2. River

RIVER

Weird as fuck.

Nerve-shredding.

Scary as goddamn hell.

That's how it felt riding back into Mulligan's Mill.

Sure, I was built like a tank, the kinda guy nobody would ever wanna mess with. Sure, I was a military hero with the medals to prove it.

But just because you're tough on the outside, doesn't mean you're not brittle on the inside.

Yep, coming back to the Mill… that was hard.

It wasn't the first time I'd tried, either.

After my honorable discharge from the Marines—after I'd done my duty to my nation, spending much of my time in the various hellholes in the Middle East—I had every intention of coming home. But the thought of trying to rekindle the already fragile relationship I had with my father… The notion of unpacking the previous six years in conversations with people who could never understand what I'd been through… The idea of trying to pick up any semblance of a normal life after what I'd seen… Hell, it was all too much to bear .

And so, instead of getting on the plane to Eau Claire when I was supposed to, I threw my boarding pass in a trashcan, exited the airport and bought myself a motorcycle.

I spent the next two years riding across the country, venturing through secluded forests, camping by winding rivers, living out of my rucksack and owing nobody nothing.

No explanations.

No obligations.

No responsibilities.

I'd paid my debt to my country.

I didn't have to justify myself or my actions to anyone.

That's how I felt, and I was stubborn as hell about it.

But as the roads carried me aimlessly across the land and time marched on, a strange sensation began to slowly creep into my heart.

It was the feeling that I didn't want to stay lost forever.

The knowledge that I had a home, and maybe it was time to return to it.

Sure, I knew it would take some work to rebuild whatever sliver of a relationship I had with my father. We barely knew how to communicate. I blamed him for stuff that had happened in my life, and he resented the fact that I steadfastly refused to embrace my Native American heritage. So fuck knows there was a whole heap of work to be done there.

I'd also need to find a job, although I was confident that with the mechanical skills I'd picked up in the service and on the road, Mike at the auto shop would be happy to take me on board if he had an opening.

But beside all that, there was one thing—or one person—that I was truly beginning to miss.

Clarry Pinkerton.

My boyhood best friend.

The chubby kid from school who was always there for me, especially when my mom left me and my old man to fend for ourselves.

We were poles apart, Clarry and me.

He liked movies and I liked the outdoors.

He was the sensitive type, while all I ever wanted was adventure.

He was short and never truly emerged from his baby fat, which I kinda loved about him, while I was tall and had always been made of muscle.

But he was the kid I got stuck sitting next to in class on our first day at school, and for some reason we clicked… and never stopped clicking.

Over the years we grew up, we grew older, but we never ever grew apart… at least not until I joined the Marines, then went AWOL after my discharge.

As I returned to Mulligan's Mill, his was the one face I wanted to see most.

And yet, part of me was terrified that my absence might have created a rift between us, a chasm that could no longer be crossed. In the time I'd been gone, I never wrote him, not a single letter, not even a cheesy "Wish You Were Here" postcard from any of the hundreds of lakes or canyons or snowcapped mountain ranges I'd visited in the last two years. Why bother when he couldn't even write back, given the fact that I never stayed in the one place more than a few days or so.

Had I been away too long?

Would we click again like we used to?

Or had we finally grown apart, as people always do… like Mom and my old man.

"When are you going to see your friend Clarry?" the old man asked me over breakfast on the third day I was back. "You two still friends?"

"Of course we're still friends," I said, even though I wasn't sure of my answer. "Why would you even ask that? "

"I don't know. Maybe because you up and vanished and nobody heard from you till now." He pointed to the "Welcome Home" banner taped to the top of the doorway in the living room, cobwebs covering the W at one end and the E at the other. "I'd have taken that down two years ago, but it was the last one I had left in the shop. Figured it might as well stay up there till you finally decided to come back. Good thing I kept the packaging, I can put it back on the shelf in the store now."

I huffed a sigh. "It's good to see you too, Dad."

We were sitting at the small linoleum kitchen table that was at least three times my age. This place—the home I'd grown up in—was attached to the back of the general store. It was made up of two small bedrooms, a living room with a threadbare rug on the floor and a sofa covered in lace doilies, a kitchen straight out of the 1950s, and a small windowless bathroom with a jar of charred, whittled matchsticks sitting on the toilet cistern. Just like the store itself, every inch of the house was covered in clutter.

