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TWENTY-THREE

Ansel

Saturday night I’m off, so I decide to attend the poker game at my uncle’s house. I could use the distraction, honestly.

Ever since book club, Collins hasn’t left my mind. There’s nothing quite like verbalizing everything out loud that you want to do to the woman sitting beside you in a room full of women. Plus, there’s the fact that Collins has made it clear that she has her own agenda to accomplish before anything more can happen between us.

Which I understand and support, but that doesn’t mean it’s easy to set aside my feelings or my libido.

Tonight, the only people in attendance are Hollis, Uncle Roy, Clyde, Sam, Jimmy, Fowler, and me. He took a rare night off from the pub, trusting his two bartenders to handle the Saturday night crowd. It’s cold and snowy, so more than likely, most people won’t venture outside anyway.

It’s Hollis’s turn to drive, so he, Fowler, and I walk into the house, not bothering to knock. Every time I walk into this place, it feels like a time warp—my uncle hasn’t changed a thing since we all lived here. It almost feels as though I’m a child again, which always brings the feeling of quiet discomfort that makes me want to stay busy, keep moving lest I have to examine it too closely.

The table in the entryway is the same one my uncle picked up at a local flea market one summer. The dish that all of our keys overfilled only holds my uncle’s now. The same brown sofa I took the cushions off of to build forts for Sutton and Hollis sits in the living room. And the stripe of black Sharpie that Hollis adorned the oak kitchen table with is still there, though a little faded with the passage of time.

“Hey, guys, sit.” My uncle waves us into the dining room. “Clyde was just telling us about the time he had a shot with Miss Rhode Island back in high school.”

The three of us laugh because we’re all very aware of Clyde’s penchant for exaggerating.

“Any reason Miss Rhode Island was hanging out in Maine?” Fowler asks with a smirk as he sits at the table.

“She was in the area visiting her friend.”

“Was her friend Miss Maine?” I ask, covering my mouth to keep myself from laughing. “Anyone else want a beer?”

Hollis and Fowler raise their hands. I head into the kitchen, open the old puke-green fridge, and grab three beers. I can’t believe this thing still works.

“It was, in fact,” Clyde says.

The entire room roars with laughter.

After I deliver the beers, I sit, and Uncle Roy deals out the cards. We’re mostly quiet as the game starts, but after the first round, the conversation picks up again.

“Bet is to you,” my uncle says to Clyde.

He’s halfway through a story he’s been telling for about three minutes. I’m not sure what it’s about.

“—this was maybe ’76, ’77 at the most. Around the time the Bait Shop changed hands. The first time it changed hands. To the second set of Abbotts, not the first.”

“There were two sets of Abbotts?” Fowler asks before taking a pull of his beer.

“There were. Strangest thing really⁠—”

“Your bet, Clyde,” my uncle repeats without looking up from his cards.

Clyde makes an annoyed expression. “I’m getting to it.”

The front door opens, slams, then the click of heels sounds on the tile entryway.

All of us share a look like who the hell could that be?

The heels come to a stop at the doorway that combines the living and dining room.

She’s dyed her brown hair a sort of strawberry-blond, there are bags under her eyes, and her clothes are rumpled. But she’s got the same blue eyes as Elliott. The same aura of don’t fuck with me. The same straight set to her spine that makes her appear as though she’s expecting some kind of confrontation whenever she walks into a room.

“Sutton?” That’s all Hollis says before his chair skids on the floor and he’s headed her way.

She crosses the room, and they meet somewhere in the middle. He hugs her without saying anything for what feels like a long time. She doesn’t say anything either, just lets her forehead rest on his shoulder for a beat.