I’d returned to that sandbar a few times, alone—to the far side, less visible from the two-story houses lining the channel and man-made canals where Pearl lived. A few of our classmates had lived in her neighborhood. Jackholes like Eddie Standish, and decent guys like Joey Kinley, who hadn’t thought he was the shit because his parents were loaded. My buddy Lucas Maxfield—he’d gone by Landon back then—had grown up in private schools, wearing name-brand threads. I reckoned he’d have been like Kinley.
In the middle of eighth grade, a few months before Brent died, Maxfield and his dad moved to town, bunking with his granddad just down the beach in a wooden-shack version of our trailer. They chartered fishing trips in the bay and the gulf, something it seemed like half the old guys in this town did—the half who hadn’t retired here with piles of money. His dad still lived in that old house, running tours. He’d started bringing his truck in for service once I took over the garage.
After high school, Maxfield had gone off to college—same one as Pearl, though he said the student body there was bigger than our whole town and then some, so he didn’t run into her often. She’d probably been smack-dab in the middle of coed social life—frat parties and the like (which I couldn’t let my mind linger on)—while I was pretty sure he was the opposite. If I hadn’t dragged him to parties on the beach for all of high school, he would’ve never gone. Both of them spent ninety-nine percent of their time not saying much, but Pearl could be surrounded by any level of crazy and just quietly observe like she was running an experiment. She had a watchful way about her. I sometimes imagined she studied me like that—as if I were an unidentified organism pressed between slides under her microscope.
Maxfield’s silence wasn’t like Pearl’s. He had a simmering sort of hostility just under the surface, always ready to erupt. His silence was fucking scary. Which came in handy when we worked for Rick Thompson in high school—our dumbshit era, we called it later—collecting defaulted drug debts.
I’d only seen him lose his shit three times. I was on the other side of his fist the first time, when we were in ninth grade. He was smaller than me, but gave as good as he got, and we each wound up with a scar and a best friend. The second time was Clark Richards, who’d keyed FREAK into the side of his truck. (Idiot. You don’t deface a man’s truck and expect no retribution.) The last was Eddie Standish, supposedly for a two-hundred-dollar liability to Thompson for a bag of dank. In reality, Standish crossed one of Maxfield’s moral lines while the three of us were having a little discussion over that debt, got his shit-talking mouth rearranged, and had to eat through a straw for a month.
I’d missed the fourth, final time—the one that got him hauled to jail. Some prick on the beach went after Thompson’s little sister—who was still in middle school—and Maxfield stopped him cold.
Sitting in a cell scared him straight. He’d been different after—got a job in town instead of working the boat with his dad or being Thompson’s enforcer. Drove to Corpus for martial arts classes. Stopped skipping class and started studying—with Pearl in a few instances. Only the strength of our friendship and his general trustworthiness kept me from wanting to kick his ass over that. No more weed, no more fights. I didn’t exactly follow his lead, but I graduated, which was something. After I helped him sell his truck so he could pay his first year’s tuition, we rebuilt a shittily maintained Harley to take its place.
And then I watched him leave town, along with Pearl. Along with most everyone I knew, or cared to know. Two years later, Dad was diagnosed with liver disease, and I saw the first light at the end of the tunnel I’d been stuck in since Brent died. And then I looked around. If Wynn’s Garage was going to be mine, it was going to stop looking like a damned dump. I started with a bottle of industrial-strength cleaning stuff—hosing down the counters, scouring years of grease and dirt away before moving to the plate glass window. I used half a bottle of glass cleaner and wad after wad of newspaper, scrubbing until the glass seemed to vanish.
As Dad’s condition deteriorated, I gradually took over all the repair work, ordering parts and billing—keeping the books with the help of a new computer, accounting software I found online, and a few chats with Maxfield’s dad, Ray. Over that last year, I ran everything and shuttled Dad back and forth to the clinic and the hospital besides.
Folks sometimes assumed, wrongly, that he and I might have mended some of our grievances in those last months, but the knowledge that they’re dying doesn’t transform everyone. Some people remain selfish bastards all the way to the ground. My father was one of those. Some people can’t absolve what can’t be reconciled. I was one of those.
I still met up with the boys: Randy Thompson (Rick’s older brother, known as Thompson Senior when we were kids) and Mateo Vega, when he could spare a couple of hours away from his wife and screaming toddlers. Poor bastard knocked up his girlfriend—with twins—the summer after we graduated. Brittney and some of the other girls I cut my teeth on came around now and then, though they usually preferred to screw out-of-towners who’d give them an entertaining weekend and then get lost. Couldn’t say I blamed them; I felt the same way. Occasionally one or another of them would start to hint about to settling down, and that would be the end of that. There was only one woman alive who could settle me, and God knew hell would freeze over before that’d happen. My love life consisted of one-nighters and nostalgia fucks. No love, but it was fine.
Until Pearl said she was moving back home, and my heart woke up like I’d just set a live wire to it. I heard this saying once: The heart wants what the heart wants, and right off the bat I decided that even if that was true I’d never heard a more damned unhelpful bunch of bullfuckery. No explanation. No guidelines. No solution. Sayings were supposed to simplify shit, not complicate it.
The heart wants what the heart wants. Great. Now what?
Pearl
“This feels like the end of high school all over again,” Mel said, glancing around her bedroom—now empty of her personality, so bare that it resembled a guest room. “Except I’m leaving for good this time.” She deposited the last of a matched Louis Vuitton luggage set near the door and reached for me. “I’ll miss you, you tiny little chica.” She tucked her chin over my shoulder.
I returned her hug. “I’ll miss you too. But you’ll be back for holidays and Evan’s wedding.”
“Ugh, don’t remind me. If you weren’t here, I don’t think I’d ever come back.”
That wasn’t true, I knew—when it came to defying her parents or exerting independence, Melody was all talk. The shiny blue Infiniti in the driveway was proof of that, as were the pics she’d shown me of her new apartment off Turtle Creek. Recent college grads couldn’t afford a car or digs like that without help. In her case, help came with strings attached—such as not raising hell over her grandmother’s ring going to Evan’s fiancée.