Nevada

One-hundred percent of me has no desire to spend my Friday night at The Leaderboard on Lambs Groves’ town square, but after my mother’s constant nagging and pleading with me to “reconnect with old friends,” I figured one night out couldn’t hurt anything.

Plus, I wanted a beer. And drinking at home alone on a Friday night seemed a little pathetic the more I thought about it.

Standing around a high-top table, I shoot the shit with some old buddies I knew in my former life. Tate Hofstetter’s been standing way too fucking close for comfort, like he thinks we’re going to pick up where we left off and become instant best friends now that I’m back in town, but I try not to let it bother me.

The whole gang is here though.

And it’s nice to laugh and forget about life for a while with some old, familiar faces.

Across from Tate is Nick Haverford, another old friend, who is now a married father of two who runs his own insurance agency. Beside him is Brett Conner, who took over his dad’s Ford dealership, and last but not least is Spencer Mains, who turned out to be the video game-addicted, basement-dwelling pothead we all expected him to be.

He was even unofficially voted least likely to succeed our senior year, which he thought was fucking hilarious. But I guess when you’re constantly stoned, everything is hilarious.

Finishing off the remainder of my Rolling Rock, I eye the bar.

“This place always so packed?” I ask Tate. Everyone’s standing shoulder to shoulder, and every time I glance around, I catch people averting their eyes, like they’re trying not to make it obvious that they’re staring at me.

Good thing I’m used to that.

“Nope,” he says, rocking back on his heels. “People found out you were here tonight. Word spreads quickly. I’m guessing the place is almost at capacity.”

Glancing outside the front picture window of the bar, I spot a group of girls being turned away by the bouncer, several of them placing their faces up to the glass to try to see inside.

“Yep,” Tate says. “We’re at capacity.”

“I’m going to grab another. Everyone good?” I ask, pointing to the guys. They exchange looks and nod, and I push my way through the dense crowd until I reach the bar.

I’m waiting in line for my drink when I watch a sizeable group of people leave, though it does nothing to make this place feel any less packed.

We’re all a bunch of fucking sardines.

By the time I get my beer and head back to the high top, I scan the room in search of any other familiar faces.

“Nevada?” A fresh-faced twenty-something with bleach blonde pigtails and a neon orange crop top steps in front of me, her phone in her hand. “Sorry to bother you, but would you take a picture with me?”

I offer a gracious smile before nodding, and she sidles up to me, draping my arm over her shoulder as she extends hers. Crouching down so we’re both in the shot, I smile and endure the temporary blindness that comes with the flash of the camera.

“Thanks!” she grins, teeth white as snow, before trotting off to her girlfriends.

As I make my way across the bar, I feel the collective weight of their stares, but it’s nothing new. I toss back a generous swill of beer, coat my throat, and squeeze through an all-you-can-eat buffet of drunks until I find our table again.

“So what’d you think of Wilson getting picked up with the Cavs?” Brett asks when I return.

“It’s a dick move,” I say, taking a sip. “But at the end of the day, he wanted to go back to Cleveland.”

“Yeah, but they replaced him with Marconi. That guy’s shit,” Tate says.

I shrug. “He’s young, but he’s got promise.”

“Just hope it doesn’t cripple the rest of the season.” Brett takes a drink of his beer, shaking his head. I wonder if these guys are actual Raleigh Warriors fans or if they’re just pretending to be because they think it’ll earn them brownie points.

A group of girls approach us once more, their boyfriends standing back with nervous and star-struck expressions on their faces, and I pose for a few more pictures.

If this is what the rest of the night’s going to be like, I’m bouncing early. All I want is a good buzz, a little social interaction, and I’m good.

“Dude, you need some bodyguards or something,” Spencer says, chuckling like his stoner self.

“Yeah, Spencer’s available.” Brett slugs him in the chest and Spencer laughs, rubbing the sore spot. “Isn’t that right, Spence? Didn’t you say you were looking for a job?”

“Yeah, like ten years ago,” Tate says.

While the four of them razz each other, I glance around the bar again. It’s a less crowded than it was a little while ago, which means they’re going to be letting more people in in the interim.

I’m bored, elbows resting on the table as I pick off the label on my beer bottle while the rest of them check out girls. Brett leaves to grab a round and Tate takes the opportunity to gossip about how loaded Brett is—as if that might impress me.

Glancing around for the millionth time, my heart freezes when I see a couple of girls strutting in the front door.

The Devereaux sisters.

Pulling in a lungful of stale, smoky air, I turn away for a second, as if looking away could possibly make them disappear.

“Oh, hey. Didn’t you use to date that girl?” Spencer fucking points at the two of them.

I grab his wrist and toss it down.

“Jesus Christ, man. Don’t point,” I say.

He rubs his skin. “Dude, sorry.”

“What, you don’t want to see her?” Nick asks.

They’re all fucking staring at her now.

Great.

“Nah, remember? They broke up when Nev went off to play ball,” Tate says, smacking my back. “I’m sure that college pussy was un-fucking-believable.”

I don’t respond. These guys know nothing about me, clearly.

Exhaling through my nostrils, I slam the rest of my beer just as Brett returns with five fresh bottles, all Corona with limes wedged in the necks.

I fucking hate Corona, but I grab mine in record speed. The skin on my neck heats, creeping to my face, and my entire body is on fire. Being in the same room as her after what happened earlier this week makes all of this even more unpleasant for me.

It’s completely killing the pathetic excuse for a vibe I had going on here.

Chugging this beer, I force myself to be an active participant in this conversation, which has now morphed into some lame ass talk about life insurance thanks to Nick, but only for the sake of a distraction.

I’m not sure how much time has passed, but from what I can tell she hasn’t noticed me yet. If she has, she’s doing a good job of hiding it. I half expected her to rush up to me again and finish giving me a piece of her mind, but so far she may as well be on a completely different continent surrounded by a completely different ocean.

Part of me wonders if she heard I was here tonight so she wanted to show up just to fuck with me, but that was never her style. Yardley wasn’t juvenile like that. She was never manipulative. She never played games. She was always straightforward for the most part. It was one of the things I loved most about her.

“Nev, you good on life insurance?” Nick asks. I don’t appreciate that this miniature high school reunion has suddenly morphed into a sales pitch.

“Yep,” I say. “Got hooked up with a guy back in Raleigh. Thanks though.”

Nick nods. “You let me know if you need anything. I sell health insurance too.”

“Will let you know,” I say. My blood heats my veins, my heart pumping in my ears. I decide to leave after this beer, but not before glancing one last time in her direction.

Only when I do, I spot some douche guy in a plaid button down and holey jeans chatting her up. He makes her smile. And then she laughs. And he touches her arm before pointing at her drink.

The ass wants to buy her a drink.

Yardley nods.

My blood runs cold.

I think … I think this is what jealousy feels like? I’m really fucking confused right now, but I’m too intoxicated to even remotely process why the hell I’d be feeling this way.

My jaw is tense, my posture rigid as I watch the two of them.

As much as I hate this girl for what she did to me, a part of her still belongs to me in a way I can’t deny. And while I may not want her, a small, irrational part of me doesn’t want anyone else to have her either.

And I don’t know what to fucking do about that.