Page 10 of Trick or Tease

GARRETT

I drained my third beer and immediately regretted it. The cheap stuff they served at these town gatherings always went down too fast and left me with a bitter aftertaste. I grew up drinking this shit, though. In a way, I almost missed the skanky taste.

I scanned the room and watched as more people came in carrying dishes, gifts, and the occasional tool someone had borrowed and needed to return.

A lot of people had shown up to honor my folks.

Greenleaf Hall was packed wall to wall with what looked like half the county.

Three generations of the same families clustered around tables with checkered blue tablecloths.

Kids laughed and ran around while the hum of conversation filled the room.

There was a live band butchering “Sweet Caroline.” The lead singer was enthusiastic, I’d give him that, but his voice cracked on the high notes in a way that made me wince.

No one else seemed to mind, and I found my head bopping along to the drums after a while too. Things didn’t have to be perfect to enjoy them.

The air was thick with the smell of potluck casseroles and the promise of grilled meats that wouldn’t be ready for another hour or so. My stomach growled, but I was too on edge to eat any of the covered dishes that lined the folding tables against the far wall.

I wore jeans and a T-shirt with my ankle boots, but all of it was just a little too clean and new. I didn’t fit in. Normally, that fact was comforting, but not today, surrounded by people I hadn’t seen in almost a decade.

“Well, paint my bottom red and call me a stop sign! Is that little Garrett Hogan?”

I turned to find Harold and Alicia Peterson bearing down on me, both wearing matching grins that made my chest tighten with dread.

Harold owned the hardware store, had for as long as I had been alive.

His hair was gray but his corded forearms still looked like he could loosen a lug nut with his bare hands.

Alicia taught third grade at the elementary school. Nice people. Salt of the earth.

I forced my mouth into a smile I hoped seemed genuine. These were good people and the least I could do was be polite. “Mr. and Mrs. Peterson. Good to see you.”

“Look at you in those clean boots,” Alicia said, reaching up to pat my arm like I was still twelve years old. “Don’t you look successful.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

Harold crossed his arms and studied me with the same expression he’d worn when I’d accidentally broken his front window with a baseball twenty years ago. “So when are you planning on coming home to do some real work?”

There it was again. Small talk seemed to require people to ask predictable, annoying questions that sounded a lot like insults. As if I didn’t do real work. As if clean boots were something to be embarrassed about.

I reined in my frustration. “Well, sir, I’ve got plenty of real work going in New York. Corporate law keeps me busy.”

“Corporate law,” Harold repeated, like the words tasted sour. “That mean you help big companies screw over the little guy?”

My jaw tightened, but I kept the smile plastered on. “That’s not my department. I handle contracts, real estate deals, and mergers. It’s more about making sure everything’s legal and above board.”

“Hmm.” Harold nodded but didn’t look convinced. “Well, sounds like you have a head for business. Your brother could use some of that business sense, with all his new projects up at the farm. You ever think about sticking around to lend him a hand?”

“Harold,” Alicia chided, swatting his arm. “Don’t badger the boy.” She turned back to me with concern written all over her kind face. “But really, honey, aren’t you scared living in that city? All that crime? I saw on the news just last week about someone getting robbed right in broad daylight.”

I took a steadying breath, knowing that would never make the headlines. She had probably seen some made-up nonsense online. “It’s really not as dangerous as people think. You just have to be aware of your surroundings.”

“But surely you’ve been mugged at least once,” she pressed. “A nice-looking young man like you? You must be a target.”

“No, ma’am. Never been mugged. Although a coffee shop charged me twenty dollars for an iced coffee the other day. Talk about highway robbery.”

Alicia laughed and shook her head. “I’ll take the cheap stuff at Caroline’s Diner, thank you very much.”

“Good to see you, kid,” Harold said. “I hope you get to spend some time with your parents while you’re here. They’re always talking about how much they miss you.”

With that, they said their goodbyes and went to talk to the Hansons at the next table over.

The band launched into an off- key version of “Don’t Stop Believin’” and I had to resist the urge to laugh at the irony.

What they lacked in talent, they made up for with enthusiasm, and the crowd was loving it.

I went to hunt down another beer, even though the last thing I needed was more alcohol on an empty stomach. Anything to ease the uncomfortable feelings churning in my guts. I was dying inside. Slowly suffocating on the relentless judgment.

Every conversation tonight had followed the same script, like the whole town had gotten together and decided on their talking points before I arrived.

The city was polluted.

The city was filled with rats, human and rodent.

The city was too crowded.

The city was violent.

When was I coming home?

Why was I wasting my life in the city?

Didn’t I know my family needed me?

Wasn’t I worried about getting murdered like Batman’s parents?

Fielding all of those questions without breaking my smile was exactly why I was a damn good lawyer. I could stand in front of a judge or opposing counsel and they’d never know what I was thinking.

The worst part was the way they looked at me. Like I was some kind of exotic new fish in the aquarium. Like success was something suspicious, something that needed to be explained and justified and ultimately dismissed as inferior to whatever they had going on here.

I loved my parents. I respected the life they’d built. But this wasn’t my world anymore, and pretending otherwise was exhausting.

I scanned the crowded hall, looking for any excuse to escape another conversation about the moral superiority of small-town living.

At least my parents were having a good time.

Dad was holding court near the makeshift bar, gesturing wildly as he told some story that had his buddies doubled over with laughter.

Mom was flitting between tables like a social butterfly, hugging everyone and accepting congratulations on their retirement with genuine warmth.

They belonged here in a way I never had.

That was when I spotted Sabrina across the room.

