by Jenna Gunn
“You okay?” Derek asks me seriously.
“I’m fine.”
“You had a flashback.”
I glance at him without answering. Of course he would know what one looks like. He may even have them himself. I shift my one good leg. “I’m fine now.”
“You’re shaking.”
Startled, I look down at my hands. He’s right - they’re trembling. “I’ll be fine after I eat. Maybe we should get started on that second pizza.”
Derek doesn’t reply; he lets a long, silent moment stretch between us, staring at me all the while. Finally, he gets up and dusts off his pants. “All right. I’ll put it in the oven.”
“Apple!” he calls. “Water!”
Just like before, Apple trots into the room and opens the cooler to get me a water bottle. I set it beside my other one, which is still half-full.
“Hydrate,” Derek says, disappearing into the kitchen.
I grumble but do as he says. Derek’s a good guy.
“You sure you’re okay?” Derek asks, concerned.
“Yeah.” I cast a pointed look at his packed suitcase. “I’ll be fine. You need to get back to work.”
Derek fidgets in front of me. I can tell he’s thinking of yesterday’s Apple debacle, as well as the flashback he watched me have. “I can take another week off, if - ”
“The last thing I need,” I interrupt, “is you getting fired on my account.”
He shifts his weight and sighs. “All right. I just wanna make sure you’re all set.”
I feel a rush of gratitude. Derek didn’t have to do all this. We’ve kept in touch, but we hadn’t met in person for years when I called him, and he dropped everything to come and help me. I step forward and pull him into a hug.
Derek hugs me back. “You’re doing great, man,” he says. When he pulls away, his eyes look misty and concerned. “Just...be kind to yourself, all right?”
I blink, confused. “What?”
“Don’t be too hard on yourself, man. And call me if you need anything.” He claps a hand down on my shoulder, squeezes it briefly, and then turns to scoop up his suitcase and walk out the front door.
I limp out to my front porch to watch him go. “Drive safe,” I call to him as he gets into his car. He responds with a wave.
Derek starts up his car, honks at me, then backs out of my gravel driveway. I watch his car shoot down the empty road into the distance. I’m alone now.
A cold nose bops against my hand, and I smile. No, I’m not alone. I have Apple. I scratch behind her ears and head back into the house with her, making sure to lock the door so she can’t open it. I sit down on the couch and turn on my TV, but I realize that I’m restless. Since Derek isn’t here, I have no one to hang out with, no one to talk to. Apple is a good listener, but she can’t hold a conversation that isn’t about tennis balls.
I flip dully through the channels. Look what’s become of Sergeant Perry Logan; an old, lonely man sitting on his couch with his dog - and part of a man, at that. I’m not even drinking my problems away.
I sit up. The bar! I saw a bar earlier. That’s something I can do to get out of the house. I’ll go check out that place, do some people watching. I glance at Apple. Will I need her there? Probably not; if I’m careful, the uneven ground won’t pose much of a problem. Plus, bars aren’t entirely my scene, so I probably won’t stay for very long.
I get arduously to my feet. Time to meet the locals.
5
“Are you okay?” Emily says soothingly while I slump over my desk. “I can’t stop thinking about the guy with the lost dog. I gave him a hard time. And he’s an Army vet, Emily.” I sigh and push my hands through my hair. “Injured in the line of duty. That’s what the paper said.”
I recall my interaction with him. I watched the two handsome men walking toward the office door. Puppy had raised her head interestedly, her tail thumping on the ground. She ran up to one of the men, the taller of the two. I couldn’t help notice how his broad shoulders and muscular arms stretched the fabric of his shirt as he scratched the dog.
I remember the feeling of when he looked up at me. I felt my breath hitch a little as his eyes locked on me. He was a little ruffled-looking, with several-day-old stubble growing in rugged patches on his jaw. It was sexy. His eyes were dark brown and sharp, but beneath them there were dark circles giving away his fatigue. His dark as night hair was disheveled and awkward, maybe in a strange middle ground between haircuts.
