more interested as she drew closer. Something about the way her auburn hair dropped beneath her shoulder blades moved me. She might as well have been a ghost haunting the hallways, or a figment of my imagination. I nearly doubted her existence.

  Samantha Rodgers. After all of these years, she stood just a few steps away. Her face was a little rounder and her curves a little fuller, but it was definitely Samantha. She slowed her pace and gave me a strange look. For a second, she opened her mouth, but kept walking.

  Seeing her pulled me even further into the past, making me eighteen again, uncertain before the girl I desired. During my senior year, she was a sophomore and th
e main object of my affection. Her beauty had deepened in the eight years since I had last seen her. Like so many times before, she was walking by me, leaving me speechless.

  I couldn't tell if she recognized me. Had she ever actually known me? In high school I was terrified of speaking to girls, so I never said more than two words to her. I was different now, though. This time I wouldn't let her pass by so easily.

  "Samantha Rodgers?" I called out after her.

  She turned to look at me. "Yes? Do I know you?"

  "We went to school together." I fumbled my words slightly. "Maybe you don't remember me. I'm Evan Chambers."

  She regarded me suspiciously. Obviously, my appearance had changed a little. The slightly gelled hair style I used to sport had given way to a basic, short cut. Though certainly not ripped, my body had filled out with enough muscle mass to at least compliment my above average height. She should have been able to see through those superficial alterations though.

  "I was two years older than you?"

  Another moment passed. "Oh, right. Sure I remember you."

  I didn't quite believe her. The gains I made in college talking to girls began to slip away, but I pressed on.

  "Are you a teacher here?" I asked, hoping to keep the conversation moving.

  "No, I'm actually a teacher's aide down at the elementary school." Samantha fidgeted as she spoke and quickly scanned the empty hallway.

  "That's cool." My lame response at least allowed me to see if she would further our interaction.

  She did. "Do you live around here? I don't remember seeing you around town at all."

  "No, I'm just visiting my family for the week. I actually live near Harrisburg now, where I went to college." She didn't need to know that I came home to see my dying grandfather.

  Samantha just nodded. She didn't walk away, or end the conversation, but I couldn't tell if she stayed out of desire or social compunction. I decided to take a chance.

  "Would you like to grab a cup of coffee down at Stewart's?" I asked. Her look of suspicion persisted. "You know, to catch up?" I waited anxiously for her answer; her facial expressions revealed nothing.

  Finally, she answered, "Sure. Let me just finish up some stuff down in my classroom." She looked at her watch. "Could I meet you in thirty minutes?"

  Not the most enthusiastic response, but she had still said ‘yes’. "Yeah, that sounds good."

  "OK, I'll see you then."

  She walked off to finish whatever she needed to do. An anxious hope began to gather inside me. I temporarily suspended my belief that nothing that happened in life mattered. It was funny how a pretty girl could so quickly alter my worldview.

  Samantha honored her word. I half expected her to escape when she had the chance, but thirty minutes later she walked into the almost empty coffee shop, and briefly surveyed the room before she located me. She gave me a measured smile. I rose to greet her and pulled her chair out for her.

  "Thank you," she said, sitting in the chair without demonstrating whether or not she was impressed by my gesture of chivalry.

  "Did you want something?" I asked.

  "Sure." She glanced at the menu board and contemplated her choices. "Maybe just a latte."

  I went to the counter and placed her order. While I waited for the girl behind the counter to fulfill my request, I looked back at Samantha. It felt so strange to be with her now. Her name last dotted my mind when I attended some basketball games during my college winter breaks. But I never saw her after I graduated. The coffee girl finished the latte, and I quickly paid and walked back to our table.

  "Thank you," said Samantha, taking a sip and looking down at her lap.

  "Where did you go to school?" I asked.

  "I went to Oneonta for my undergrad. I'm actually getting my master’s degree in education there now too, so I can become a full time teacher."

  "You decided to stay local, huh?" Oneonta was only thirty minutes from Oleout Plains.

  "Yeah. It was just easier and cheaper."

  Oleout Plains grads frequently gravitated toward the three local state colleges in the area, or the nearby community college. However, most people wanted to get out of the area, which like most other rural places, offered limited opportunities.

  "Nothing wrong with staying around here," I said, which perhaps sounded like I was offering my approval when she hadn't asked for it.

