Everett Bray was never a chatty man.

Is he still here too?

This is my fourth lap of town already. At some point, I need to pick where I’m headed. Options are slim on the ground in Maple Creek, and that’s assuming you have money weighing down your back pocket. But I’ve got all of ten bucks in cash, and a few more nickels and cents’ worth in my bank account.

My gas tank is getting low.

So where am I sleeping tonight?

There’s the old abandoned farm out by the highway, but the local hell-raisers used to use it for parties, and I don’t fancy rolling over in the night and accidentally jabbing myself with a dirty needle. Then there’s my parents’ old trailer park, but Mom and Dad are long gone, and none of their neighbors will want to cram a long lost stranger into their single wide.

I guess I could find a comfy ditch on the school sports field. It’s summer, after all. No chance of getting trampled by a morning gym class, and the ticks will be some kinda company.

Chewing on my bottom lip, I run through every empty building and public bench I can think of in Maple Creek—assuming they all still exist. But I don’t know who I’m trying to kid, because even as I list out barns and sheds and abandoned pick-up trucks, I flick on my turn signal and drive away from the center of town.

I know where I’m headed. Know this road as well as the freckles on my forearms.

Will Everett Bray remember me?

* * *

Growing up, I think I spent more time at Harry’s uncle’s place than I did in my own home. Harry and I were best friends all the way from kindergarten, and at fourteen we kinda fell into dating without ever even talking about it. Two gawky teenagers following a well-worn script. Like it was just an extension of everything that had come before—the natural next step.

I didn’t mind. So long as I got to spend most of my hours out on Everett Bray’s property by the creek, I didn’t care what we called the bond between his nephew and I.

And Harry was a sweet boyfriend. He gave me cards and flowers on Valentine’s Day, and he matched his buttonhole to my dress at the school prom. He never mentioned how my outfit was clearly from a thrift store, and he never complained once about calling for me at the trailer park.

But we never, you know, did much of anything. An awkward peck here; a wander through the town holding hands there. We were best friends more than anything truly romantic, play-acting at being more. Rehearsing for our adult lives.

Even so, Harry’s uncle used to make us leave the bedroom door wide open on the days we hung out at his place, just in case we got any ideas.

Oh, I got ideas alright, especially once I got older.