Nevada

“Nevada Kane?”

I’m standing in line at the DMV’s courthouse location when someone from behind calls my name. Turning, I find a familiar face by the name of Tate Hofstetter who, at almost thirty years old, is sporting a mangy beard, a gold wedding band, and an extra forty pounds. Once upon a time, we were tight. Best friends. He was the power forward on our basketball team, but we lost touch after I left Lambs Grove and he left to attend some technical school in Alabama.

“Holy shit. I can’t believe it’s you,” Tate is grinning like an idiot, and he tries to clasp my bicep with his right hand, but his spread is too small. “Look at you, all fucking jacked.”

I grab a number, as does he, and we take a seat in the corner.

“We should catch up,” he says immediately. “I’ve been following you over the years, you know, on ESPN and shit, but I’ve always wondered how you were doing. Sorry about your wife, man.”

He just can’t shut up, can he?

“Everyone’s going to be so stoked that you’re back in town. You just visiting?” he asks.

I shake my head. “Bought a house.”

His beady eyes widen and he adjusts his ball cap. “No fucking way? You serious?”

I nod, resting my elbows on my knees and rubbing my hands together as I glance around. The DMV is sparsely staffed today, but there are only a couple people waiting ahead of us. I just want to get in, get out, and get on with my day.

“So you’re sticking around LG, then?” he asks. “I mean, I saw you announced your retirement, but I never thought you’d retire here of all places.”

“Me neither.” I huff, leaning back in my chair and crossing my arms. I tried to get my mom to leave this place a hundred times. I bribed her with money and mansions and anything I could think of … but my sister, Eden, and her husband and their four kids are here. And my brother, Hunter. And my grandparents. And all my mother’s siblings.

She flat out refused to so much as consider stepping foot outside Lambs Grove in any kind of permanent fashion.

I believe she even said, “Not for all the money in the world, Nevada.”

And she meant it. Doreen Kane always means what she says.

“Guess your family’s still around here,” he says, scratching his beard. “Makes sense.”

The TV screen mounted on the wall flashes the next number a few minutes later, which happens to be mine, and I thank the good Lord for perfect timing.

“This is me.” I stand.

“All right, man,” Tate says as I get up. “Oh, hey. You should come out and say ‘hi’ to everyone this weekend. We go to the Leaderboard on Friday nights. Lots of people there you’d remember. They’d love to see you.”

It’s not like I can say no. These people are going to see me around town from here on out, and I’d rather not spend the next however-many-years known for being the most resented, bougie asshole in town.

Despite my “success” and contrary to popular belief, I haven’t let it go to my head.

“Yeah, sounds good. I’ll join you guys sometime,” I say before heading up to the counter and slapping my North Carolina license in front of me. The guy slides me a clipboard with a form to sign and hands me a pen before validating my information. When he’s finished, he shreds my old card and prints me a temporary Missouri version.

The irony is not lost on me.

By the time I leave, the sidewalk outside the courthouse is covered in splotches of rain and the sky is nothing but thick, dark clouds. Living in the Carolinas for the past decade, I’d forgotten how tumultuous and random Missouri weather can be in the springtime.

Water pellets begin to fall harder, faster, and I break into a light jog as I cross the street. I had to park a couple blocks away because the Rotary Club was having breakfast at one of the cafes on the square and all the good parking spots were taken.

I jog another block, my shirt becoming soaked by the second, and I round the corner, passing the Cleverly and Piedmont Law Office with the same signature green awning and red brick front it’s always had.

Only it just so happens, at the exact same moment, someone else is rounding that same corner.

We don’t see each other until it’s too late, and while she catches herself before she smacks onto the wet pavement, her purse doesn’t fare so well. Lip glosses, lotions, keys, receipts, loose change, and sunglasses scatter around our feet, and I’m seconds from helping the girl gather her belongings when I realize who it is.

I don’t stick around.

I don’t apologize.

I push past her, leaving her crouched on the damp cement, shoving things into her bag.

It’s a dick move, I know. But I saw the way she was looking at me at the Shoppe Smart, and sticking around to help her would give her hope. And that’s the last thing I should be giving her.

I’m not that cruel.