  "No, I guess not."

  Our conversation momentarily stalled. The early lull made me nervous, and my mind struggled to unearth new talking points. I didn't want to be the one asking all of the questions. I breathed a sigh of relief when she made the next inquiry.

  "Can I ask you a question Evan?"

  "Of course."

  "Why did you ask me out today?"

  I shifted in my seat. "I guess I just recognized you, and thought it would be nice to catch up with someone from high school." I had the distinct fear I was stammering.

  Rather than attempting to deflect her question, I could have just told her how attractive she was, I was interested in her, and wished we had gotten to know each other in high school. Usually, I made direct statements like these on first dates. They often worked very well, even when uttered without much rhetorical flourish. Once again, Samantha flummoxed me.

  "I mean we didn't really ever talk or hang out in school. You were what, like two years ahead of me? So there's really not that much for us to catch up on."

  She gave me no choice but to put all of my cards on the table.

  "Actually, the truth is that I had a crush on you in school, so when I saw you in the hallway, I thought I should try asking you out."

  Telling her felt momentous. I never told anyone until that moment about my infatuation with Samantha. Back then, I harbored all kinds of secret crushes on girls and never asked out any of them. In college, I grew up, and developed a certain confidence toward women. But waiting for her response caused me to regress eight years to the time I possessed a deficient self-image, and whatever she said would make me or break me.

  "I think I already knew that," Samantha finally admitted. Hearing her words pulled me out of my temporary high school inferiority complex.

  “How did you know?" I asked, raising my eyebrow.

  "I think it was the way that you looked at me in the hallways and stuff, but you never said anything to me. You were older than me too, so it just seemed kind of unlikely. I never really understood why you would have liked me."

  Reflecting back, I had telegraphed my interest in her. I just figured Samantha didn't notice me, so would never catch me staring at her.

  "If you knew I liked you, why did you ask me why I asked you out today?" Samantha knew what my opinion of her was, so now I began to coax out her feelings toward me. Either she enjoyed the idea that I liked her, or Samantha wanted this fact out in the open so she could dispatch me sooner.

  "I don't know. We could have discussed previous teachers, or what people we kept in touch with from high school were doing now. I just figured this was more interesting to talk about." She smiled, this time authentically. "Besides, high school was a long time ago."

  "That's true," I conceded, no longer feeling awkward. Samantha seemed more relaxed as well.

  "So why did you have a crush on me?" Samantha didn't ask with any perceptible insecurity; rather, she merely sounded curious.

  "You're pretty, so it always made sense to me."

  "There were a lot of pretty girls in your own class, the grade below you, and in my grade too. Are you trying to tell me I was prettier than all of those girls?"

  Maybe not. Still, Samantha always exerted the strongest pull on me, even though there were other suitable options for my attention.

  "Are you trying to get me to say that you're the most beautiful girl in the history of Oleout Plains high School?"

  She laughed. "No, it's a legitimate question. There were a lot of other girls you could have had crushes on."

  "Well, who's to say I didn't?"

 
; "Oh thanks; so your interest in me wasn't monogamous?" She played along with the conversation, though didn't retreat from her original question. "There must have been some reason you zeroed in on me, even if there were others. When did you start liking me?"

  "Hmm, I think I first noticed you when I was a junior, and you rode my bus home."

  "I think I remember that."

  "Why were you on my bus? I always wondered."

  "You lived near my grandparents, and for some reason I had to go to their house that day instead of to mine."

  "The Rodgers, right?" She nodded. "That makes sense, since you have the same last name and all."

  "Excellent deduction, Sherlock. So after I rode the bus one time, you fell madly in love with me?"

  "Well, that's a bit of an exaggeration, but yeah, after that day."

  Samantha took a few sips of her latte, but she was not satisfied yet.

  "It still feels like there must have been something else... something about me that caught your attention."

  "Maybe you're making this more complicated than it really is, Samantha. I was always looking for a girl, and you were the only candidate that ever rode my bus home; it was either you or a selection of fourth and fifth graders," I informed her. "Besides, when you were on the bus that day, the kids around you kept looking back to me and giggling. Either you were making fun of me, or they were trying to set us up together." Sometimes Samantha seemed to reciprocate my covert glances, especially that day on the bus.

  "We were definitely making fun of you."

