I thought the Dean asking me to get a drink with her two minutes after getting done with her sexual harassment seminar was the weirdest thing that would happen to me in Blackwell.

It hasn’t even been a week, and Jordyn Rose proves that thought to be absolutely, one hundred and ten percent wrong.

Is there something in the campus water supply that made everyone extra fucking horny and crazy around here?

I kick back in my office chair and look out the window for a moment. The trees outside my window are green, lush, and in full bloom.

I sigh. In another life, Rose could have been mine, sure. But not in this one. It’s too risky, and though I’ve taken a fuck load of chances in my life, I can’t risk this.

I pick up the only picture frame on my desk. It’s from the nineties, and not in perfect focus, but it’s my favorite photo of all time. I stare at the woman, my reason for coming back to Blackwell.

I look at the picture of my mom, she’s wearing overalls and a white t-shirt, and the smile on her face is so broad while she holds me in her arms, you’d think she just won the lottery by having me.

In reality, she was an eighteen year old woman who had a baby before she wanted to; but in my childhood, not a single day went by that I didn’t feel her love.

As a Harvard Psychology professor, I had no shortage of options of places to teach across the U.S. But I need to be back in Blackwell for her. She told me I couldn’t make my life decisions based on her, but when she’d been diagnosed with skin cancer a year ago I decided eight years of college and grad school was plenty of time away. So I came back to take care of her. I rented a cheap place on the outskirts of town because it’s close to the hospital.

As good as my professor salary is, I have to toss every extra dime I can at her medical bills. She’d sacrificed eighteen years of her life for me, and I damn well am not about to toss my life out the window just because the hottest twenty-two year old brunette bombshell I’ve ever met walks into my office and asks me--like it’s a business transaction--to take her virginity.

Fuck no. I’ve got more self control than that.

But holy hell, she is hot. My cock is still hard against my jeans thinking about her.

I close my eyes and think of everything non sexual. Old socks. Cactuses. Trees.

After a few minutes and some deep breaths, I’m calm, impressing myself with how impervious I am to temptation.

I pick up the phone and dial my most frequently called number.

“Hey Mom.”

“Hi Coley!” I can hear her smiling through the phone.

“Get your going out pants on. I’m taking you to dinner tonight, and karaoke. Be ready at eight sharp.”

She giggles and agrees.

A night with my mom is just what I need this Friday, anyway. Romance? Who needs it? Not this guy.

* * *

“I had a great time tonight, Coley,” my mom says as I walk her to the door of her house.

“You sure you don’t want me to stay over tonight? We can watch eighties movies tonight, then watch some cartoons tomorrow morning like we used to.”

“Oh please, Coley. I’m worried about you.” She turns and faces me before we get to the door. “It’s Friday night. You’re a twenty-eight year old single guy. You need to be out there doing what single guys do, not watching old eighties movies with your mother.”

“I love The Breakfast Club though. John Hughes is a genius.”

“Who is John Hughes?”

“The writer of The Breakfast Club.”

“Oh. Ohhh. I didn’t know that. I’ll have to look him up. Well, no you can’t stay here. Besides, I’m writing my book tomorrow.”

My ears perk up. “You’re writing a book?”

“Yes,” she says. “It’s about all the crazy things that happen in Blackwell. This is a small town, but I tell you, the gossip here. It’s book-worthy. And I’m working on it all day tomorrow. I need to finish it before, you know. Before I--”

A wave of emotion runs through me. “Mom, don’t you dare even mention that. You’re going to get better. You’re going to be around for a long, long time.”

Her eyes well up when she sees how serious I am. “How do you know?”

“Because I know, Mom. Trust me. I’m smart. I didn’t get all those fancy Harvard degrees for nothing. I talked with the doctor, your cancer is definitely curable.”

She smiles up at me through teary eyes, then falls into me for a hug. I wrap her up in my arms, holding her tightly against my chest.

“Get a good night’s sleep.”

She nods, heads inside, and the screen door slams shut.

She’s right about one thing: Blackwell has enough stories to fill a trilogy as big as Lord of the Rings, probably even bigger.

I get back in my pickup truck and start the drive back to my place. The temperature outside is so perfect right now. What a shame to go to bed before ten on a night like this.

Fuck it. The wheels screech as I make a U-turn, heading back in the direction of Cherry Street, the “downtown” of Blackwell, if you want to call it that. Downtown Blackwell includes three bars just off Cherry Street: Blue’s Music Bar, The Big Bar, and The Watering Hole.

Yeah, I know. We are ultra creative in our bar names.

Almost as creative as the name Blackwell. The town used to be a stop on the Oregon Trail, and it had--you guessed it--a black well.

I digress. Five minutes later I’m parked directly in front of The Watering Hole, my old favorite spot when I was in high school. I haven’t been inside here but one or two times in the last eight years when I was home for winter break or Thanksgiving.

