Split

by JB Salsbury

  He squats to a cooler fridge and mumbles, “Out back having a smoke.”

  The woman nods, jingling the dozen little hoop earrings in her ear. Not your typical Paysonite. She doesn’t look familiar either, so she’s probably a transplant. “She’ll be out in a minute.”

  “Thanks.” My fingers drum against the bar, and feeling eyes on me, I keep my gaze forward. Maybe this was a bad idea. Last thing I want is an impromptu high school reunion.

  “Sit at my bar, you drink.” The fire of hair on her head matches her lipstick. “So?” She lifts one eyebrow and waits.

  “Do you have Grey Goose?”

  The guy stocking beer snorts.

  She scowls and looks offended. “You know you’re in a bar, right?”

  “Grey Goose and water. With a lemon, please.”

  She studies me for a second, like she’s trying to figure me out, then shakes her head and moves to make my drink.

  The feeling like I’m being watched weighs heavy on my back. Another reason to hate small towns—there’s no hiding from anyone. Ever.

  My shoulders curl and I consider begging Sam to hit up the diner or a coffee shop, someplace other than—

  “Shyann? Is that you?”

  Fuck.

  I pinch my eyes closed and take a deep breath, mustering up every ounce of fake-happy I have on reserve and turn to…

  “Adam Bleeker. Wow, it’s been a long time.” The guy is twice the width he was in high school, but even with his face being a little rounder he still looks the same. I take in his plaid button-up and baggy jeans, realizing he also still dresses the same. Not a surprise. People who stay in town end up on permanent freeze frame.

  Adam grins and leans against the bar next to me. “I haven’t see you in—”

  “Five years, yeah.” Everyone in this damn town seems so intent on reminding me.

  “Five years…wow.” His brown eyes shine with friendliness. He always was a decent guy, the token nice guy who hung around a bunch of stuck-up jocks. “How the hell are you?”

  The bartender comes back and drops a small glass of ice water down in front of me, then a shot glass filled with clear liquid, and a napkin topped with a mushy lemon slice. “There ya go.”

  “Oh…” I take it all in, thinking I underestimated this woman.

  “It’s—”

  “Yeah, I get it.” Grey Goose and water with a lemon wedge. “Clever.”

  A small curve hits her lips. “Thanks.”

  She walks away and I look over to see Adam’s eyes darting between the drink and me. Oh for shit’s sake. He’s waiting.

  I throw back the shot of vodka and my throat ignites.

  “Never did back down from a challenge. Nice to see Shyann Jennings hasn’t changed.” He holds up his pint glass, half filled with beer, and I clink my water glass to it.

  “Ooooh, sure she’s changed…” Sam presses into the bar on my other side, an unfriendly smirk on her face. “If she were the same Shy, she’d have run away about ten minutes ago.”

  Bitch. Yeah, coming here was definitely a mistake.

  “Unless…” A sick but gorgeous grin paints her already painted face. “Maybe there’s a little bit of fighter in you yet.”

  “You gonna test a theory, Sam? If so, I’ll need a couple more of these.” I slide the empty shot glass to the bar and it gets the Strawberry Shortcake on Acid’s attention.

  “Another?”

  I fix my eyes on Sam, waiting.

  Mountain kids grew up kicking the shit out of each other. I’m too old for it, but I’d rather maintain my dignity than cower. Besides, blowing off a little of this tension I’ve been carrying around doesn’t sound half bad.

  I give myself a mental shake. I’m not a mountain kid anymore; I’m a fucking news reporter. Someday if I’m lucky I’ll become a news anchor in a top three market. That means no bar fights!

  She tilts her head and holds my glare for a few silent minutes before her expression softens. “I’ll have the usual.”

  The bartender pulls out a light beer in an icy longneck and pops the top. “And you?”

  Light beer is hanging out booze, not fighting fuel. It’s Sam’s olive branch.

  Thank God.

  “I’ll have the same.”

  I exhale as the tension that surrounds us, along with a few gawkers who had drawn close, dissipates.

  With a tilt of the bottle, I swing the watery beer and Sam drops onto the stool next to me. “See you’ve been reacquainted with Adam.”

