The Outskirts (The Outskirts Duet #1)

“It doesn’t matter.” I shook my head. “I’ll be staying far, far away from his kind of something else. Well,” I amended, “about as far away as fifty feet or so can get me, anyway.”

“Just know that it’s complicated. He’s complicated. AND he’s super private which doesn’t help any.” She flashed me a small smile. “I was in the eighth grade when my family moved here. My dad got a job as a construction supervisor at one of the subdivisions they were building. I was the only black kid in the entire school. Apparently, some people didn’t realize it was 2005 and still had a problem with a black girl attending school with white kids. Some big redneck bully wrote something nasty on my locker the first day. Some shit about telling me to go home to Africa. Poetic, right?”

She lifted her fingers off the wheel and inspected her nails before continuing, “Anyway, back then, when we were kids, Finn was the biggest. Both in personality and size. He played baseball. Pitcher actually. He was the most popular. He could get any girl he wanted, and trust me, they all threw their bony asses at him constantly. But on the day we met, not only did he talk to me, but he grabbed me by the hand and walked me to class. And then when the bell rang, he grabbed my hand again and walked me to the next one, and then the next one after that. When that same bully shouted something nasty at Finn for holding my hand, Finn pulled me to the front of the school where everyone was waiting for their buses,” she looked over to me, “and you know what he did?”

“Threw you in front of traffic?” I asked, raising my shoulders.

“He kissed me. Full on the lips. Right there in front of everyone. Teachers, students, the bully, his friends, everyone.” There was no mistaking the pride in her voice.

“Wow,” I said. And I meant it. Not because of the kindness of the act, but because I couldn’t imagine the Finn I’d met doing any of those things.

Josh was right, he really was a different person now.

“Kids could be cruel,” she said. “But I learned that day that they could also be brave. Because Finn? He was the bravest of them all.”

“So, you guys were an item then?” I asked, immediately regretting the personal nature of the question. “Sorry, that’s none of my…”

Josh rolled her eyes and shook her head. “Oh HELL no. We didn’t feel that way about each other, never have. But from that moment, we were inseparable. He dragged me along with him everywhere he went and even introduced me into his little group of juvenile delinquent friends, Miller and Jackie. The four of us? We raised some hell back in the day.”

“COPPER COPPER ONE NINER COME IN,” Josh’s radio squeaked as a man’s voice came through the static.

Josh pursed her lips. “Speaking of Miller,” she muttered, pressing a button on her shoulder. “Miller, I will call you back.” She was about to put both hands back on the wheel when she appeared to change her mind, pressing the button again and holding it. “And stop playing with the damned radio!”

“TEN FOUR. SEX MACHINE OUT.”

“That stupid shit,” Josh said, but when she turned toward her window I could see in the reflection that she was trying not to laugh.

“What you said about Finn sounds great,” I started. “But there is no way that the guy you talk about is the same guy who barged into my camper and threatened me in the middle of the night.”

“He did what?” Josh asked through her teeth. Her nostrils flared and her knuckles paled as her grip on the steering wheel tightened. She took a deep breath and flashed me a tight forced smile. “You don’t worry about a thing. I’ll take care of Finn Hollis. You’re not going anywhere.” She winked.

We pulled into a small gravel parking lot. “That’s exactly what I told him.”



CRITTER’S LOUNGE announced the name of the bar on a hand painted sign, complete with drip marks on every other letter. The building itself was a small rectangle with low ceilings. It was so close to the road that a regular compact car would barely be able to park in front of it. Josh’s truck stuck out several feet into the street which didn’t seem to matter since I hadn’t seen another car on the road the entire way there.

Next to the bar was the COIN LAUNDRY and next to that was a book store although I didn’t have a chance to check to see if it was open because Josh was already out of the truck and waving me inside.

“Come on, I’ll walk you in and introduce you,” Josh said. And although the sign on the door was turned to CLOSED Josh pushed it open, then walked right in. I followed.

Once my eyes adjusted to the dark space I took in my surroundings. The bar was much bigger on the inside than it appeared from the outside. Plastic flags advertising different brands of beer hung below the wooden bar. Hundreds of photos - some in color, some in black and white - hung in frames covering most of the available wall space above worn booths with mismatched tables between them. Some were dark and metal, some maroon with a light wood trim, and some black and white checkered like you’d see in a diner. The bar in the middle was large and U-shaped, taking up most of the space from the right wall well into the center of the room. The stools pushed in underneath it were all mismatched as well. Some had backs and some were just simple black rounded cushions with patches so thin you could still make out the tears underneath.

It smelled like stale cigarettes and fried fish; although it sounds like a horrible combination I didn’t mind it much. There was something comforting about the place. Inviting. Warm even.

Maybe it was the wood paneling on the walls or the chalk sidewalk sign leaning up against the bar that read:

“Specials: We ain’t got none. ONLY BAR IN TOWN.”

The ceilings were low, made even lower by the thousands of strands of string hanging from between the ceiling tiles. At the end of each string was a paperclip or a safety pin holding a torn napkin or post it note. “What are those?” I asked, pointing to the ceiling.

Josh looked up. “It’s a tradition. Been doing it since before you or I was born. People write down a memory of their time here and the date. Some are engagements. Weddings. First dates. Highest poker score.” She pointed to the corner where a small table was set up with two fast food dinner baskets. One held torn papers and the other held string. An industrial looking stapler sat between them.

“All good memories?” I asked, spinning around to take in the thousands and thousands of notes above my head.

Josh shook her head. “No. Doesn’t have to be good. Just significant,” she said, pointing to one closer to the end of the wall that read:

CAUGHT HIM WITH HIS TONGUE DOWN MY SISTER’S THROAT…AGAIN.

-Bessy, June 1976



“Have you ever made one?” I asked, standing on my tiptoes to read more of the fascinating notes. Some of them were downright funny.

SHE ACCIDENTALLY BRUSHED IT UNDER THE TABLE WITH HER FOOT.

-Justin, Age 15, August 1984.



Underneath was a note added in someone else’s handwriting:

KICKED JUSTIN’S ASS FOR TRYING TO GET MY DAUGHTER TO TOUCH HIS TINY TWIG DICK.

–HER DAD, August, 1984.