Inside, The Watering Hole is exactly how I remember it: a sampling of the people of Blackwell itself. The booths on the side of the bar are nearly full, as is the space around the U-shaped bar. Blackwell is a cross section of middle America. A little bit southern, also rural. A little midwestern. A hint of University town. A little bit urban, add in some Spanish speaking. And a touch of prosperous factory town.

At least it was, until ten or so years ago when the local Maytag plant moved south of the border, taking 10,000 union jobs. This town, once glorious, won’t likely ever return to it’s boomtown days of the past.

But the bar sure stays in business, that’s for sure.

I grab a seat on a barstool and watch as the bartender serves up a few Bud Lights to some patrons on the far side of the bar away from me. All I want is a couple of solo drinks so I can be alone with my thoughts, and then I’ll be on my merry fucking way tonight.

The bartender strides toward me. He’s got a host of tattoos and he’s jacked, buff enough that he might even give me a run for my money in a fight. He’s got dark black hair and features, reminding me of someone I used to know, but it’s been too long for me to know for sure. He come to a stop in front of me at the bar.

“Hey there man, what can I get you?” He pauses, leaning forward. “Holy shit, Cole Hanks?”

“Fuck me,” I mumble. The last time I’d seen this motherfucker was at least ten years ago. In high school, we were hardcore drinking buddies. “Mason fucking Worthington.”

The neutral expression on his face spreads into a wide grin. I stand up out of my stool and give him a shake and a hug. “Get the fuck out! Harvard boy come back to his roots, eh? You live here for real? Or you just coming through, looking to pick up some girls tonight, crush it like you and me used to in the old high school football glory days?”

“Fuck you, can’t a guy just come into a bar and have a drink? I’m not looking for shit tonight. I’m taking it easy.”

“Well let’s hope you don’t run into one of the twelve girls whose hearts you broke in high school, Ha-vahd boy.” He says in an exaggerated Boston accent.

“Fuck off. It wasn’t twelve.”

“Eleven.”

I grin. “Fine. Don’t act like you were all innocent or some shit.”

He leans on the bar. “I call it like I see it, and I’m upfront as hell. I don’t lead these girls on. Relationships just aren’t for me, man. What are ya drinking?”

“Bulleit Rye, rocks.”

“Oh, getting down to business today. Rough day?” He pours me a generous amount of bourbon out of the green-labeled bottle.

I sigh deeply. “I don’t even know where to start, to be honest.”

“Well,” he says in two syllables, emphasizing his southern accent. “You can tell the bartender about it. I’m part therapist, you know.” He points to a gag sign hanging behind the bar that says Professional Life Advice: Free from Bartender.

I take a sip and nod. Though we haven’t seen each other for some time, Mason and I go way back to elementary school, and we pick up right where we left off. “Mom’s not so good,” I say, gulping down my drink.

“I heard. Fuck man, that’s rough. Sorry about that.”

“Thanks,” I say as I take a sip. Patrons on either side of us are getting slightly perturbed that Mason’s socializing with me, as he’s the only guy covering the bar right now.

“Shit man, I gotta get these people drunk, but what do you say you and me get together sometime now that you’re back? Throw the pigskin around. Shoot some shit. Go fishing. Maybe all three. You still training MMA on the side? Me and Liam are going Sunday. You should come.”

“Fine by me.”

Mason leaves to attend to the influx of people at the other end of the bar. Though he’s a childhood friend, right now I just need to be alone and drink my whisky. My thoughts wander as the white noise of the TV sets in. Some baseball game is on. I know the Jaguars are playing, though I don’t even care to check the score. Jake Napleton’s on the mound tonight, that cocky motherfucker. Last game he played, he pushed a guy’s face into the dirt.

I smile a little as I watch him throw a pitch. The weekend is here, and after several minutes a soft buzz sets in, and my problems finally drift away.

I’m just another guy at the bar now. We all have our problems. I’m sure the white haired guy with a jar of wine has seen his share, probably worse than mine. And now that it’s the weekend, mine are miles away.

I feel a hand on my shoulder. I figure some random drunk wants to strike up a conversation with me, and you know what? I’m okay with that. Hell, I’ll debate anything right now just for fun.

When I turn and see the long, light brown hair, my smile fades and my adrenaline surges.

Dean Allison stands facing me with her chin tipped up.

“Hello Mr. Hanks. So funny to run into you here.”

I take a large pull from my drink and slam it back down. “Likewise.”

“Have you thought about my proposal?”

“What proposal?”

“To have a drink. Just me and you.”

I run a hand through my hair. “I was just leaving, actually.”

“Stay.” She puts her hand on mine, squeezes it, then sits down next to me.

“One drink.” I signal to Mason, and he comes over to refill me. She orders a gin and tonic.

“Professor Hanks, I’ll be blunt. Maybe it’s the liquid courage, but I need to know if the rumors are true.”

“Rumors? What rumors?” I take another sip of my Bulleit and furrow my brow.

“Oh please. My cousin is your age.” She glances at my eyes, then works her way down my t-shirt and lingers on my crotch for way too long, before bringing her gaze back up.

“What’s your cousin got to do with any of this?”

“She told me all about you, Cole. Hung Hanks.”