“He’s not old, Austin. Knock it off.”
“He’s old enough to be your pops, ain’t he?”
She sweeps her shoulder-length blonde hair behind her shoulder. “I think I just realized why I stopped trying to stay in touch with you.”
“Was it because you were banging old saggy balls?”
She grunts and stomps her boot into the pavement. “Good night, Austin.”
“Good night, Kelli,” I say with a dinky wave. Thank God I dodged a bullet with that one. The women in this town need money, not a man. It’s like the only damn thing they have eyes for, which I can’t understand. While our country has spent decades fighting for women’s rights, this town has remained ambivalent at best about women getting jobs. They’re bred to cook, clean, and raise kids. It’s not that there’s anything wrong with being a stay-at-home mom, but I know some women around here who actually want options. I guess it’s an expectation more than a desire, which is just sad. Clara is one of the few women I know who walk past the other “normal” women as they point their noses toward the sky and whisper about her like she’s committed a crime. Clara wanted to become a nurse, so she did. I’m still betting that someday the other women will get tired of relying on their men, and either do something else or wish they could summon the courage to do so.
The coyotes are hollering tonight as I head down my quiet street, probably because the one neighbor I have is gone for the next few weeks, so it’s dark as hell. I just don’t like to leave my lights on when I’m gone. It invites idiots down here to party in the field behind my house.
I light up my cell phone to watch for wild animals as I let myself inside. I hit the lights, kick my shoes off, and head for the fridge.
“Don’t move, Waldo, it’s okay. It’s just me. I’m not breaking and entering. I don’t want you to get nervous or nothin’.” This big, fat dog is hard-pressed to even raise an eyelid at night when I come home. He must have gotten bored with the same old greeting each day. Plus, I think he’s more of a morning man.
The icy cold beer feels good as it nestles into my palm, but the millisecond before my ass hits the couch, my damn phone starts to ring. I see the hospital’s number light up and cuss out every obscenity I know.
“Austin,” I answer.
“Austin, it’s Daisy. Someone set off a firework down at the square and we’ve got a room full of people with burns. No one is coding, but I need your help. You think you could come back down?”
“Yeah.” I look down at my beer and snarl. I was so close. “I’ll be right down.”
It’s not even June. Why the hell are people playing with fireworks already?
