I woke up with a jolt. Probably from driving over a pot-hole; the roads had always been a bit rough out this way. I hadn’t even realised I’d fallen asleep. The bright sunlight reflecting off snow made me wince for a second or two till my eyes adjusted, just in time to see the familiar sign approach and then whizz past: Welcome to Tannonville.
Seeing that weatherbeaten sign — the same one that had marked the outskirts of town since I was a kid — filled me with conflicting emotions that I found hard to make sense of. Coming back here made me feel like I was home, in a way that I’d never been able to replicate in any of the cities I’d lived in since. Being back here felt natural, somehow. But still, it filled me with some feelings I’d rather not acknowledge. I remembered how suffocated I used to feel there, in this town that had felt like a prison to me back when I’d been a young, closeted teen. And I realised I still harboured a sense of bitterness about the place, after spending so many years feeling like no one in this town really got me. When I’d escaped to university, I’d never intended to go back. Yet here I was, first time in twelve years.
I looked over at Leo sitting across from me behind the wheel. He glanced over for a moment. “Hey babe,” he said. “Good sleep?”
I nodded groggily. “We’re here already. How long was I asleep for?”
He shrugged. “About an hour?” He shuffled in his seat a bit. “Hey, do you want to stop in town for a bit, maybe have a look around, get something to drink? I need to pee real bad so I’d rather do it before I have to do the whole introduction thing with your family.”
I chuckled a little at his use of the phrase ‘in town’; he’d never been somewhere this small before and I don’t thing he was expecting something as minimal as Tannonville. There was a main street, and that was about it.
“Sure,” I said. “I could probably use something to calm my nerves before I have to do the whole family thing.”
We rounded the side of the hill and there in front of us was Tannonville, downhill so we could see most of the town laid out in front of us like a miniature model. From this distance it looked pretty much the same as it always had, and I could recognise the main landmarks: the clock on the town hall, the milk processing plant on the outskirts of town, the church, my old high school.
Two more minutes and we were on the main street. I’d been expecting it to be tired and a little dead, but I was surprised to find that it actually scrubbed up well and looked to be thriving. There were businesses that had cropped up since the last time I’d been on this street: an artisan bakery, a couple of decent-looking cafes, and a new bar. Most of them were decked out with Christmas decorations and lights that were already turned on for the night even though it was still only late afternoon.
“This looks nice,” Leo said, his tone slightly accusatory, which was fair considering how I’d often I’d talked about what a shithole this town was.
He pulled into a diagonal park outside the bar, and stopped the car. I pulled my coat on and got out.
The fresh cold air finished the job of waking me up. It was still but brisk, and the sun was just starting to disappear behind the hills taking the last hint of warmth with it. I stretched my legs, then my torso, which felt good after all those hours sitting in the car.
Leo locked the car and we headed into the bar. When we stepped inside I was a little taken aback: the place was nothing like I’d been expecting. Truth be told, I’d been expecting some backwater, small-town dive. The kind with a few sad old lone drinkers propping up the bar. Or at best, a attempt at being fashionable that actually looked cheap and dated and about five years behind what was trending in any decent sized city. But the place was nice. Warm, soft lighting, tasteful decor, and a fireplace in the corner that gave it a welcoming feel.
We walked up to the bar, and as I stood waiting behind the guy currently buying drinks I scanned the room, perplexed that a place like this even existed in my backward hometown.
The guy in front turned around, a pint of beer in each hand, and almost walked straight into Leo. I looked up at his face — he was a good head taller than me, and a bit taller than Leo — and for a moment he looked a little irritated to find someone in his way. Then his expression relaxed, and he grinned at Leo. “Better watch out, mate, I could’ve spilled these all over you.”
“Sorry, my bad,” Leo replied, even though it was objectively clear he hadn’t done anything wrong. He smiled back at the guy a little bashfully. I knew that look: he did it unconsciously whenever he was talking to a hot guy. It always made me jealous but kind of turned on at the same time.
And the guy was definitely hot, in that small-town, incredibly heterosexual kind of way. A few days of stubble, a bit of brown hair poking out from underneath his cap, and a canvas trucker jacket over a plaid shirt. Blue jeans with a thick buckle. Not just tall, but also solid with a broad chest and shoulders.
He looked kind of familiar, but in a way that I’d usually brush aside as just one of those faces. There was something about that voice, though, that I knew I knew. For a brief second I tried to think back. Then it hit me, and I suddenly remembered all the dread and helplessness that voice used to evoke in me every time I used to hear it single me out.
Mark Collins. The asshole bully that had made my high school years a living hell.
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