Finding Solace

“Yeah,” I say, nodding. That small-town spirit shines in his words. “Congrats on all that. It’s good to keep busy.”

“It is. We’ve changed our crops. We used to be straight corn. Now it’s all about the soybean. At least this year.”

“Wow, that is a big change.”

“Corn syrup’s out. Soy milk’s in.”

“We do what we have to do to survive.” I know this better than anyone.

I’ll never forget finding that sweet girl I met in the mountains curled on the gravel, on the paler side of death. Any innocence she’d managed to hold on to was gone as she gasped for life. That fucker stole her hope and nearly her life.

It’s the only time my professional life became personal.

The actions of vengeance have a way of sticking with you. That fucker who shot her slept with his arm stretched toward the nightstand. I could put money down that his gun was in the top drawer. I took the shot. No, I’ll never forget, but I refuse to sink into the abyss of guilt or remorse. He deserves neither.

I’m starting to think I sold more than my soul that night, if surviving was only something I did physically.

He finishes a beer and grabs another. “So, what have you been doing?”

For anyone else, this would be an easy question to answer, but for me, it’s one I’m always thinking about how I’ll answer. I give him the rehearsed response, “Odd jobs here and there. Worked on a fishing boat in Alaska and a mini-mart in the northeast. Hauled lumber in Northern California, and worked on a cattle farm in Oklahoma.”

“Never used your business degree?”

“You know,” I say, thinking about this harder than I should, “I kind of use it all the time. I just don’t get the bragging rights around the water cooler.”

“Ah.” He drinks more and then leans back on the screen door.

I’m not sure if the chair is going to hold much longer, so I don’t tempt it by readjusting. “What happened with you and Lou?”

“Too much to remember. It’s just easier to say we were together too young, and I couldn’t give her the life she wanted.” He doesn’t sound as regretful as I feel over my screwed-up relationship with Delilah.

“Yeah, sometimes I wonder . . . Ah, fuck it. It’s not worth the effort to worry about what could’ve been.”

“That’s for sure.” He tosses the first can toward a bin a little ways away from where he’s sitting but misses. “I still see Cole every now and again.” His humorless laugh leaves me curious, but he adds, “Not by choice.”

I toss my can from across the yard and make it in the bin. “What an asshole.” I laugh. I thought I could hide my disdain better. Guess not.

“Every time I see him, I wanna punch his fucking lights out. Hands up.” He tosses me a beer.

“You should, the fucking wife beater. If I’d been around—” Fuck. I crack it open and chug the first half, trying to drown the anger growing inside.

He lifts his hat and scratches his head. “I hear ya. I paid him a visit two times to make sure the shit would stop.”

“Apparently, it didn’t work.”

His eyes hit mine. “She was good at hiding behind lies.”

“Can’t hide bruises,” I snap back.

“She wasn’t my wife, and I wasn’t inspecting her body. You got a problem with me, Koster?”

My hand starts crushing the can. I’ve learned what I’m capable of. I’ve learned that it’s hard to come back from the darkness once it gets a hold on you. Anger is a surefire way to have me seeing red, to dig deep and let that darkness back in. That red will turn to gray, and the rest of the world will fade away, except for one thing—my target.

Cole Cutler.

My former best fucking friend.

He saw his chance to take my place and took it, stabbing me in the back like we didn’t have a long history behind us.

I may not have had many years with my dad, but his life always revolved around my mom, me, and his love of sports. From coaching me in T-ball at three to tackle football at five right before he died, he told me to always work hard and to do my best, but if you’re not having fun, then it’s not worth it.

When he died, I did my best. It helped that playing sports was the only fun I had left. It became my escape, and I became even better. Thinking back on those sports and every team I played on, Cole had always been right there next to me. Football was an escape for Cole. My house. Our friendship. He’d made for a good partner and a great teammate. He’d been someone I counted on. His father had been an asshole, but we’d been like brothers. Why the fuck he went after Delilah . . . Can’t go there.