Page 27 of Lovetown, USA

Trey

The plane dips over Houston as we begin our descent, and my stomach does the same.

I should be happy to be back in my hometown, but the truth is, I feel like shit. Every mile I just put between myself and Lane feels like my favorite song fading into the distance until I can’t hear it anymore.

I miss her.

After two bourbons, neat, I still feel it. Surprised the hell out of me, but here I am.

What’s worse, the feeling of guilt is creeping up my spine. I’m basically lying to this woman. Not directly, maybe. Deceit may be more apt. But whatever I call it, it’s not good. And it’s not fair to her.

As soon as my phone pings back to life on the tarmac, I thumb open an app.

I’m walking across the jet bridge when I order flowers for her—three dozen roses and two dozen lilies with a note: For all the ways you brighten my day.

It’s dim here in Houston without you. It’s not very poetic, but I manage to ease the guilt a little.

In the Uber, the city, my city, blurs past the window. Strip malls, barbecue joints, glass towers. The heat feels familiar. The smells comfort me. My body may not be in Houston anymore, but my heart still lives right here.

And my fight.

We pull up to the Coughlin county courthouse. It’s a short walk inside the building, where it’s colder than I remember, a big slab of limestone with security guards who don’t make eye contact. I clear the metal detector, the clatter of my belt buckle loud in the quiet lobby. And then I see him.

Jarvis Hudson.

My ex-wife’s best friend from college.

The nigga she told me not to worry about.

The reason I’m in this fucking mess.

He doesn’t see me, and that’s probably for the best. He’s with his attorney across the atrium, talking and smirking like ain’t shit wrong, sporting that same punchable face that makes my fists ball up.

All that old rage, years of it, comes flooding back, and for a second, I imagine myself crossing the floor, planting my fist where that smug expression rests, and drawing blood until I’m satisfied.

“Hey, Doc. You good?”

But my attorney, Landry Jones, comes up behind me and squelches the inferno before it can ignite.

I turn around and greet him with a handshake. His grip is firm. Steadying.

“Let’s keep it together today,” he says knowingly. “We’re getting closer to the end.”

Inside the courtroom, the benches are half-full, the air on full blast. Landry and I get seated behind the defense table as the room buzzes with chatter. I feel like my name and crime are engraved on my forehead: Trey David Montgomery. Aggravated Assault .

A few minutes later, the burly bailiff calls the case. “State of Texas versus Trey Montgomery, case number 09475.”

Judge Barnes enters, robe swinging, and takes her seat. She’s stern, but not unkind, the kind of judge who takes no shit and suffers no fools.

“Mr. Montgomery,” she says, peering down at me. “Do you wish to change your plea today?”

Before I can open my mouth, Landry rises. “No, Your Honor. Absolutely not. My client maintains his innocence.”

She nods once. “Then we’ll proceed with today’s hearing.”

It’s an evidentiary hearing, so I don’t have to say a word, but I damn sure listen.

The prosecution calls its first witness—Officer Ramirez, the first responder on the scene.

He recites the report; a concerned neighbor, yelling, signs of a struggle, and a severely wounded Jarvis lying on my living room floor.

Landry counters on cross, hammering home the fact that the officer never saw me throw a punch.

I’m guilty as fuck, no doubt about that.

In fact, I’d do that shit again and hopefully kill him the next time.

But Landry convinced me that this is the way to go.

Deny, trial, then an offer from the prosecution that doesn’t result in me losing my medical license.

So far, they’ve only offered a reduced sentence, so no dice on that.

We have a secret weapon. Two, actually, but we’re hoping it doesn’t come down to that.

This shit goes on for hours. A nurse is called, the head of hospital security, even a dog walker who was outside my house at the time of the incident.

Landry objects a few times, citing sloppiness during the discovery phase. I barely hear any of it. I’m too focused on Jarvis, and how hard it is to be in his presence and not choke the fucking life out of him.

I stare down at my hands. Healing hands. But also? Weapons. At least they were that day.

Finally, Judge Barnes decides she’s had enough.

“I’ve reviewed the motions, and I see that counsel for the state has yet to turn over the full phone records for the plaintiff.

I’m going to allow the hospital security footage and the testimony of the first responding officer.

The dog walker’s testimony is inadmissible.

” She looks at a sheet of paper. “We’ll set this for another hearing in thirty days. ”

The gavel cracks once, and just like that, my life is in limbo again.

The red brick ranch I grew up in looks exactly the same, thanks to my pops. I pull into the driveway and feel my body releasing its tension, smiling when I see the little crack in the blinds where my mother is undoubtedly peeking out the window, waiting for me to pull up.