“Why was that with the adoption papers?” she asks, breaking my train of thought, perching herself on my desk.
“It was the first page of something, so it was probably an accident.”
“An injured army vet has a puppy named Apple.” Emily giggles. “That’s cute.”
I don’t answer, but I silently agree. It is cute.
“He’s cute,” Emily continues, giving me a meaningful look.
“He looked tired,” I retort. “And angry.” I stand up and gather the papers on my desk together. “Let’s feed the rest of the kennel.”
“Why don’t you go blow off some steam?” Emily asks, hopping off my desk. She takes the papers from my hands. “There’s not much left to do; I can handle it.”
I look at her earnest face for a few more moments; then I sigh. “All right, if you want me out of your hair that badly.”
“It’d be nice,” she replies cheerfully and without malice.
“I’ll be down at Archie’’s.” I grab my jacket.
“Have a good time,” Emily calls after me as I leave the office.
“Get me a beer,” Hannah says when I pass by the reception area.
“Absolutely not. See you tomorrow, Hannah!”
“Don’t get hungover,” is her flat reply.
“Have you ever seen me with a hangover?” I say as I walk out the door.
Archie’s is kind of a cute place. It’s classic, quaint. Just a small brick building in the center of an otherwise empty plot of land. During harvest season, it’s surrounded on all sides by stalks of corn, soybeans. Archie, the old owner, used to distill his own moonshine back in the days of prohibition, but nowadays it’s just a normal bar.
I’m sure John will be there - the man who retired from the veterinary practice I now own. When I started setting up my practice, he was overjoyed to retire; now he spends his nights talking to the Duke, the owner, nursing all of one single beer all night. Even if he’s not here, I’ll find someone to talk to. The regulars at Archie’s are loyal to a fault, and I know every single one of them. And there’s always Duke.
I push open the wooden door and am momentarily blinded by the lack of sunlight. My eyes slowly adjust, revealing the rough wooden floor, the stained bartop, the rugged circular tables, the mismatched chairs and stools. The jukebox in the corner plays some old Patsy Cline.
It’s almost empty. Just the regulars are here - a couple retired farmers sitting with their boots kicked off, Old Lady Wilson at a table alone, and a small group of middle-aged people nursing beers they probably ordered hours ago. I know every person here, and they all know me.
Duke locks eyes with me as I approach the bar. “What’ll it be, Trisha?” He’s not one to mince words.
“What have you got on tap?” I ask with a grin.
“Same thing I always do.”
“Then I’ll have the same I always get.”
He nods and pours me a beer. I nod in thanks and turn my attention to the TV mounted to the corner above the bar; it’s a sports channel, and some game is about to start, but I’m not sure what kind. It’s just two dudes in suits and headsets talking.
I take a thoughtful sip. If a game is starting, then the bar’s about to get busy.
“Where’s John tonight?” I ask Duke, who shrugs. I’ve purposefully positioned myself next to John’s usual stool; I could use someone to talk to. That’s why I really came tonight. My close friend Raina is not nearby. My co-workers - well, their co-workers, and besides them, I don’t reall
y have a lot of people I talk to. John gets me, and I get him. And we can relate about veterinary stuff.
Thankfully, I don’t have to wait long; John, an older man with thinning hair and a bow-legged gait, walks through the door and spots me immediately.
“Trish!” he says with a grin as he slides onto his usual stool. Duke automatically sets a bottle of beer in front of him. “You here to watch the game?”
“Nah. Just blowin’ off steam.” I say.
“Rough day?” he asks understandingly.
“Week,” I reply.
He nods sagely. I finish off my beer and set my glass within Duke’s reach.
“Wanna tell me about it?” John asks.
You have no idea, I think, and I start talking. I tell him about Dave Forreseter and a couple other people that have been in recently, and, about a problematic farm appointment a couple weeks ago. I tell him about my frustrations and being short with people as a result. John pats my hand.
“I’ve always thought you had a bit of a temper. But that’s good in a vet sometimes gotta handle those bulls.”