  I shook my head. "And here I was thinking you might have had a thing for me."

  "Assumptions are dangerous."

  "Yeah, I guess so."

  "So basically, you only became interested in me because you thought I was interested in you. You thought I would be easy, that a lowly, plain freshman girl like me would be thrilled with the chance to go out with a dashing, upperclassmen like yourself. Otherwise, you wouldn't have been interested in me at all."

  She smiled at me mischievously. Truthfully, I never considered her an easy mark. I talked myself out of any hope that she might be interested in me on the bus ride home, concluding every girl I liked was out of my league. Somehow, I saw all of the other pretty girls who dated guys much smaller, uglier, dumber and meaner than me, yet couldn't imagine any would ever go out with me. I didn't shake that inherent insecurity until college.

  "Well if you look at it cynically like that, sure. But I prefer to think that my eyes were opened to you that day. Besides, if I thought you were such an easy target, I would have asked you out, right?"

  "I guess you have a point there."

  Samantha had worked her latte down below the halfway mark, while my coffee was still more than half full. She silently processed our conversation before she made her next inquiry.

  "How long did your crush last? A couple of months?"

  "Actually, pretty much through graduation."

  "Really? That's a long time."

  Fortunately our conversation carried a playful tone, because all of this information coming out would have made me feel incredibly awkward otherwise.

  "And we never even talked!” she exclaimed.

  I pretended to be hurt.

  "We talked?"

  I nodded.

  "When?"

  "Once in the Math room. You asked me where Mrs. Johnson was," I replied, acting like she should’ve remembered, though I didn't really expect her to.

  Samantha took another sip, shaking her head in amazement. "It's a good thing I never touched your hand or something - you probably would have never washed it."

  I gave her the same hurt look as before. She glared at me.

  "Wow, you're kidding, right? Please tell me that didn't happen."

  "No, never did. Would that have put me over the edge as a definite loser?"

  "How do you know you haven't crossed the line already?"

  "You're mean. It's a good thing I never did ask you out in high school. I probably would have never talked to girls again."

  She smirked. "Didn't it bother you that you had a crush on a girl that you said like one sentence to?"

  "Not really."

  "What did you think I was like? You must have had some picture in your mind."

  I searched carefully for the words. "Someone who was different from the rest of the people in your class. You know, not into the whole popularity thing, or thinking that a certain group of people was cool. Someone who didn't mindlessly listen to what everyone else was listening to. I don't know, a non-conformist I guess."

  Her face had seemed innocent, unlike my fellow classmates who appeared to be living artificial teenage lives. She didn't travel with the in-crowd I viewed so contemptuously. Though I might have been right, she was more a literary character to me than a real person.

  "Is that what you were - a non-conformist?" she asked.

  As an athlete and a kid who took honors courses, I always had someone to sit next to at lunch. But I never belonged to any group. Outside of school, I was a loner. I never went to parties or dances, or hung out at anyone's house. In the expanse of my parents' woods, I listened to music no one heard of and composed bitter poems. I didn't regret any of these things - my loneliness was more a badge of honor, proof that I didn't belong.

  "I like to think I was a little different than everyone else," I said. "But maybe it wasn't as true as I thought it was."

  Samantha put her cup down. "Well, I think you would have been disappointed in me. I was pretty much like everyone else."

  I nodded slowly and rhythmically. "Maybe so. But I'm not disappointed now." I meant for this to sound more meaningful then it might have. Samantha's eyes narrowed, as if she was trying to discern how to interpret my remarks.

  "You think I'm different than everyone else?"

  "I don't know about that. But you have kind of surprised me. Plus, you're really beautiful, so that helps."

  "Wow, you upgraded me from pretty to beautiful."

  "So what would you have said back in high school if I asked you out?"

  She drew in her lips a little and paused.

  "Well, back then ‘go out with’ meant to be your girlfriend, which seems a little silly now when you think about it. How can you be boyfriend and girlfriend without really knowing each other?"

  "Excellent point, but you're stalling."

  "Don't rush me," she warned. "Anyway, I would probably have said ‘yes’."

  "So you did have a crush on me."

  "Maybe a little when we were both on the bus. But I probably would’ve gone out with you just because you were two years older than me."

  "Really?" I looked at her incredulously. "I wasn't really popular or anything."

  "Doesn't matter. Going out with a senior would have bumped up my status."

