Chapter 1
This is notmy thing. Not at all.
My ass ached from sitting on the hard metal bleachers, and the sweltering August air had beads of sweat drippingdown my back. Things didn’t turn cold in Charleston until after Thanksgiving, and even then, it rarely dropped to freezing.
The afternoon sun beat down with such ferocity, I felt like I was in the devil’s waiting room, and a wave of heat washed over the stands, practically suffocating me. The only thing missing from this hell on earth was awful elevator music playing on repeat and a guy with a body odor problem standing too close.
“And now, put your hands together for one of our local Charleston bands, Moonshine Runners! Up first is their rendition of ‘Achy Breaky Heart’. Y’all get on up here and show us those line-dancing skills.”
Ah, line dancing. Thanks, universe. You salty bitch.
Aside from the sore ass, muggy heat, annoying announcer, and questionable musical taste, the real dilemma that made me question my life decisions was the noise.
The parents hollering at little ones to stop running. The children hollering back about being thirsty, wanting to bob for apples, or needing to pee. Then there were the roaring tractors, sputtering and belching exhaust fumes that would send half the county to the emergency room demanding oxygen if we weren’t outside.
Who would willingly come to something like this?
I glanced around the open field, ripping my hat from my head and swiping my arm over my forehead, but it did little to stifle the oppressive late afternoon sun. Happy families surrounded me, walking around the bleachers and past the food trucks.
A mother and father swung a toddler between their arms—a great way to pull the kid’s shoulder out of its socket, not that anyone bothered to ask me.
Two children pushed a younger one too high on a swing set, clearly trying to scare the littlest, and no parents in sight to stop the torment.
A toddler throwing a fit next to an ice cream cone that had fallen to the ground and was now ant cuisine.
How I let Mom talk me into this was still a mystery.
At least she looks happy.
This might have been a decent break from the mundane daily tasks that awaited me at the office, or the never-ending chore of helping my brother Mark and his wife Jenna foster a new litter of Rottweiler pups, had it not been for the noise.
And heat.
And people.
There was an endless list of things I’d rather be doing.
Taking a long walk in the woods with my four-year-old Rottie, Malibu. Nursing a beer on the porch in my backyard. Fly-fishing on the Kiawah River. Reading that New York Times bestseller that had been on my nightstand for a month. Even putting in ten hours at the office working on taxes would be better than bruising my bony ass by sitting on these god-awful bleachers listening to a band that did more screeching than actual singing.
“You are allowed to enjoy yourself.” My mother bumped her shoulder against mine in time to the incessant noise people thought was music in this town.
“Oh, I always enjoy time with you, Mom.”
“Don’t be cheeky. I know there’s a but coming,” she prompted, humming along to the song.
She adjusted the blanket she sat on and then took a long drink from her lemonade. Passing me the to-go cup, I finished the cool liquid and stood, wincing as my back cracked in protest of the uncomfortable position I’d been squished into. Why she chose to sit in the god-damned middle of the bleachers was beyond me. I could barely stretch my legs, let alone get the cramp out of my back from hunching over so the family behind me could see the inept musicians littering the stage.
“But I can think of a dozen better things to do than listen to bad covers of nineties country music while sweat drips down my ass crack.”
“Language, son. It’s not my fault you wore black denim. And that you’re my last single offspring. Don’t you remember how much you and your brothers loved these festivals when you were younger?”
“Offspring?”
“Son, then. You are my oldest, and the only one who is still single. So, of course, you’re required to appease me with an afternoon of subpar, too-loud country music. It’s the least you could do since I don’t expect grandchildren from you anytime soon.”
I snorted, choking on the stifling fresh air as Mom chuckled and patted my leg.
“You’re correct on that front. And I would like to think my musical tastes have matured after thirty years, but perhaps not.”