  “He hasn’t changed much.”

  She shakes her head and brings her bottle to her lips. “Not a bit. Probably still picks his boogers and eats ’em too.”

  I snort, stifling a full-blown belly laugh.

  “Enjoying your stay in our fair city?” She swivels toward me, her long, tan legs crossed.

  No, I hate it. “Sure. What’s not to enjoy?” I tilt my beer to my lips.

  Silence builds between us for seconds that stretch into a minute. I don’t know what I was thinking would happen between us now that I’m back. We’ve been friends since we were kids. Don’t think either of us missed a birthday party or sleepover. I don’t have a single memory that doesn’t involve Sam to some degree. Then I left her behind without a word.

  Fuck, I wouldn’t blame her if she hated me.

  “Been by to see Dorothy I guess.” She must know that’s how I’d find her.

  “I did.”

  “So I’m sure you know about me and Dustin.”

  “No big deal.” I push away a tiny twist of betrayal. What did I expect? Dustin would stay single forever, pining for the one who got away?

  She nods and presses her lips to the bottle.

  “Sam, taking off like I did, it wasn’t right. I should’ve kept in touch.”

  Her eyes narrow. “I don’t do the hiring, Shy. You don’t gotta kiss my ass.”

  I pick at the peeling label from my bottle, avoiding eye contact. “I’m not apologizing to get a job. I’m really sorry. After Mom died, I just…I don’t do feelings. At least, not well.”

  She nods and turns back to her beer, almost as if she’s giving me some privacy to put my tough girl mask back on. People in this town are rugged; they don’t cry in public and they certainly don’t get mushy over beers and apologies.

  Having said what I needed to say, I pull my shit together and drown the rest of my apology with a healthy swig of booze.

  “Loreen!” she calls, and the bartender moves to us. “This is Shyann Jennings. She’s looking for some work.”

  The redhead studies me and blinks. “Jennings…as in—”

  “Yep.” Sam chuckles and props her elbows on the bar.

  “Why the hell do you need a job? You’ve got the richest last name in Payson.”

  Is there not a single person in this dirt hole who doesn’t know who my dad is? “It’s personal.”

  “I can respect that.” She wipes her hands on a bar towel before shoving one corner of it into the waistband of her jeans. “You have experience in a bar?”

  Not unless drinking in one counts, but how hard could it be? I contemplate saying, No, but maybe a degree in journalism and media communications might suffice, but I bite my tongue. “I’m a quick learner.”

  “Don’t got much, but if you’re willing to work a few weekends here and there, we’ll see how you do, maybe add more hours as the ski season picks up.”

  Ski season. It’s the one time of year where the streets of Payson look more like the streets of Beverly Hills. The dirt and pine trees become the backdrop to thousands of vacationers who line the city’s pockets with enough cash in three months to sustain the nine-month slow season.

  “That’d be great. Thanks.” I’m lying. Maybe I should consider swallowing this putrid lump of pride. Taking back my job at Jennings is an easy in, good money, and it’s something I already know how to do. One night every other weekend waiting tables won’t pay me what I’d make at Jennings. And as much as I don’t wan
t to admit it, I’m getting a little sick of the dull twisting feeling in my gut that resembles—but certainly cannot be—guilt at choosing the local bar over the family business. What would Momma think of me turning my back on Dad? I frown at the thought of her disappointment.

  Sam leans into my shoulder and whispers, “It’s a shit job, Shy.”

  “Then why do you work here?”

  Her expression turns sad. “I have no choice. If I did, I’d take—”

  “Hot damn, look what the big city dragged in. Is that…?”

  I drop my chin and groan at the deep baritone of my ex-boyfriend Dustin’s voice.

  “Shy Jennings…” He pushes in next to Sam, throwing an arm over her shoulders. “I thought you were kiddin’, babe.”

  She seems to shrivel a little.

  “Dustin.” I nod. “It’s been a long time.”

  His thick blond hair is shorter than I remember, but no less gorgeous. Tan skin, dark brown eyes, and the height and girth that epitomizes the mountain man appeal, but I remember too well how all that pretty is only for show.