Some of it was meaningless leftover garbage from the store that my old man could never manage to sell—

Matching lamps with mismatching lampshades;

A cigar box that had never been opened;

Vases that had never held a single bouquet of flowers;

A tin lunchbox with the words "Wisconsin, the Badger State" emblazoned on the side;

Ashtrays made of pewter;

Hanging mobiles made of colored glass;

Plastic snow globes with a mama black bear inside looking oh-so-much cuter than they did in real life.

Then there was the rest of the mess, made up mostly of dusty relics from my father's Menominee ancestry—

Etched clay pots and beaded pendants;

A tapestry with eagle feathers woven into the ends;

A moose-hide drum ;

A hand-carved bone chest piece;

Dreamcatchers with ancient stone arrowheads captured in the weave like insects in a web.

"So, if he's still your friend, when the heck are you gonna see him?" my dad pestered. "You've been here three days now."

"I've been busy. I've had to get settled in at Mike's, learning the ropes there. Not to mention I keep bumping into everyone I know and catching up on what's been going on. Bud opened a flower shop. I never would have thought it, but he says he's never been happier. I met the French guy at the patisserie too, what's his name? Pascal?"

"He's an asshole. At least he was at first. Turns out he's quite a decent fella."

"Dad, you think that about everyone you meet."

"That's because it's true. Usually everyone is an asshole until proven innocent."

I rolled my eyes. "Anyways, I've caught up with Benji from the BnB, as well as Brooks at the bookshop. And hell, since when were Gage and Wings a couple? That's so cool. Looking back, I guess it was always there. I wonder how I didn't see it sooner."

"Because you were always too damn busy thinking up ways to leave here."

"Well, you never really gave me a reason to stay, did you Dad. Or were you expecting me to follow in your shoes? Did you see me staying here forever and helping out at the general store for the rest of my days?"

"What's wrong with that?"

"Nothing if you're you. You love this life. It's quiet and cozy and every day is the same. But that's not what I want."

"But a job working at Mike's Mechanic Shop next door is a thrill a minute."

"It'll do. For now."

"For now? Oh geez, there you go again. You've barely walked in the door and already you're looking for the nearest exit. "

My chair scraped the floor and I abruptly stood. "I'm going for a walk."

"Ain't you got some cars to fix?"

"I don't start work until ten today. Till then, I think I need some air."

"Hopefully you might find some time to see your friend Clarry. Sounds like he's the only person you haven't ‘bumped into' yet. He's missed you."

"He has? How do you know?"

My old man picked up the dishes and shrugged. "It's just a hunch. But his Pecan Honeycomb Crush hasn't been the same since you left."

He put the dishes in the sink and turned on the tap.

I headed for the door, stopping for a moment by a shelf and picking up his unopened box of cigars. "Dad, why have you never actually opened these cigars? Instead, you just let 'em collect dust."

He didn't turn around from his dishwashing. "Never really had a good enough reason to smoke 'em, I guess."

That was my old man for you.

The dust collector.

I put the cigar box down and left him clinking dishes in the sink.

Clarry's Pecan Honeycomb Crush was my favorite. When we were in high school, we'd race back to the old ice cream shop and his grandparents would let us take over the ice cream workbench for a little while. The parlor was known as the Rum'n'Raisin Rendezvous back then, and Clarry's bright and brilliant ideas for new ice cream flavors were nothing but flights of fancy. His grandparents were old school and believed that nothing but the traditional flavors were commercially viable. This never stopped them letting Clarry experiment though, and every few days he'd tell me about a daring new concoction he wanted to create.

I was, of course, his willing guinea pig every time.

Hell, he even gave me a key to the shop once, in case he was ever elbow deep in peanut brittle and couldn't answer the door.

Of course, people always wondered about the odd pairing that Clarry and I made. But that's only because they never saw him as a creative genius like I did. They never saw that sparkle in his eyes when he was conjuring up a new ice cream potion. They never listened to him talk about old movies, as though the answer to every riddle in the universe was hidden somewhere in a line of dialog from some rom-com from the eighties or a musical from the sixties.

They never knew him like I did.

