*Cole

What the hell am I getting myself into?

Or more to the point—what the hell am I supposed to do with an inherited girlfriend who is pushing sixty? Uncle Pete must have thought she would need some kind of emotional support. Fuck. He really pegged the wrong guy for the job.

I step onto the sidewalk in the town square in front of the lawyer's two-story building and am sorely tempted to listen to the voice in head promising me everything would be easier with a couple of whiskeys.

Even if it was only ten in the morning.

I hear a man clear his throat and spit a wad of phlegm to the ground near me. Leroy and my mother are at the street corner next to their massive SUV, looking sour, old, and mean. I cross my arms, opening and closing a fist. If they want a little family reunion, I am ready to remind them exactly what happened the last time the three of us were alone together.

I'd like to see Leroy try and take me on now. Not that I'd beat the old man senseless like he beat me. Contrary to him, I have limits.

Still, it feels good to have the tables turned.

"You didn't win shit today." He puffs out his chest. "This isn't over."

"Are you really picking this fight?" I ask, incredulous. The way he's standing, chin up and legs apart. Hell, even pretending to be tough, he's half-stooped and knock-kneed. I'm not asking him about a legal battle over Uncle Pete's belongings. If it was any other man I'd feel pity for him in his helpless rage. But not my step-father. "Do it. Come for me."

He screws up his lips, face darkening with purple. My mom steps forward to take his arm. He shakes her off, impatient. "You always were such an insufferable, little prick. Your mother's life, my life, would have been so much better if you'd never been born."

"Leroy," she hisses. "Save it for the court."

"You'd better turn right around and get back out of town the same as you came in," Leroy says. "Or we'll have you in front of the judge explaining the damage you caused to the house when you trashed it with the sledge hammer, when you were nineteen. Then you can kiss that shiny new camper goodbye."

I salute and walk away. I promised myself I would not give them the satisfaction of my pain or rage today. But damn. Seeing them is like tearing open an old wound and letting the blood flow. Then sprinkling salt on it. I'm done. I'm done with them and this town that allows people like them to live their petty, ugly lives in peace, when others are run out. Or live in fear. Staying in this hell-hole, skinny-ass town is not an option, and I can't wait to be rid of it forever.

Ever since I got the news about Uncle Pete passing, I suspected he would leave me the camper. He had always said he'd leave me something to let me live my life where and how I wanted.

I was planning on selling it. Now, I'm not sure. I could use it to go back home. I could take a certain someone with me all the way.

I like that thought. Her with me in the camper, going all the way home together. I check the address for the camper—apparently, my uncle had left it at a friend's with a shelter that was tall enough to cover it. I make my way there, picking up some beers at the gas station as a thank you, and spend the rest of the day checking it over, and filing the paperwork for the transfer of ownership.

It's perfect. In great shape, ready to roll, delivered with the necessary basics for the mini-kitchen and some camping gear for overnight stays. I close my eyes and sit back in the driver's seat. I can already see my brunette sitting next to me, the sun on her face and a smile bright and wide.

By six-thirty that evening, I've made plans for how many children we'd have and where we would go camping during summer vacations for the next twelve year. Maybe it's all pipe-dreams, but today, I feel like dreaming big.

I clean up at the motel and brush my teeth. Admittedly, it's a bit awkward to be planning my life with a woman whose name I don't even know when I have to pick up my uncle's widow for a date, who I've inherited as my girlfriend, but it wouldn't be the first time life threw me something utterly weird to catch.

Keep cool and lean into the curves, I tell myself. When you can't fight something, you go with it and see where the road takes you.

And tonight, it's taking me back to the only home I ever loved.

I stand on the front porch, shifting nervously, and knock. A dog yips and scratches frantically at the door. Roberta scolds him and opens the door, wearing a pair of knock your eyeballs out leather pants and a very skimpy shirt. Nothing is left to the imagination.

I might be blushing.

"You made it." She waltzes out and air kisses my cheeks. "Take me someplace that is totally wild and crazy so we can have a little fun."

