Mitch leans forward and looks out the window. I catch his expression. He looks confused. “Is it a real town?”
His question sparks laughter from me. “As opposed to a fake one you build on Sims?”
“You don’t really build towns on Sims,” he replies. “Just houses.”
“Same diff,” I mutter. “And yes, it’s a real town, with real people. Actually, one of the nicest places I lived.” At the last moment, I signal to get off the Interstate. My heart races, for what or why, I’m unsure. It’s not like I remember much. It was only six months with a woman I haven’t spoken to since I turned eighteen and became free from the system. The lady I lived with was nice, but I was seventeen, the state placed me with her, and I had pretty much checked out on life.
“Are you going to turn right or left?” Mitch asks, pulling me from my thoughts. If I go straight, I get back on the highway, and we continue our trek north and can stop in the next town or any of the others we’ll come across. Or, I turn right and head into Holyoak. There were a few places to eat that had something to offer everyone. It would be nice if I remembered the names, but I don’t. Honestly, I didn’t pay much attention to my surroundings, except for one of the girls in my history class, and to my grades. I needed them to be fair enough the Army would take me.
Mitch clears his throat, and my finger pushes up on the leveler to signal my intent to turn. I don’t understand my hesitation and why I’m so reserved around returning. The town was fun and good to me. The kids I went to school with were nice for the most part, and I had a good time. I can recall a few stories about what the kids planned to do during the summer, and for a brief moment, I wish I could’ve stayed behind to spend those last few days sitting on the beach or water skiing, but I had other plans. Plans I set in motion on my seventeenth birthday, enlisting in the Army. Being a ward of the state—no one really cared if an adult signed for me or not.
The drive into Holyoak takes only a few minutes from the exit. The roadway into town is tree-lined, giving most people the impression there is nothing for miles. It’s only after you come around the bend, does the lake, the houses, and finally the bustling town come into view.
There’s a line of traffic, which makes me consider turning around and heading to the next town, but Mitch has put his window down and is taking in the sights. I swear, the simplest things make this guy smile. Honestly, it’s sort of refreshing.
“This town is hopping.”
“Yeah, seems so.”
“And you lived here?”
“Yeah, not for long though.”
We inch along Main Street until I find a parking spot along the curb. I feel sorry for the car behind me as I maneuver into place. There is nothing I hate worse than parallel parking when there is a line of traffic behind me. I somehow manage to get the rental parked without holding up the people behind me for too long or scratching the cars on either side.
Mitch and I take a few minutes to gather a couple of things from our bags before we get out of the car. I stretch and shake my legs out to wake them up. After an eight-hour flight and now stuck in the car for at least five hours, my legs are going to cramp. I’m hoping to prevent this with a few more stops. I motion for Mitch to follow me across the street and onto the sidewalk.
“You don’t want to walk by the lake?” he asks, keeping pace with me.
“I do, but the crowd is smaller on this side. On the way back, we can.” I don’t remember Holyoak being much of a tourist town, at least not until summer. In the few months I spent here, I barely had a summer. I was gone by July, but those last couple of weeks, right after school let out for vacation, the town was lively.
We walk in silence until I stop dead in my tracks.
“What’s wrong?” Mitch asks.
I swallow hard and look at the sign that definitely wasn’t there when I left, Lottie’s.
“Do we like Lottie’s Pub?”
I nod slowly. “Yeah, I think so. Although I think the place had a different name.”
“Restaurants change owners all the time,” Mitch says as if he has some experience in the matter. His parents are everything you read about in books or see on television. Mitch’s dad is a psychiatrist, and his mom is a kindergarten teacher. Our lieutenant teases Mitch that his family is like the Seavers from Growing Pains—only we really don’t understand what he means since the show is way before our time. “Are we going to go in?”
“Yeah, we should.”
Mitch is the first one to move toward the building. I can’t explain why I hesitate. Maybe it’s because I’m waiting for memories to surface. Nothing comes. I’m not surprised in the slightest. I’ve spent most of my years blocking out my past. There isn’t much I want to remember, and it’s not like I ever made any long-lasting friendships. My Army friends are the only family I have, and even they’re not forever. Some of us move around a lot, going from station to station. Mitch and I have just been lucky to have stayed together this long.
He opens the door to Lottie’s Pub. It’s bright, airy, and lively. We stand there, looking around, and for some odd reason, I feel like a cowboy walking into a saloon. “Do we seat ourselves?” I wonder aloud.
“Is that a thing here?”
“From what I remember, sometimes.”
Mitch points to a table, and we take a few steps toward it until the bartender hollers out. “Seat yourselves. I’ll be over with a menu.”
We sit, and Mitch says, “This place is busy. The food must be good.”
“I didn’t eat out a lot when I lived here, but from what I remember, the place this used to be was decent.”
The bartender approaches us and sets two menus down. “First time in Lottie’s?” he asks.
Mitch and I nod.
“Well, welcome. We recently remodeled and now have the longest bar in New England with over two hundred beers on tap and growing. Our seafood is fresh, and according to my niece, we have the best chicken tenders she has ever had.” He laughs at his joke. “Our burgers are one pound locally grown beef, made to order, and our vegetables are grown here as well. Let’s see what else am I supposed to tell you,” he pauses and thinks.
“You’ve sold me on the burger, and I’ll take whatever IPA you recommend. It’s my first time here,” Mitch says, although the bartender has already asked us.
“Welcome. Your first time, too?” the bartender asks me. Okay, so maybe he doesn’t remember or wasn’t paying attention to us when we nodded.
“Actually, no. I lived here for a few months about ten years ago.”
“No shit,” he says. We make eye contact for a brief moment. I search my memory, trying to place him, but I’m unsure. “Wait, are you, Jack?”
I’m surprised when he says my name, but surely there must be a million Jacks. It’s a relatively common name. But I have nothing to lose, so I say, “I am. Do we know each other?”
“Yeah, man. You hung out with my family when you lived here. I’m Krew Scardino. If I remember correctly, you dated my cousin, Charlotte, for a bit until you left.”
His words hit me like a Mac truck going one hundred down a steep incline. “Wow, I . . . uh . . .”