Of course, I was always trying to sway him toward the things I loved.

I took him fishing once but he kept insisting we throw all the fish back.

We went exploring the caves behind Rainbow Falls where the river flows beyond the edge of town, but he got stuck in a crevice and vowed never to go into a dark spooky-wooky place like that ever again.

And then there was the time I took him camping and woke up in the middle of the night to find him sound asleep with his hand wrapped around my hard-on. We were eighteen at the time, and maybe it was my fault because I like sleeping in the nude. Hell, I thought a blanket over me would be enough to keep things modest. Besides, what did I have to hide from my best friend anyway? But when a breeze rustled the tent and woke me, I opened my eyes to find Clarry's hand squeezing my cock like he was wrangling an anaconda. It wasn't what I'd call a hand job. Clarry was sound asleep, so there was no jerking or stroking involved. Just a whole lotta holding. Carefully I tried to ease my dick out of his tight little grip, but suddenly his snoring stopped, and he woke to find me trying to peel his fingers away from my penis.

I laughed at the awkwardness of the moment.

But Clarry only burst into tears, utterly humiliated.

I told him not to be embarrassed, that there was nothing to be ashamed of, we were just two friends sleeping together on a boys' camping trip.

But we never spoke about it again.

These were the memories that passed through my head as I walked through town, irreplaceable moments in time that made our friendship what it was. I began to feel anxious, worried that I'd been away too long.

That perhaps what was once irreplaceable had begun to fade.

I guess I wouldn't know for sure until I saw him.

As I strolled by Bud's new flower shop, Bud's Blooms , I had the urge to buy some flowers, to brighten Clarry's day in the same way he had always managed to brighten mine.

The bell above the door jingled as I entered, and I was barely inside the shop before I heard a loud and overly enthusiastic—"Holy fuck! It's River! Look at you, dude! I need a hug right now, you big hunk of handsome!"

From behind the counter, Maggie Winton came bolting across the shop floor, straight under the A-frame ladder in the middle of the room, before lunging at me for a bear hug.

"Maggie! Hey, how are you?"

"I'm pissed that I missed you the other day when you caught up with Bud… but he's next door visiting Pascal at the moment, so I'm happy now that I've got you all to myself."

From atop the ladder, there came the clearing of a throat. "Ahem! You're not alone at all, Maggie. Have you already forgotten I'm here?"

Maggie and I both looked up the ladder to see a tall, glamorous African American woman in the glitziest gown I'd ever seen. She seemed to be working on the black chandelier that hung from the ceiling, but as she glanced down and saw me, she seemed instantly distracted.

"Oh my," she said as her balance teetered.

Her heel slipped off the rung.

And in the next moment, the woman who looked like a showgirl fell from the top of the ladder.

My instincts kicked in and I slid to my knees beneath her, catching her in my arms mere seconds before she hit the floor.

Actually, looking back, it wasn't so much that she fell.

It was more like she swooned elegantly—and somewhat intentionally—straight into my arms.

"Oh my!" she gushed, tipping the back of one hand daintily to her forehead while still gripping a hot glue gun in the other hand. "Thank you, kind sir. You saved my life."

"River does that a lot," Maggie said matter-of-factly. "If you need rescuing, this is your guy. A real life hero. He's even got the medals to show for it. Don't you, River?"

I blushed and gave a nod. "Yeah, I guess it's true."

"So, you're River Raven. I've heard so much about you. The Mill's magnificent Marine has returned home. My name is Aunt Bea, but you can call me ‘fabulous'."

I helped Aunt Bea to her feet. "Please to meet you, Aunt Bea. Or Fabulous. Or…" I wasn't sure whether to take her seriously or not, so I just shook her hand instead.

"Goodness, what a firm handshake you have." Aunt Bea squeezed my bicep with her free hand and her eyelids fluttered. "Finally, I see what all the fuss is about. Thank heavens you raced in like a knight in shining armor to catch my fall, otherwise I don't know what might have happened to me. Why, I could have broken my neck… or worse still, a nail!"

"What were you doing up there, anyway? That's an awfully big ladder for a lady to climb."

Aunt Bea chuckled and gave a wink. "Oh honey, I've climbed bigger, trust me. Besides, one of the chandelier crystals needed fixing and there's nobody in this town who knows how to use a hot glue gun quite like this queen."