  "I just can't believe you would’ve gone out with me because I was an upperclassman. So after all that talk about how I only liked you because you were an easy mark...?" I trailed off and let her make her own conclusions.

  "Clearly you don't understand the way underclass high school girls think. Besides, you would have gone out with me because you thought I was pretty - who's more superficial?"

  "Definitely you were. You're forgetting the non-conformist personality I made up for you."

  "Oh right, I forgot about that. That makes you much less superficial."

  "All right, you got me on that," I admitted. "So if I asked you out, you would have said yes?"

  "Right."

  "And then what would have happened?" I asked this question purely for entertainment purposes.

  A shadow crept into her expression. I didn't know where it came from, but that question pulled her somewhere dark. She hesitated for a second, and then looked forlornly out the window. I felt compelled to apologize, only I didn't know what for. Before I said anything, she spoke.

  "I think things might have turned out differently for me." She smiled once again, but the shadow hadn't quite dissipated ye
t.

  I nodded, trying to convey some form of empathy; I don't know if it worked. She finished the rest of her latte. Our time together ticked down, so I worked toward the future.

  "What if I asked you out now?"

  "I'm here, aren't I?"

  "But what if I asked you for your phone number?"

  She shook her head. "Evan, you're here for like a week, right?"

  "Well, I'll make sure I call you this week," I stated resolutely, meeting her eyes with a determined gaze. "So, the phone number?" I took out my cell phone and sat ready to receive her digits.

  After another moment she finally gave in. I recorded the number in my phone, and spelled out her name on the keypad.

  "See, that wasn't so hard. Here, let me walk you out."

  I escorted Samantha to her old, gray Honda Civic and positioned myself to open her door once she unlocked it.

  "Thanks for the coffee," she said after she got in.

  "My pleasure. I'll be giving you a call tomorrow."

  "OK. Goodbye."

  "Bye."

  She closed the door and I left her to go to my own car, parked a few spaces down. I remained inside with the engine off for a few moments, reviewing what had just taken place. Meeting Samantha was unexpected, and our short conversation proved even more surprising. Her honest, direct questions, though initially disarming, led us into a very intriguing territory.

  I checked the time on my phone - 3 PM. Looking at the time reminded me why I came home, which had effectively slipped my mind for the last hour. I could've headed to my parent's house at that point. Then again, Dan and Will - two friends from high school who still lived in town - would be getting off work. Maybe I could delay going to my house a little longer.

  Most of the people from my high school went on to college, though a substantial minority just took jobs in one of three local factories. The Aerospace Company that produced parts for military contracts, the wood processing factory on the other side of town, and one of the calendar manufacturing giants in the United States all offered opportunities to grab a steady job. Dan and Will had chosen that life track. They had already cracked open their first beers when I pulled into the two bedroom apartment Will and his wife occupied on River Street.

  "Chambers!" Dan announced jubilantly upon my entrance into the room. I slapped each of their hands before grabbing my own beer. I wasn't really much of a drinker, and certainly never approached Dan's exploits. My religious upbringing still exerted quite a pull on me. "What the hell are you doing in town?"

  “Uh, just visiting," I said, settling into one of Will's vinyl chairs. Will and Dan were friends, but not the kind I would talk about my grandfather dying with, and maybe not the kind I would talk about Samantha with either - especially when they were together. I primarily played the role of a spectator in these visits, watching them perform their usual parts. Normally, they entertained me. "What's going on with you guys?"

  "Oh, you know, Will's been getting whipped by his wife, his sperm count is rapidly decreasing and he's getting fatter every day," Dan answered for Will with a rueful grin. Will did look a little rounder, though had always been thicker than Dan.

  "And you know, Dan's been hooking up with skanks while he's drunk, then wakes up to realize how ugly they are," Will retorted.

  “Pretty much the same then, I’d say," I said, providing a little bit of a line for them to play off of. Will surprised me by aiming the conversation back at me.

  "So what were you up to before you came over here?" Will asked, sounding more accusative than curious.

  I shrugged. “Just hanging out around town a little."

  "Bull!" Will leaped out of his chair and pointed at me.

  "I can't believe he'd lie like that to us," Dan said to Will sadly.

  "Don't play stupid with me," Will demanded. "My wife happened to be walking past the coffee shop about half an hour ago, and saw you there with some girl. But she couldn't see who you were sitting next to."

