Matt

I tugged at my necktie subconsciously. My Ferrari never looked shabby, but in my normal circles, it was nearly always the least flashy. Here, I couldn't have drawn more attention to it than if I'd stolen a set of cop lights and set them to flashing on top of it. I felt that old uncertainty welling within me; that itchy, too big and yet too small feeling underneath my skin. I straightened, tugging my shirtsleeves down over my new Patek watch, an impulse buy to ease my nervousness over this event. Which was ridiculous. I was Matt Dahl now, the head of the top app development company in the US. CEOs practically begged at my feet for my mere attention. Not Montgomery Dale, the scrawny little foster boy no one wanted. Until Ms. Gracie. 

I was here for Gracie, I reminded himself. And for my own sense of closure. I'd meant to visit her so many times before now, but there had always been some meeting, a banquet, an opportunity—everything else had seemed more important. And now she was gone. She'd let me send her a little money here and there, but only for the kids, never for herself. I wished I'd been a little more forceful. But no, she would have deflected. She would have done amazingly in the business world, if she'd set her mind to it.

It was dark out now, the neon "open" sign flashing annoyingly in Nick's window. I'd escaped town before I was old enough to get in there. Not that I hadn't tried. But in a town this small, everyone knew everyone, especially Ms. Gracie's kids.

I wondered if any of the others were still around. Jerry, who at two years older and fifty pounds heavier had bullied me to the point of running away before Ms. Gracie figured out what was going on and gave us both a talking to. Jerry for bullying, and me for not coming to her when it got so bad. Jerry hadn't stopped, but it had become manageable. No one had been kicked out of Ms. Gracie's before, and no one wanted to be the first.

I opened the bar door, struck by the contrast with this normal club in the city. It was just a normal door, no automatic close of any kind, and it hung open behind me for several moments before I realized I needed to pull it closed. 

The bar was getting full. I had tried to make it to the funeral so I could get in and get out, but I'd forgotten how rough these roads could be and had gone slower than normal to avoid damaging my car. It was made for freeways, not these country back roads.

I could sense people side-eyeing me as I made my way to the bar. I recognized several of them, a few by name, but more by face. There was Gerald White, who had chased me and Kevin out of his yard when we were twelve, playing at archeology in his garden, uncovering "artifacts"—generally carrots and onions and a few rocks. Mrs. Hyatt, who had always followed me and any other foster kid around by about ten feet anytime they entered the grocery store, making sure they didn't steal anything. And Pastor Sellars, the mild voiced preacher at the church Ms. Gracie attended, who always put me to sleep. A few faces I thought might have been kids I'd grown up with in the system, but ten years had dulled mymemory, and they had changed. I had changed. And I hadn't particularly wanted to hang on to these memories, either.

Did any of them recognize me? I'd done my best to differentiate between foster-kid-Monty and successful-businessman-Matt. Partially, it was the stuff: the clothes, the watch, the car. But I'd invested in personal training, too. I'd hired a dictation coach to remove the odd country pronunciations from my speech, a personal trainer to help me bulk up, which in turn improved my posture, and a life coach, who basically was a paid best friend, but also pointed out those rough spots either in my personal life or in my business life that I was blind to.

"Can I get a dirty martini?" I asked the bartender. She eyed me warily, and I took time to survey the room a little closer. It didn't take but a moment for me to zero in on the woman in the booth in the corner. I'd trained himself to pick out the differences in a room, in a contract, in a person in microseconds. And this woman did not fit. Yeah, her clothes were just as tattered and torn as most of the locals, but there was a hopefulness to her face that people who grew up here had quickly beaten out of them by life. The bartender placed my drink on the bar and I slid a bill across to her, not paying attention to what it was as I sipped the drink. I couldn't help but grimace. Damn, that was awful! And vodka, which was not how a martini was supposed to be made. 

"Let me get your change," the bartender said.

"No need," I said, waving her away. I needed something to do. I didn't like to sit still even at the best of times, and this was hardly the best of times. I knew Ms. Gracie would be fussing at me. She'd told me more than once that people wouldn't change the way they thought of me if they didn't interact with me. But I had no interest in interacting with the people I'd left far behind me in this town. And first thing tomorrow, I'd leave them behind again, this time for good. But in the meantime, I wanted to see what made this woman tick, with her bright face and her fierce concentration on the tablet in front of her. She clearly wasn't from around here, and she clearly wasn't here for Ms. Gracie. She showed even less interest in the rest of the bar than I did. I wanted, no, needed to know her story. What could have possibly brought such a woman to such a town as this?