The penny dropped. "Oh! You're…" I had no idea which words were the correct ones to use next.

Aunt Bea dropped her hands to her hips. "If you're about to say that I'm the most sickeningly divine creature you've ever laid eyes on, you'd be correct. If you were about to call me a female impersonator, then you'll probably regret catching my fall."

"Sickeningly divine creature. I was absolutely about to say how sickeningly divine you are."

Those eyelids fluttered like happy butterflies again. "Gooooood. The universe is a much better place when people agree with me. But you didn't come in here to save my life. What, pray tell, is the reason for your visit, my handsome hero?"

I looked from Aunt Bea to Maggie and back again. "Actually, I'm here to buy some flowers for Clarry."

An excited gasp came from both of them.

"Oh how romantic," gushed Aunt Bea.

"Pink!" Maggie declared. "Clarry loves everything pink! And let's face it, colors don't get any gayer than pink, do they?"

Panic set in. "No, no, no. This isn't a romantic gesture at all. And yes, Clarry does love pink, but maybe I should get him a different color. White. Blue. Green. They're straight colors, right? Because I'm totally straight." The words came out in a nervous laugh. "I'm not gay. Neither is Clarry. We're friends. Best buddies. BFFs, that sort of thing. There's nothing romantic going on here. At all."

Aunt Bea eyed me suspiciously. "Methinks the lady doth protest too much."

"No, I dothn't. I mean, I'm not protesting at all. I just thought flowers might be nice. Plus, I was hoping to support Bud's new business by making a purchase. Speaking of Bud, where is he? Maybe he might have a more masculine suggestion. "

Aunt Bea rolled her eyes while Maggie answered matter-of-factly, "He was here a few minutes ago but he had to duck next door to see Pascal. Says he can't go ten minutes these days without giving French Toast a kiss."

"He likes to kiss French toast?"

"No, that's just one of my many, many nicknames for Pascal… Bud's new boyfriend. Bud thinks sneaking over there and stealing smoochies is all lovey-dovey. He calls it ‘romantic'. I call it ‘kissing the frog'. Horses for courses, I guess."

"You mean, Bud and Pascal are an item?"

"U-huh," they both said at the same time.

"Just like Wings and Gage?"

"U-huh."

"Wow. Things have changed since I've been gone."

"Do you have a problem with that, G.I. Joe?" asked Aunt Bea, one eyebrow arched in a way that suddenly transformed her makeup into war paint.

"No! Not at all. I think that's awesome. I really do. I'm an ally. I knew a bunch of queer men and women in the armed forces. I had their backs, and they had mine… That's what it means to be a Marine. But I'm not gay." I screwed up my face a little as I thought aloud. "Come to think of it, I'm not really straight either. I guess I kind of float about in no man's land."

"It's called no person's land these days," Bea corrected.

"Right. Well, that's where I fit. I guess I'm just not that into girls… or guys… or anyone. I'm not sure anyone's ever really been into me either, for that matter."

"Oh, come on," Aunt Bea pressed. "A big strong brave fella like you? Surely you had them lining up around the corner at the fair just to get to your kissing booth."

I shrugged coyly. "I guess I never really noticed."

Aunt Bea tapped the front of my shirt like she was giving me an encouraging pat, although I got the impression she just wanted to feel my pecs. "Oh, my big juicy manburger, when the right person comes along, you'll notice alright. And when you do finally find them, you'll realize what you've been missing out on all this time, and you won't be able to get enough. As my Grammy always said—water may not tempt you when there's plenty of it around, but after a week in the desert, it's all you'll ever want to drink."

Maggie scratched her head. "I have no idea what that means… but I suddenly feel thirsty." She turned and headed toward the fountain in the middle of the store, with little statues of cupid peeing into the water.

Instantly, Aunt Bea snapped her fingers. "Maggie darling, that's not a trough. We've talked about this. There's a kitchenette out back, remember?"

As Maggie diverted her direction and made her way out back, I gave a worried look after her and said to Aunt Bea, "I guess some things in the Mill haven't changed."