She’s standing in the doorway when I walk up, beaming because her baby is home.

I pull her into a hug, noting that she’s a little shorter than she was last time I was here.

I kiss her cheek, smell her, and slip her a few bills as I always do.

She slides them into her pocket with a smile, then leads me to the kitchen table.

She fixes me a plate of sandwiches and gives me a glass of iced tea. A quick glance out the back window tells me my father is out there on the screened-in porch with his pipe in his hand.

My mother’s eyes follow mine. “Let’s go bother him,” she says with a cheeky grin.

I open the door for her and we step out onto the back porch. Cicadas scream in the heat, heard but not seen.

“Boy, you look like hell,” Pop says when he sees me. “It didn’t go well?”

I set my plate on the table and lean down to kiss his cheek. He hates it, but I don’t care. I’ve never cared. Just because he’s stunted emotionally doesn’t mean I’m not gonna get affection from my daddy when I need it.

Growing up an only child should have entitled me to some affection. It’s not like I had to share the love with anybody else. But my daddy was always a stoic man, present in body and mind, but not heart.

I bite into my chicken salad sandwich and nod at Mama, who’s watching for it. Satisfied, she turns her attention to her crochet needles and whatever it is she’s creating.

“It went fine,” I say around a mouthful of chicken. “I gotta come back in thirty days.”

“Ain’t you tired?” he says. “I’m telling you, you look tired.”

I shrug. “Have you ever known me to give up without a fight?”

“Fighting is what got you into this damn mess.”

Mama chuckles at that.

I drain my iced tea, then devour my sandwich while Pop puffs away. Sweet smoke curls in the air around us, another smell that comforts me.

“You fought your own damn body when you blew your knee out,” Pop continues. “Fought that man in front of your son instead of keeping your composure. Losing time and energy fighting accountability, and for what? I didn’t raise you to run from responsibility.”

Mama stops crocheting.

“I see it differently,” I say. “I fought through the pain to bring my body back to health. Fought my way through medical school to start a whole new career. Fought for my wife. Whether she deserved it or not.”

“Not,” Mama says, making us laugh.

“I ain’t comin’ home every few months tiring myself out because I’m fighting accountability,” I say. “I’m fighting to save what I built. I told you, I could lose my license. I ain’t letting that happen. You didn’t raise no quitter, old man.”

Pop fights a smile. I know that man is proud of me. He likes to bust my balls, that’s all. It used to bother me. Lowkey hurt my feelings. But I get it, now. When you’re raising a hardheaded son, you gotta be hard sometimes.

“Cam got a girlfriend now,” I say, because that’s kinda on the subject.

Pop raises an eyebrow, and Mama looks appalled, which makes me chuckle. “Sounds like she’s keeping him on his toes, too.”

“Good,” Pop huffs. “And you? You got somethin’ goin’?”

I smile. “Maybe.”

“Maybe?” He rears back. “Either you do or you don’t.”

“It’s early days, Pop. I like her.”

His eyes narrow into slits. “You moved to a fluffy, lovey-dovey town just to say you like somebody? That’s weak.”

I laugh. “We’re taking it slow.”

If sex, a threesome, and feeling empty when I’m away from her can be considered slow.

But I don’t wanna talk about that, so I bring up something else instead, something I know will make him happy.

“I’m moving forward on the clinic,” I say. “Got zoning approval last week.”

His eyebrows lift.

“If all goes according to plan, the Joe Montgomery Memorial Clinic will open next year.”

Pop sets the pipe down neatly on the side table, his hand shaky. His eyes moisten, his lips press into a line. To the unschooled, he would look angry, but I know better. That’s a stoic man’s fight against his emotions.

My mother has no such hangups. She wipes at her eyes, beaming at me like I hung the moon. But it’s Pop whose tears I want, not hers. I already know how she feels.

“I told you about the clinic a while back, but I just recently decided on the name,” I explain. “I feel like…he’s the main reason I have this goal in the first place. Medicine was enough to satisfy me, y’all know that. But this is something else. This is that thing that put the fire in my belly.”

Pop nods slowly. I think it’s still sinking in. Finally, he looks up at me, a small smile on his lips.

“My daddy would be proud of you,” he says, his voice hoarse. “I certainly am.”

I blow out a breath. That’s what I was waiting for. That’s what I was hoping for. I got it, and now I can rest in the knowledge that I’m doing the right thing. It’s only right for me to do whatever I have to do to make this happen.

Project Lane is going full speed ahead.