She was standing near the dessert table, laughing at something Mrs. Jones was saying while she cut slices of what looked like Granny Mae’s famous apple pie.

She wore a simple blue sundress that brought out her eyes, and her hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail that made her look younger, more like the girl I remembered.

She wasn’t wearing much makeup. Sabrina never did. It was refreshing after spending so much time surrounded by women who took their makeup very seriously.

I caught her eye and gave her a subtle wave, raising my eyebrows in what I hoped was a clear distress signal. She glanced around, taking in the Petersons who were still lurking nearby like vultures. Understanding flickered across her face.

She excused herself and made her way over, weaving through the crowd while flashing smiles at everyone.

“There you are,” she said brightly, sliding up beside me with a warm smile. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

“Have you now?” I asked, grateful for the rescue.

“Mmm-hmm.” Her eyes sparkled with mischief. “I believe you mentioned something about needing protection from nosy questions. How’s that working out for you?”

“About as well as you’d expect,” I muttered, glancing over at Harold Peterson, who was still watching me with disapproval.

“Well then,” she said, extending her hand toward me. “I think you owe me a dance.”

I stared at her outstretched hand. “I should probably warn you. I’m not much of a dancer.”

“Good thing this isn’t exactly a formal affair,” she said, nodding toward the small dance floor where couples swayed to the band’s unique rendition of “The Way You Look Tonight.” “Come on. I promise not to judge your footwork.”

I was desperate enough to take her up on the offer. “Alright. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

I took her hand and let her lead me onto the dance floor, acutely aware of the curious looks we were getting. Her palm was warm and slightly rough from farm work, a contrast to the soft manicured hands I was used to in the city.

“See?” she said as I awkwardly placed my other hand on her waist. “This isn’t so bad.”

“Easy for you to say. You’re not the one stepping on toes.”

She laughed and I was so tempted to kiss her. “Just follow my lead. And try to relax. You look like you’re about to negotiate a hostile takeover.”

Despite myself, I smiled. “Sorry. Occupational hazard.”

We moved together slowly, and I had to admit it wasn’t terrible. It was more about swaying than any fancy footwork. After a few minutes I started to feel less like I was going to embarrass us both.

“Better,” she said, looking up at me with approval. “See? You just needed to stop thinking so hard.”

“That’s not exactly my strong suit.”

“I noticed.” Her smile was gentle, not mocking. “You always were a serious kid. Even when we were little, you had this intense way of looking at everything, like you were trying to solve some complicated puzzle.”

“Maybe I was.”

“And did you? Solve it, I mean?”

I considered the question as we swayed to the music. Around us, other couples moved with easy familiarity. There were husbands and wives who’d been dancing together for decades, teenagers fumbling through their first slow dance, families celebrating together.

“I thought I had,” I said finally. “But lately I’m not so sure.”

She studied my face with those perceptive blue eyes.

For a moment I felt completely transparent.

Not like the polished attorney everyone expected me to be, not like the successful city transplant, just me.

Garrett Hogan. The kid that held the town record for the biggest largemouth bass for ten years.

The feeling was unsettling and oddly comforting at the same time.

I could let down all the guards and settle into my old skin like stepping into a pair of worn jeans.

“Thank you for the rescue,” I said.

“Of course.”

The song ended and a loud piercing noise cut through the room. Mom had the microphone in her hand. Dad stepped up beside her. The feedback died down and the room fell into an expectant quiet.

“Well, I guess we should say a few words before y’all dig in and get too full and drunk,” Dad said.

Laughter rippled through the crowd. I found myself smiling as well.

“Thirty-five years ago, I brought my beautiful bride home to Hogan’s Hill Farm, and every single day since then, this community has been our family. You’ve celebrated our joys, helped us through the tough times, and put up with my terrible jokes at every church potluck.”

“Don’t forget your singing,” someone called out from the back, earning another round of laughter.

“Hey now,” Dad protested with mock indignation. “I’ll have you know I was in the church choir for fifteen years.”

“Exactly!” the voice shot back, and even Dad couldn’t keep a straight face.

Mom leaned into the microphone. “What Tom’s trying to say is thank you. Thank you for making our lives so rich, so full of love and friendship. Raising our boys here, watching them grow up alongside your children, has been the greatest blessing of our lives.”

Sabrina glanced up at my face, but I kept my eyes fixed on the stage.

“Now, we’re about to embark on the adventure of a lifetime,” Dad said. “Next week, we’re loading up our brand-new RV—well, new to us anyway—and we’re finally going to see all those places we’ve been talking about for thirty years.”

“The Grand Canyon!” Mom added excitedly.

“Old Faithful!”

“The world’s largest ball of twine in Kansas!”

“Don’t forget Mount Rushmore,” someone shouted.

“Already on the list.” Mom laughed. “We’ve got seventeen states mapped out and absolutely no schedule to keep. We’re going to drive until we feel like stopping, see everything we’ve always wanted to see, and eat way too much diner food.”

Dad nodded enthusiastically. “And at the end of it all, we’re going to come home and bore every last one of you with our stories and approximately four thousand photographs.”

The crowd erupted in cheers and applause. I found myself clapping as well.

“So eat up,” Mom said. “Drink up, and dance badly to Jimmy’s band, because this is what life’s all about.”

“To good friends, good food, and making memories together,” Dad said, lifting his glass.

People raised their glasses back and cheered. Mom and Dad soaked in the love, emotion on their faces. The celebration was proof of two lives well lived. Would I get a similar party when my own retirement rolled around? Not likely.

Gratitude filled me. I was really glad my brother had dragged me back. I would have kicked my ass if I had missed this.