I shake my head. “Well, it makes me feel bad.”
“Maybe you did get snippy,” he replies, not unkindly. “But there isn’t a person alive who hasn’t done that at some point.” He looks at me with a gentle smile. “I’m sure you’ll have a chance to make up for it.”
That actually makes me feel better.
I sit with John for a bit before he decides to get up and greet the farmers at their table. He offers for me to join him, but I know those old men; they’re going to want to talk at length about field rotations and weather patterns, and I’m not up for that drudgery tonight. I thank him and stay behind at the bar. Left to my own misery.
I’m thinking about whether to leave or have another beer when a crowd starts flowing in - or what passes for crowds around here. Soon there’s a handful of people milling about the bar, watching the game, drinking, talking. I think about butting in at someone’s table - and then I notice that there’s no music playing, and I want some.
I slide off my stool to head toward the jukebox. I’m feeling the alcohol a touch; my head buzzes a little, and I keep touching my hair, running my fingers through it, lifting it off my head. It’s this thing I do when I’ve had a drink…or so my friends like to point out. I pull some loose change out of my purse and start searching through the songs. Who am I in the mood for? This is Archie’s so the selection is pretty amusing. Old. Older. And Oldest. But there are some classics for sure. Patsy Cline? Johnny Cash? Merle Haggard? Hank Williams? I look for someone more contemporary like I do every time I visit the cloudy, seen better days juke box.
I settle on Johnny Cash. I queue up one of his songs and turn to head back toward the bar - and freeze.
Perry Logan stands in the doorway. His tall frame filling the entry.
He turns his head and locks eyes with me immediately; for a split second, it’s like we’re the only two people in the bar. I can see the anger still in his eyes.
I take a deep breath and walk over to him. What am I doing? This guy isn’t a fan - do I have no self-preservation instinct? Am I a glutton for punishment?
“Hey,” I say, coming to stand near him, looking up at his narrowed eyes, raising my voice above the music wafting from the jukebox.
“Hi,” he replies warily.
“I, uh - I’m sorry for today. Lemme make it up to you.” I look around the bar. “Lemme buy you a beer.”
He squints at me, but I can see the gears turning in his head. Archie’’s is filled with strangers right now. I’m the only person he knows.
“Sure,” he says finally.
I smile. “Great, my seat’s this way. Do you like Johnny Cash?” I ask over my shoulder as I lead him to the bar.
He shrugs. He seems rigid and alert; his eyes are always moving, even as he pulls himself to sit on the stool next to me. One of his legs must be hurt, because he moves it carefully. That might be the injury referenced in his documents.
I signal to Duke, who finishes up with the already-drunk man he’s dealing with, and saunters over. “What’ll it be?” His eyes flick to Perry with curiosity.
“Put his on my tab.” I jerk my thumb at Perry.
“Whatever she’s having,” Perry mumbles.
Duke squints. “Sure.” He shoots me a questioning look. In fact, most people in the bar - if they’re not focused on the TV - are looking at me and Perry, glancing between us. Perry’s a stranger, a novelty. Who knows the last time a stranger came into Archie’s. Our little town isn’t exactly a hot destination for new people. Which raises the question, what brought Perry here.
“So…” I say, trying to fill the awkward silence. I drum my fingers on the bar. “What, uh, made you move all the way out here?”
He shoots me a glance. Duke comes back with a water for me and a beer for Perry; he lifts his and takes a deep drink. I sip some water, waiting for him to answer, but he just keeps drinking until it’s completely drained. Duke and I watch in an odd kind of fascination as he sits the glass down a little too hard.
He slaps his ID and a credit card on the bar. “Start me a tab, will you?”
Duke, eyebrows raised, slowly collects the two cards and walks away.
“My parents live near here,” Perry says.
“Oh? Oh.” I’d forgotten I asked him anything. I was so caught up in watching him with the beer, trying to figure out his deal. But, I guess he’s probably burning off the same steam I had earlier.
