Wrangled

Our friendship is a complicated bag of emotions, to be honest.

A very complicated bag.

And it’s a bag far too heavy to unpack right now.

Needless to say, their surprise engagement is the final straw that made me decide at last to get away and attend my dreaded high school reunion: to escape feeling anything too specific about Salvador and Richie getting married.

“Well, soon you and your … fiancé … will have the funds to get a better place for the two of you,” I point out to him, controlling my tone of voice, “as soon as your modeling deal goes through.”

“Yes, right,” he agrees, an odd note of hesitation in his voice. “The, ah … The modeling deal. Right. Yes, that.”

The guys at the bar keep looking my way and talking to each other. Jeremiah snickers at Owen, who punches his buddy in the arm, inspiring a throaty chuckle from the bartender. Kirk keeps stroking his beard pensively, staring at me.

I turn away again. “Wish me luck tomorrow,” I beg Salvador with a sigh. “I’m gonna need it. Badly.”

“Good luck, doll. Don’t let your high school crushes play with your heart too much, you big ol’ country boy, you!”

I roll my eyes. “Crushes? Really? In this dinky town?” I scoff at him and smirk. “Don’t you know me at all? My taste is far too—”

“Oh, sorry, Richie needs something. Gotta go! Kisses!”

Click.

I pull the phone away from my ear and stare at it, startled.

It’s also not the first time I’ve been abruptly hung up on. But maybe I could have used more of a friend right now than I let on with my “totally above it” attitude. Why can’t I just tell him how I really feel? He’s my best friend. Shouldn’t he be able to handle it?

I glance back down at my plate.

I wonder if I can get my food to go.

As it turns out, I’ve lost my appetite.

“Hey, you!”

The shout from the bar turns my blood cold. I look up to find Jeremiah, Owen, and Kirk staring my way.

I don’t know which one of them shouted at me.

I’m already on the defense. I’m ready to punch a guy in the face. I’ve done it before, despite having a body that looks like I can snap in half like a stale breadstick. I’ve dealt with tough guys my whole life. I was born in this town, and I have endured the bullies.

And I won’t let three assholes at a bar intimidate me and—

“Your pants,” shouts Kirk, still leaning against the counter as he nods at me. “Those are bad-ass. Where’d you get ‘em?”

I blink.

Uh, what?

“Th-These …?” I ask, bringing a reluctant hand to my leg and pinching the thigh of my pants.

“Yeah, those. Where’d you get ‘em?”

I swallow. “They’re … They’re Tombe Milaggio’s.”

“Oh.” He looks perplexed. “Can I get ‘em on Amazon, or—?”

Jeremiah scoffs and elbows him in his gut. “That’s one of them fancy designer brands, dummy. You can’t afford that shit.”

“Like hell I can’t!” Kirk snaps with a shove back at him.

“Well, they’re some sleek damned pants,” throws in Owen, who kicks his foot up on the leg of his stool.

“And those shiny kicks, too,” says Kirk. “Shit, Bonnie’s always complainin’ about my clothes. Maybe I need to take notes from you or somethin’, heh. Too late, I guess, with the reunion being tomorrow and all. So what’s your deal? You passin’ through town? You some celebrity I should know about?”

My eyes have shrunk halfway into my skull.

What is happening? What is this world?

“Passing through,” I finally manage to answer, vaguely.

“I’m gonna take some mental notes on your style, then.” He slams a fist on the counter with a grunt. “Time for a change!”

Jeremiah laughs at him. “Dress however you want, but it ain’t gonna do a lick a’ difference for that big beer belly of yours.”

“Hey, it ain’t that big!” he retorts, and the men explode into another fit of laughing and yelling at each other.

The bartender, however, is studying me from across the room. After a moment, he wiggles his mustache and, with a nod in my direction, shouts over them with: “You’ve got a familiar face.”

The three men draw quiet again and look my way.

That’s when something clicks in Kirk’s eyes. He gapes. “No way. Hold on. Wait a sec.” He slaps a hand to Owen’s arm and leans forward, as if to get a better look at me. “Do I know you?”

Here we go again.

“It’s Lance,” I tell the three of them. “Lance Goodwin.”

The air leaves the room.

For ten solid seconds, not even a single breath finds its way into a lung.

Or a nostril.

Or a hanging-open set of dumbfounded lips.

“Lance …?” croaks Owen, breaking the silence.

My eyes flick to his, nervous.

Jeremiah gasps. “Holy fuckin’ shit, it is you!”

“I didn’t recognize you at all!” shouts Owen in awe.