"You mean Maggie and her eccentricities?" Aunt Bea sighed. "We all keep an eye on her, but I suppose if one rose bush wants to grow in a different direction to all the others, that doesn't mean its petals are any less beautiful. Although I must have a word to her about those hideous stone-washed denim coveralls she insists on wearing. Ghastly, I tell you. Speaking of roses, have you chosen which flowers you'd like to give Clarry? I'm not officially a member of staff, but I know how to use the cash register better than Maggie. Hell, even the daffodils would do a better job."

After the misinterpretation of my intentions, I seemed to have gone cold on the idea. "Actually, I might give the flowers a miss. I wouldn't want to give Clarry the wrong idea. We're just friends, after all."

I turned to leave, but Bea caught my arm. "Not so fast, Captain America. You came in here with a lovely idea, a beautiful gesture in mind. Don't change it now. You had good intentions… follow them. "

"Don't they say that the path to hell is paved with good intentions?"

Aunt Bea looked at me with the devil in her eyes. "And what's wrong with that? Sounds like the best of both worlds if you ask me."

I barked out a laugh. "Maybe so." My eyes wandered over the flowers in the store. "Pink, you say?"

Aunt Bea nodded.

I pointed to a pretty cluster in the corner. "Then I guess I'll take that bouquet over there."

As I rounded the ice cream parlor, I saw that it was still closed. At this time of the morning, I was expecting nothing less.

"Nobody eats ice cream for breakfast," I told myself… then smiled at the number of times in our younger years that I'd caught Clarry chowing down on a chocolate ice cream cone or a cup of French vanilla swirl that his grandparents had served him up before school. Those were the days when I would stand up on my bike and pedal as hard as I could from the general store to the old Rum'n'Raisin Rendezvous. I'd skid to a halt in front of the ice cream shop and ding my bell before Clarry and me would ride to school together.

I grinned at the memories before I stepped up to the side door of the parlor.

I'd brought my key with me. It hung around my neck like it did when I was a kid. But out of politeness I knocked on the door first.

There was no answer.

I knocked again. And again.

Still nothing.

Assuming Clarry hadn't changed the lock, and hoping he had no reason to, I lifted the key from around my neck. It turned easily in the lock, and I peered inside.

"Clarry? Hello? It's me, River."

There was still no response, but I could hear something.

Singing.

No music, just singing.

And not good singing.

I giggled a little. Yep, that was Clarry's voice all right. And from the words I picked up here and there, he was listening to Flashdance on his Discman. I could tell from the direction of his voice that he was at his workbench.

"Clarry?" I shouted.

Wow, he must have had that music turned way up.

I walked by the cool room and turned into what I used to jokingly refer to as his "mad scientist's lab." The place where he experimented with all his creamy concoctions and sparkly sprinkles.

Clarry had his back to me, pouring milk and measuring sugar, singing his cute little heart out as his hips bounced from side to side. The very sight of him filled my heart with joy. God, I'd missed him so much. Why had it taken me so long to come and see that shiny, smiling face of his?

I stepped up behind him, held the bouquet of flowers behind my back with one hand and tapped him on the shoulder with the other.

Instantly he squealed, spun on his heel, yanked the earphones out of his ears and grabbed a jar of Gummy Bears, ready to hurl it at me. I could think of better choices he could have made to save his life… like the rolling pin next to the jar… or the scissors he'd obviously used to open the packets of cinnamon sticks on the counter… or the chopping knife he'd used to chop a pile of choc chips.

But no, Clarry chose a jar of Gummy Bears.

Mind you, I was happy for it .

If my best friend was going to try to kill me, I'd rather dodge a flying jar than a twelve-inch knife.

I dropped the flowers that were still hidden behind my back.

I held up both hands, ready to fend off the jar, saying, "Woah! Woah! Woah! Clarry, it's just me, River."

His already wide eyes grew even wider at the sight of me.

"River?"

I beamed, about to tell him how much I'd missed him. But before I could open my mouth to speak, Clarry's eyes lost focus and rolled into the back of his head.

His knees went wonky.

The jar slipped from his grip and his whole body went limp.

My reflexes were like lightning.

I grabbed the falling jar in one hand and caught Clarry in my other arm.

As I laid him gently on the floor, tapping his cheek lightly and calling his name, I was beginning to wonder how many other people I was going to have to catch in Mulligan's Mill.