  “I didn’t notice.” He twists his handsome face in confusion and looks at Sam. “How long has it been?”

  The bartender hands him a short cocktail glass with what looks like straight bourbon on ice.

  Sam mumbles, “Don’t be a dick.”

  “What up, Dustin?” A dark-haired guy who looks like a lumberjack, with his dark beard, beanie, and flannel shirt, slaps Dustin on the back. “How’d you end up with— Oh my God!” The guy’s wide eyes point at me.

  Crap.

  “Is that Shy Jennings?”

  Another man overhears him and moves toward us.

  My feet burn to run, to get the hell out of here and accept the job back at Jennings, probably what I should’ve just done in the first place.

  I flash a weak wave. “Hey.”

  “Dude, I haven’t seen you since…” His gaze flickers up to the ceiling and then his eyes snap to mine. “The graduation party at Dustin’s house.”

  On instinct, my eyes dart to Dustin’s and his go wide before he catches himself and squeezes Sam to his side.

  Dustin had a huge party out at his parents’ ranch. We’d made love in the barn on a bed of hay like a couple of hicks. He’d told me he loved me and was looking forward to our future together, the Jennings and Miller family names joining to be some kind of small town nobility. I told him I was leaving to go to Flagstaff for school and that I’d hoped to never come back, thus ending our romantic interlude. Thing is, I’d loved Dustin once, as much as I was capable of, but I didn’t love anyone as much as I hated Payson.

  The reunions go on like this for another few hours. The liquor keeps coming and before I can control myself, I’m falling into old stories with my ex-best friend, ex-boyfriend, and kids I’d gone all through school with. Most of them seem to understand why I left, with the exception of Sam and Dustin, but as the drinks come, so does their eventual forgiveness.

  At one in the morning, we stumble out of the bar. Too drunk to drive, we sit in the parking lot talking until half of us decide to call Henry, our resident cabdriver, and the other half chooses to walk home in the cool night air. I hop in the cab and because my dad’s place is on the outskirts of town, I’m last to be dropped off. It isn’t until Henry pulls up at the house that I get a bright idea. It’ll be the first time since I’ve been back and I’ll need the drunken lubrication to endure it.

  Sober would be torture.

  Come to think of it, drunk might actually be worse.

  Lucas

  The room is dark except for the glow from my flashlight. My shoulder aches from a wayward spring poking through the thin layer of cushion on my secondhand mattress. I run the light back and forth along the edge of my bed, casting a yellow glow on three action figures propped between my bed and the wall. They serve as a tribute and a reminder of their death.

  Spider-Man, Batman, and Pinkie Pie.

  These weren’t actually owned by my siblings. I wasn’t able to return home after the night they died. I found those in one of those stores where everything costs one dollar shortly after I was released. I didn’t have much money, but I knew I had to have these so I’d never forget.

  It’s all I have left of them; the only memories I’ve managed to hold on to are wrapped in three cartoon characters. I have no home videos or photos, only three pieces of molded plastic that have Made in China stamped on their feet.

  Alexis loved the pink pony with the balloons imprinted on her flank. She never had a birthday party, but one of her teachers gave her a Pinkie Pie My Little Pony birthday card when she turned six. She coveted the stickers inside and ever since then my baby sister was obsessed.

  Mikey was always trying to convince us that Spider-Man would win in any fight against any superhero, but Dave swore nothing could top Batman, even though we all agreed the guy wasn’t technically a superhero but instead a rich man with a lot of gadgets. I mean, it’s not like he had X-ray vision or could spit webs from his palms.

  The corner of my lips tug at the memory even if it’s only one of few. My blackouts have robbed me of the majority of my childhood, and I hate them for that. I want my brothers and sister back. I suppose it was a good thing I was practically blind with my own blood the night they died. At least what little I do remember was of their life rather than the image of their death. I spent their funeral behind bars, so even their half-sized caskets can’t haunt me.

  Just these three palm-sized pieces of plastic along with a handful of fading memories are all I have left.

