“Get that fixed tomorrow, alright? That’s all I need from you. If you’re stayin’ in town, there’s an auto repair shop right there.” He points to the street corner.
My gaze follows his finger to a one-story building, orange rust spots spattered across the tin roof. Stacks of old tires line the side and my heart flutters as I read the faded letters painted above a roll-up bay door with dirty windows.
Rust’s Auto Repair.
I nod enthusiastically.“Yes, of course, officer. Thank you, officer!”
“Looks like there’s a storm brewing. Be safe and have a good rest of your night!” he singsongs and trudges back to his car.
I wait until he’s driven off before I startmy engine.
Close. Fucking. Call.
I take a left turn and follow the road until concrete turns to dirt. Even after all this time, I could find my way with my eyes closed.
The McAllister ranch comes into view at the edge of the woods. My chest tightens when I see that the arch and the sign above the gate are gone.
The full moon peeks out from the grey clouds, dipping the overgrown fields and broken fences into a pale wash of sickly light. White paint peels off the main house and the wraparound porch sags in the middle. Some of the green shutters are missing entirely, others droop like they’re about to fall off.
What happened to the lively little ranch?
A massive, silver pickup stands in front of the house. It looks pretty new. Only one car probably means Rust’s folks aren’t living here anymore. They had him late in life and they might’ve moved elsewhere to enjoy their retirement. They must be around that age now.
I park behind the barn, next to a mountain of old plastic lawn furniture. Wouldn’t want my ex-husband getting spooked by a strange car in his drive. God forbid he’d call the cops on me! One time in a single night is enough for me.
Palms clammy, I grab my Stetson from the dashboard and haul my handbag over my shoulder before I get out of the car. The buzz of cicadas competes with the anxious rush of blood in my ears. Gravel crunching under my boots, I shuffle toward the main house and jump up the slanting front steps.
If it wasn’t for the silver truck, I’d think the place had been abandoned. It’s truly in a sorry state. Loose mesh hangs from the screen door and the porch ceiling used to be haint-blue, but now it’s a dull, peeling grey.
I knock.
No answer.
I find the spare key in the same place it always was: under the ceramic goose next to the porch swing. The painted red ribbon around its neck is faded and the sun has bleached its orange beak into a light yellow. Poor thing must’ve taken a tumble, too. It holds an acoustic guitar in its wings, but the fretboard has been snapped off.
Time stops for no one—not even little old Honky-Tonk, the country-loving goose. As a kid, I thought naming the tacky decoration was a stroke of genius. It’s still kind of funny.
I freeze with the key half-turned in the lock. A wind chime made of old forks jingles judgmentally in the breeze.
Would this be considered breaking and entering?
I snort. So what if it is? Ain’t the worst crime I’ve committed tonight. I already got murderandlying to a cop on the list.
At this point, I’m a bonafide outlaw.
I open the squeaky door, begging for the composure to face the boy who took all my firsts and promised me forever just to leave me high and dry.
But I’m over Rust.
There’s no reason for my heart to beat out of my chest and my belly to tingle with nerves when I set foot into the dark hallway. I definitely won’t care if I see a family picture on top of the fireplace, showing him with a beautiful wife and kids.
None of that is my business. I’m here because I don’t want to go to prison.
I’m over him.
3
RUST
