She wiped the sweat from her forehead
and looked around the motel room. She was alone.
After
a hot shower, she found a yellow, long-sleeved shirt in her suitcase and
slipped it on. The brown “Fish Naked” T-shirt lay on top of the clothes. She
really wanted to go home and wash everything and put this whole trip behind
her.
Dressed,
she stepped outside carrying her bags and walked through the motel parking lot.
Main Street stretched before her, and she saw her husband’s black Chevy parked
in the Texaco station. Owen was probably talking to the mechanic about a new
tire. She didn’t feel like talking to him. Not yet, anyway.
She
strode across the street with her bags slung over her shoulder, and entered the
corner diner. A redheaded waitress behind the counter greeted her.
“Mountain
Dew and an iced tea, no ice,” she replied.
“Bring
me a menu,” Rayanne said as she found a booth and set down her bags.
The
place was buzzing with locals in for early morning coffee. The town sheriff sat
in a booth across from her, and Rayanne remembered him from yesterday,
directing traffic along the interstate. Their eyes met.
Dressed
in the tan trousers and short-sleeved, button-down shirt of the Willow
Sheriff’s Department, he looked well into his fifties. Tufts of swept-back
white hair protruded beneath the sides of his cowboy hat. Still, he was clearly
in shape and was a man who commanded respect by his very appearance. Rayanne
smiled at him and he tipped his hat.
As
the waitress moved from behind the counter bringing her a menu, Rayanne saw
Owen enter the diner. The door chimed as he walked inside. He plopped down
across from her in the booth.
Focused
on the menu, Rayanne pretended not to notice. Her dark hair was tangled and she
kept toying with it, twisting the ends and combing the knots out with her
slender fingers. The waitress placed two glasses on the table: one with
Mountain Dew, the other with iced tea, no ice. Rayanne nodded at her, motioning
the woman to give them a minute. The waitress smiled, acknowledging her, then
turned and left.
Owen
picked up his glass and took a sip as Rayanne’s face remained hidden behind the
menu. After a moment he set down his glass and cleared his throat. “I’m sorry
about the blow-up back there at the truck,” he said in a hushed tone. “And I’m
sorry about last night too. You know I didn’t mean it.”
Rayanne
put down the menu. “Owen, I don’t like the direction we’re headed.”
“Me
neither.” He stared at his Mountain Dew. “That morning I walked in the
bathroom, saw you lying there in the tub, blood dripping from your arms …”
Rayanne
blinked. “I know,” she whispered.
He
leaned forward. “We’re both dealing with it, you know. You’re not in this
alone.”
“Owen,
please …” She hesitated, sipping her tea. It wasn’t the drink she really
wanted, but then nothing about this trip had gone the way she wanted. Since
that was the case, she decided to go for it. “Let’s put last night—and this
whole trip—behind us.”
“You
keep saying that, but we don’t. We’ve never even talked about him—”
“Don’t.”
“Since
the funeral.” He paused, looked down at the table, then mumbled, “It’s been two
years.”
“Stop.”
Owen
hesitated. “We can’t keep pretending like it never happened.”
Rayanne
sighed. “This whole trip was a mistake. It was a bad idea, and it’s my fault.”
She reached for her bags as she shifted in the booth toward the edge.
Owen
grabbed her hand, stopping her. “Rayanne, please. It’s been two years,” he
said.
She
tried to pull away.
He
tightened his grip. His voice was low, gravelly, like the Rottweiler’s growl.
“Everything that’s happened. It’s my fault.”
“Owen—”
“The
business failing. Losing our home. Connor.”
“No!”
Rayanne screamed, and jerked her hand away from his, brushing his glass of
Mountain Dew. It toppled with a splash and rolled off the table,
and looked around the motel room. She was alone.
After
a hot shower, she found a yellow, long-sleeved shirt in her suitcase and
slipped it on. The brown “Fish Naked” T-shirt lay on top of the clothes. She
really wanted to go home and wash everything and put this whole trip behind
her.
Dressed,
she stepped outside carrying her bags and walked through the motel parking lot.
Main Street stretched before her, and she saw her husband’s black Chevy parked
in the Texaco station. Owen was probably talking to the mechanic about a new
tire. She didn’t feel like talking to him. Not yet, anyway.
She
strode across the street with her bags slung over her shoulder, and entered the
corner diner. A redheaded waitress behind the counter greeted her.
“Mountain
Dew and an iced tea, no ice,” she replied.
“Bring
me a menu,” Rayanne said as she found a booth and set down her bags.
The
place was buzzing with locals in for early morning coffee. The town sheriff sat
in a booth across from her, and Rayanne remembered him from yesterday,
directing traffic along the interstate. Their eyes met.
Dressed
in the tan trousers and short-sleeved, button-down shirt of the Willow
Sheriff’s Department, he looked well into his fifties. Tufts of swept-back
white hair protruded beneath the sides of his cowboy hat. Still, he was clearly
in shape and was a man who commanded respect by his very appearance. Rayanne
smiled at him and he tipped his hat.
As
the waitress moved from behind the counter bringing her a menu, Rayanne saw
Owen enter the diner. The door chimed as he walked inside. He plopped down
across from her in the booth.
Focused
on the menu, Rayanne pretended not to notice. Her dark hair was tangled and she
kept toying with it, twisting the ends and combing the knots out with her
slender fingers. The waitress placed two glasses on the table: one with
Mountain Dew, the other with iced tea, no ice. Rayanne nodded at her, motioning
the woman to give them a minute. The waitress smiled, acknowledging her, then
turned and left.
Owen
picked up his glass and took a sip as Rayanne’s face remained hidden behind the
menu. After a moment he set down his glass and cleared his throat. “I’m sorry
about the blow-up back there at the truck,” he said in a hushed tone. “And I’m
sorry about last night too. You know I didn’t mean it.”
Rayanne
put down the menu. “Owen, I don’t like the direction we’re headed.”
“Me
neither.” He stared at his Mountain Dew. “That morning I walked in the
bathroom, saw you lying there in the tub, blood dripping from your arms …”
Rayanne
blinked. “I know,” she whispered.
He
leaned forward. “We’re both dealing with it, you know. You’re not in this
alone.”
“Owen,
please …” She hesitated, sipping her tea. It wasn’t the drink she really
wanted, but then nothing about this trip had gone the way she wanted. Since
that was the case, she decided to go for it. “Let’s put last night—and this
whole trip—behind us.”
“You
keep saying that, but we don’t. We’ve never even talked about him—”
“Don’t.”
“Since
the funeral.” He paused, looked down at the table, then mumbled, “It’s been two
years.”
“Stop.”
Owen
hesitated. “We can’t keep pretending like it never happened.”
Rayanne
sighed. “This whole trip was a mistake. It was a bad idea, and it’s my fault.”
She reached for her bags as she shifted in the booth toward the edge.
Owen
grabbed her hand, stopping her. “Rayanne, please. It’s been two years,” he
said.
She
tried to pull away.
He
tightened his grip. His voice was low, gravelly, like the Rottweiler’s growl.
“Everything that’s happened. It’s my fault.”
“Owen—”
“The
business failing. Losing our home. Connor.”
“No!”
Rayanne screamed, and jerked her hand away from his, brushing his glass of
Mountain Dew. It toppled with a splash and rolled off the table,
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