top.”
“You know some things never change.”
“Like you.” His album-cover smile knocks at the closed, locked door of my heart.
Head: Go away.
Heart: Yeah, no one is hoooome.
“I’ve changed.” Haven’t I? Yes, definitely. How, I’m not sure, but surely I’ve changed. Yes, lookit, I’m ready to move way over to Spain and take a job I have no idea I can do. “Do you want root beer, diet, or what?” I shove open the mudroom door. The hinge is loose, so the bot-tom scrapes across the board floor. Dad’s tackle keeps the room perpetu-ally perfumed like rotten fish. “How long are you in town?”
“Root beer sounds good. Most of the summer. Taking some time for myself.”
“Nice.” Jerking on the leverlike handle of the old fridge, I take out two root beers. When I set his down in front of him, he says, “So, you and J. D. an item?”
Slowly, I pop open my drink. “We’ve gone out a few times.” Talking to Elle and Jess about my love life is one thing. Talking to Mitch? Awkward.
“He’s a decent guy.”
“Decent? Kind of a bland thing to say about your old buddy.”
Mitch grins. “Is it? I thought it was a compliment.”
“What about you? Last time I saw the cover of Country Weekly , you were engaged to that new singer Mallory Clark.”
Mitch pops the top off his root beer and slurps the foam oozing over the top. “We broke up six months ago.”
Curling my leg under me, I sit in one of the kitchen chairs and sip my icy soda. “I’m sorry. Who’s your woman now?”
Looking contemplative, he shakes his head. “Flying solo these days.”
“Mitch O’Neal, running around Nashville untethered? What is the world coming to?”
“Confounding, isn’t it? I’m working on a few life adjustments.”
“You seemed different to me last night.”
His exhale is half laugh, half regret. “Took God knocking me upside the head, but I’m waking up to some realities.”
“Realities?” Mitch hasn’t referenced God since before his Nashville days. I’m curious about the “realities” belonging to a distant, leave-me-to-my-business God. (Mind you, if there is a God. Jury is still out.)
Mitch fiddles with the root beer can, looking as if he can’t formulate an answer. Finally, “Frank Sinatra’s wrong. ‘My way’ isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”
“From where I sit, your way has worked well.”
“Let’s just say I’m a long way from the preacher’s kid who walked an aisle and begged Jesus to live in his heart—whatever that meant. I just knew He was real.”
“Isn’t this what you wanted? Escape from the life of a small-town preacher’s kid?”
He taps his finger over his heart. “Yes, but nine years later, it’s left me pretty empty.”
The emotion in his voice moves me. Yeah, I know exactly what you mean.
Hungry, we decide to cruise down Highway 21 to the Shrimp Shack for a shrimp burger. And, Mitch wants to drive Matilda. “It’s been a while.”
The Shrimp Shack is busy, and when Mitch steps out of the car, he creates a stir. Customers dining at the picnic tables, and those waiting to pick up, buzz, “Is that Mitch O’Neal?”
Beaufort County has changed so much, the newcomers are not used to seeing one of our favorite sons.
Mitch graciously signs a few autographs—he doesn’t seem to mind this part of his reality—before we take our food to an outside picnic table and sit in the shade of a tall palm tree.
“All right, what’s new with you?” My friend regards me with his sandwich between his teeth.
I pinch off the tip of a french fry. “Jones left the Café to me. You heard he died, right?”
He stops twisting open his water bottle. “Read about it online. Then mom called the day of his funeral. So, you weren’t expecting to inherit the Café?”
“Are you kidding? I had absolutely no idea.”
Mitch is always easy to talk to so I tell him the story of the Café and Hazel’s Barcelona offer. He listens without interrupting, munching on
“You know some things never change.”
“Like you.” His album-cover smile knocks at the closed, locked door of my heart.
Head: Go away.
Heart: Yeah, no one is hoooome.
“I’ve changed.” Haven’t I? Yes, definitely. How, I’m not sure, but surely I’ve changed. Yes, lookit, I’m ready to move way over to Spain and take a job I have no idea I can do. “Do you want root beer, diet, or what?” I shove open the mudroom door. The hinge is loose, so the bot-tom scrapes across the board floor. Dad’s tackle keeps the room perpetu-ally perfumed like rotten fish. “How long are you in town?”
“Root beer sounds good. Most of the summer. Taking some time for myself.”
“Nice.” Jerking on the leverlike handle of the old fridge, I take out two root beers. When I set his down in front of him, he says, “So, you and J. D. an item?”
Slowly, I pop open my drink. “We’ve gone out a few times.” Talking to Elle and Jess about my love life is one thing. Talking to Mitch? Awkward.
“He’s a decent guy.”
“Decent? Kind of a bland thing to say about your old buddy.”
Mitch grins. “Is it? I thought it was a compliment.”
“What about you? Last time I saw the cover of Country Weekly , you were engaged to that new singer Mallory Clark.”
Mitch pops the top off his root beer and slurps the foam oozing over the top. “We broke up six months ago.”
Curling my leg under me, I sit in one of the kitchen chairs and sip my icy soda. “I’m sorry. Who’s your woman now?”
Looking contemplative, he shakes his head. “Flying solo these days.”
“Mitch O’Neal, running around Nashville untethered? What is the world coming to?”
“Confounding, isn’t it? I’m working on a few life adjustments.”
“You seemed different to me last night.”
His exhale is half laugh, half regret. “Took God knocking me upside the head, but I’m waking up to some realities.”
“Realities?” Mitch hasn’t referenced God since before his Nashville days. I’m curious about the “realities” belonging to a distant, leave-me-to-my-business God. (Mind you, if there is a God. Jury is still out.)
Mitch fiddles with the root beer can, looking as if he can’t formulate an answer. Finally, “Frank Sinatra’s wrong. ‘My way’ isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”
“From where I sit, your way has worked well.”
“Let’s just say I’m a long way from the preacher’s kid who walked an aisle and begged Jesus to live in his heart—whatever that meant. I just knew He was real.”
“Isn’t this what you wanted? Escape from the life of a small-town preacher’s kid?”
He taps his finger over his heart. “Yes, but nine years later, it’s left me pretty empty.”
The emotion in his voice moves me. Yeah, I know exactly what you mean.
Hungry, we decide to cruise down Highway 21 to the Shrimp Shack for a shrimp burger. And, Mitch wants to drive Matilda. “It’s been a while.”
The Shrimp Shack is busy, and when Mitch steps out of the car, he creates a stir. Customers dining at the picnic tables, and those waiting to pick up, buzz, “Is that Mitch O’Neal?”
Beaufort County has changed so much, the newcomers are not used to seeing one of our favorite sons.
Mitch graciously signs a few autographs—he doesn’t seem to mind this part of his reality—before we take our food to an outside picnic table and sit in the shade of a tall palm tree.
“All right, what’s new with you?” My friend regards me with his sandwich between his teeth.
I pinch off the tip of a french fry. “Jones left the Café to me. You heard he died, right?”
He stops twisting open his water bottle. “Read about it online. Then mom called the day of his funeral. So, you weren’t expecting to inherit the Café?”
“Are you kidding? I had absolutely no idea.”
Mitch is always easy to talk to so I tell him the story of the Café and Hazel’s Barcelona offer. He listens without interrupting, munching on