  "Oh, that's what you're talking about?"

  "What the hell else would we be talking about?" Dan shot back.

  "I don't know. Half of the time I don't know what you two are talking about."

  “Just tell us who she is and what you were doing with her." Will eased back into a reclining position.

  "She was someone I knew from high school," I said.

  I hesitated to mention my rendezvous with Samantha because they would mock my transparent enthusiasm toward her and then make the encounter completely about sex. Once again, my church background prevented me from casually boasting about sex or declaring my need or desire for sex - even if I didn't practice standard Christian sexual ethics.

  "We went to your high school too," Dan reminded me. “Give us a name."

  "Samantha Rodgers."

  "Samantha Rodgers?" Will looked at Dan for help of some kind. I grew anxious that they would tell me something about Samantha I might not want to hear.

  "Who the hell is Samantha Rodgers?" asked Dan.

  "She was two grades below us."

  Will shook his head.

  “Go get your yearbook so we can see what she looked like," Dan commanded Will. He slowly disappeared into his bedroom for a few moments, then reemerged with the yearbook in hand. He thumbed through the pages, looking for the sophomore class of that year, while muttering the name ‘Rodgers’ underneath his breath. Finally, he stopped flipping the pages, studied the book for a few seconds, and then passed it to Dan. Dan examined the portrait as well, as if he was trying to extrapolate what she would look like now. He nodded approvingly. "Not bad. I still don't remember her though."

  "She's a teacher's aide at the elementary school, and lives right here in town. I'm surprised you don't see her around."

  Will and Dan were not overly observant, but their memories tended to be fairly good when it came to women - especially attractive women. Despite Dan's lukewarm appraisal of Samantha's year book photo, her beauty would have definitely drawn his amorous glances. Or at least it should have.

  "I’ve never seen her at Sullivan's," said Dan. Sullivan's was the main bar in town that people in our demographic frequented. Ultimately, I felt better that they didn't know her.

  Will stroked his chin. “Let's bring the old lady in, see what she remembers about her." He turned his head toward the hallway, and called, "Becca!"

  Becca emerged from the hallway, tying her hair behind her head. She wore a tank top and short shorts, displaying a little too much skin for my liking. Becca was the kind of woman who, depending on the light or how she was dressed, could look somewhat attractive. However, her current attire did little to flatter her.

  "Hi Evan," she greeted me, as she completed her ponytail. She graduated in the class below mine and also found work around Oleout Plains after graduation.

  Will and Dan became more like stock characters in a sitcom when Becca entered the fray. Dan would mock the married guy. Will would then try to prove that he was not as whipped as Dan tried to make it sound, but in such a way that he wouldn't get in trouble with his wife. For her part, Becca tried to demonstrate she called the shots, and Will should be grateful to have her.

  "The girl Evan was with today at the coffee shop was Samantha Rodgers - know anything about her?"

  "Samantha Rodgers?" A revelation flashed across her eyes. "Wasn't she the girl who got pregnant during high school?"

  My eyes widened and my jaw nearly dropped.

  Dan's eyes lit up. "You're hooking up with a mom?"

  "I'm not hooking up with her - I just went on one date with her."

  "I'm pretty sure she got knocked up her Senior year, but I don't really know what happened to her after that." It surprised me that Becca didn't know for sure; Oleout Plains was a relatively small town, though apparently large enough that people didn't know everyone else's business.

  "Who was the guy that did it?" asked Will. I too, waited anxiously for the answer to this question.

  Becca considered this for a mo
ment before conceding that she didn't know who the father was. His identity would have minimally impacted the equation anyway.

  I stayed at Will's for a while longer. Eventually, they stopped discussing Samantha, who became a much less salacious topic after they discovered that she might be a mother. Dan attempted to turn Becca against Will, who waffled between looking tough and capitulating to his wife. I laughed a few times, but couldn't transcend my disappointment at the crushing revelation that Samantha was maybe not the opportunity I thought she was. I consoled myself with the fact that it didn't really matter either way. Even if she was married and had five kids, it would have been inconsequential. In a week, I would be back in Harrisburg, and she would be in my rear-view mirror. Again.

  By the end of my visit with Will and Dan, I had exhausted all of my stall tactics; it was time to go home.