“In Rockville.”
I blink. “I have a friend who lives in Rockville. Your last name’s Logan, right?”
“Yeah,” he mumbles.
“Your parents are Jimmy and Lynn?”
He shoots me a questioning glance as Duke comes back with Perry’s beer and cards; Perry doesn’t say anything, finishes his second beer completely before stuffing the cards back into his wallet. “Another one.” He says to Duke, his words still crisp and clean. He turns back to me. “How do you know them?”
“I’ve got a friend in Rockville. She’s their neighbor.”
Now he drums his fingers. “Blonde girl? Has an R-name? Renee, Rhonda, something like that?”
“Raina,” I correct him, feeling a little defensive.
He nods and snatches up his next beer, but this time he sips it like a normal person. I feel better seeing that. “Nice girl. My parents like her.”
My defensiveness softens. Anyone who has warm feelings toward Raina can’t be all bad; she’s difficult to deal with, what with being so flighty and in her own head. “So you didn’t want to move into Rockville?”
“Don’t need my parents to fuss over me.” He brushes some hair back from his forehead. He really doesn’t look comfortable with it being so long, but I suppose that makes sense - if he was in the Army, he probably always had a shorter cut. He looks handsome as is, but I think I’d like to see him with it all cleanly cut.
“Here, I’m close enough to visit, help out if they need me. Far enough away to have my own life.”
Maybe it’s the dim lighting. Maybe it’s that beer I had buzzing through my veins, fogging up my head. But I’m starting to see something in Perry - maybe a little something I like but also a strange, far-off look in his eyes, a pain that expresses itself in his every movement. But through all that I definitely recognize that he’s cute.
The night presses on. Perry and I talk and sip on another drink, and the awkwardness wears away. He’s more and more endearing; he gushes over Apple, he starts to tell me about his dream for his plot of land.
“I want a little farm,” he says decidedly.
“Wha?” I chuckle. “You? A farm?”
“Jus’ a small one,” he replies. He leans on the bar a little. “Some veggies. Some chickens. Maybe a - ” He pauses, looking serious; but then he hiccoughs. I almost fall off my stool laughing. “A goat,” he finishes with a grin.
“You wanna be a hippie farmer?” I ask him.
He lau
ghs, a gruff, clunky sound, like bricks falling off a crumbling wall. Like he hasn’t done it in forever. “I wanna be self sustainable,” he sounds out the word carefully.
I laugh at him. “You might need to slow down there champ- you might be getting a tad bit tipsy”
He shakes his head. “No, no,” he says emphatically. “You’re buzzed too”
“I’m fine,” I assure him.
“You can’t drive,” he says.
“Probably not. But neither can you.” I wave my pointer finger at his chest; he catches it before it gets there. His hand is so large that it engulfs mine completely.
Perry holds onto my fist. Energy sizzles between our connected hands. “Let’s close our tabs.”
“I’ll call a cab,” I tell him.
“We can just walk to my place. I live - just through the woods.”
“Okay.” I don’t try to pull my hand away. He doesn’t let go.
I giggle as I navigate over a tree root. “It’s like being in school again,” I laugh. Sneaking home in the middle of the night, bumbling around in the dark? Yeah, that brings up some memories.
“It’s not far,” he adds, pointing. I reach out and grab his arm, hooking my elbow around his. It’s a big strong arm, I notice for the hundredth time tonight.
“And away we go,” I call out, drawing my vowels out long in true Southern fashion. He laughs as we slog our way out of the woods and into what I assume is his backyard.
“The ground’s uneven,” Perry mumbles. He hiccoughs, “careful - my leg might fall off.”
I find this hilarious. I start laughing, and I can’t stop. Perry grins at me and he’s adorable; I laugh all the way across the yard, up the back porch steps, and through the back door.
“Apple!” he cries out happily as the dog comes bounding toward us. She rears up on her hind legs and gently places her front paws on his stomach; Perry scratches her ears lovingly. “That’s my girl. Daddy’s home.”