I clear my throat. "In this town?"

"You're right, darling. Let's go to the Kokomo and get plastered. They have wonderful fried pickles and chips and guacamole."

"As you wish," I say, chuckling. The evening promises to be better than I thought. I escort her to the car, a hand on her lower back.

The Kokomo Bar is overflowing, as it should be on a Friday evening, but somehow Roberta sashays in and finds a clean, empty booth. She pats the seat next to her, cleavage spilling onto the table. "I'd make a joke about not biting, but I don't joke about such things."

I slide into the seat next to her. She puts her hand my leg.

"Listen," I say. There are a few things I'd like to clarify, such as the boundaries of my romantic involvement with my uncle's widow, but she hushes me.

"I've got some things to tell you, things your uncle wanted you to know, but was too stubborn to ever say out loud. He loved you."

A tightness fills my chest—grief and pain. I'm not ready for this. Not yet. "Why don't I get drinks before you start? If the waitress comes, order all the appetizers you want. I'll get the drinks."

"Sure, hon. Margarita for me."

I nod. The bar is busy, but I find a spot to stand and wait for one of the bartenders to notice me. The bubbly blond from last night pops up out of nowhere in front of me. She is smirking, as if she knows something and it hits me—she's the brunette's friend, and she knows about last night. This is opportunity slapping me in the face.

I put my elbows on the counter to get closer. "Hey. Can I get a margarita and another beer like yesterday?"

She nods once and hustles to make the drinks. I drum my fingers on the wood. This isn't great timing, considering my date is waiting for me, but I have to get information on my girl...while being discreet about it. I get out a twenty and when the bartender returns, I take her hand as I put the money in it.

"Out of curiosity, if I was to send a message to your very nice friend with the brown curls, the one who had a tequila yesterday, what number would I use to send it?"

"You are adorable. Do you really think I hand out ladies' phone numbers to random dudes in the bar?" She lifts her eyebrows in innocence, but she's grinning. She knows perfectly well I'm not a random dude. But she has a point.

"If I pass you a note, think you could get it to her, in that case?"

She winks. "I think I could do that, sure."

"Does that mean she's single?" It wouldn't do to expose her to an angry boyfriend if I was something on the side.

"I think that just might depend on you." She winks at me again and my heart soars. Good. I have an in. She gets called by another customer and hurries to the other end of the bar. Right. Now I just have to find something to write a message on. And a pen.

Brain churning, I return to the table where Roberta has started digging into a huge serving of chips and dip. I sit with her and take one.

"What's on your mind?" she asks, studying me. "No, wait, I know. A woman."

"Sorry. I know I shouldn't—"

"Shut up with your sorries. There's nothing I hate more than hearing that word. Now that you have your comfort drink, I have things to say. Here's the deal: Pete loved you. Like his own kid, he loved you. Talked about you all the time." She paused to slug down most of her margarita, which was good, because I have a hard time processing what she says through the mess of emotions in my chest. "He was the best man I ever loved, and believe me, I have loved a lot of men. He was the only man who ever loved me back more than I deserved. He treated me like his queen."

"He talked about you all the time, too," I say, barely controlling my voice. "When he called me, that is."

"He was a real man in a world of pretenders, that he was. Now listen, if you ever have a problem, now or later, ask yourself this question: What would Uncle Pete do? Then if you can—you do that. Got it?" She finishes off her drink with a loud slurp and waves at the waitress for another.

I'm choking up and take a quick drink of my beer to wash down my feelings. She was right, he was the best man I ever met and he loved me way more than I deserved, the little shit-head, troublemaker that I was.

"Yeah. I'll remember that. What would Uncle Pete do?"

I knew what he'd do in my place. He'd already have found a notebook and twenty pens and would be writing love letters to the brunette to beg her to go off on some sandy-beach vacation with him. All right. I just had to get a message through.

"Roberta? In that purse the size of large dog carrier you brought with you, would you happen to have a piece of paper and a pen?"

*** Hey! Thank you for reading! Have a great day!!! ***