  With the joy that comes at remembering them, there’s also pain. As much as it hurts to stare at the plastic and paint, I must. I face off with the sorrow and welcome it. It’s important I remember what I can. The horror of what can happen if I don’t keep my feelings in check. If I don’t hold on to my restraint.

  Always remember.

  The tiny painted faces of— I jump at the sound of something outside my window. Crunching gravel and…humming?

  I click off my flashlight and close my eyes to concentrate, sure I misheard.

  No, that’s definitely humming and…a giggle? Yeah, a feminine giggle.

  I sit up and crawl across the floor to the open window. Listening close, I determine the sound is coming from the creek on the other side of the house.

  With the lights off, I’m able to move freely without being seen, but all the windows are open, so I go light on my feet to avoid being heard. I make it to the living room and lean over the small table to peer out the window.

  Squinting, I can barely make out the form of a person. A woman.

  How in the hell did a woman get out here?

  I search the surrounding woods for a car, another person, anything, but find nothing. It’s as if she just appeared out of thin air.

  It’s at least a five-mile hike out here from the main road. The moon is high, so I’d guess it’s sometime after midnight. Luckily it’s close to full, so the woman is able to see in the thick darkness.

  She stumbles, lists, and drops onto a boulder with a trill of laughter.

  Huh…maybe she can’t see.

  Talking softly to herself, she reaches down and pulls off one boot, then the other, followed by her socks. With what looks like effort, she pushes back to standing and hooks her fingers into the waistband of her jeans. Her hips shift from side to side and— Oh God.

  I drop my gaze, blinking.

  Why is she taking her pants off?

  I don’t want to invade her privacy. I should just turn and go back to bed, protect her modesty and honor, but…my teeth run along my bottom lip and my stomach flips with anticipation. Her light humming and giggles continue to filter in through the open window. I shouldn’t look. It’s not right.

  She screeches.

  My gaze jerks back to her.

  “Oh my God, it’s freezing!”

  I turn my head, try to avert my eyes, but it’s impossible, as if they’re tethered to her.
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  She slowly wades into the water, the soft curves of her body on full display beneath the moonlight. Toned legs meet the round globes of her backside and her hips sway with each step. Long black hair falls down the length of her back, the tips reaching for her bottom as if they’re just as desperate to touch its softness as I am.

  Images of my hands caressing her thighs and opening her legs flood my mind. A sickness stirs in my gut, but this isn’t the illness that comes with food poisoning. No, this is something dangerous. A need that makes me restless, overcome with wanting. My fingertips itch to touch, my mouth waters to taste, and between my legs I’m heavy and aching.

  This is bad. It feels wrong. Dirty.

  Yet I’m helpless to look away.

  She’s not quite in the deepest part of the creek, the water only hitting her at midthigh, and she turns to face the house. For a second I fear she might see me, but she doesn’t startle, only continues to sway, at ease, as if she’s become one with the current.

  Her face is cast in shadows and my eyes travel down the long column of her neck. I lick my lips and imagine what she’d taste like, what her soft body would feel like. The creamy skin of her full breasts stand in extreme contrast to her dark tight nipples. A low groan falls from my throat as my gaze slides down her soft belly to the thin strip of hair between her legs.

  My hips flex uncontrollably and I dip my hand into my sweatpants, gripping myself so hard it hurts.

  As much as I’m desperate for pleasure, I shouldn’t use her to take it.

  She isn’t mine.

  It’s not right.

  My hand pumps on its own accord and disgust and shame roll through me.

  I’ve never seen a naked woman this beautiful. Just watching her is doing things to my body that are impossible to control. Although I’ve felt the unwelcome draw to a woman, wrestled with the burning need that coils between my legs, it’s never been this extreme. This demanding. There’s safety in my anonymity and my shame takes a backseat to my yearning.

  I bite my lip against the pleasure-pain of my grip as I watch her drag her fingertips along the surface of the water. She sways back and forth and I feel her body moving in my arms. My lips soaking up the moisture from her bare skin, my hands in all that long hair. What would it feel like to be skin on skin, to have the warmth of another body pressed against mine?