Page 92 of The Long Way Home
This silly little hat keeps me steady when the days are hard. It kept me alive once, too. In Nashville, when the smoke was so thick I couldn’t see my own hands and the heat pressed in like it meant to finish the job, I remember thinking of that hat, of her in it, and telling myself I couldn’t let that be the last thing I carried with me. I didn’t know if I was getting out of that fire alive. I just knew I wasn’t ready to leave her behind with it.
It reminds me that we all have someone out there. And if she were the one trapped, I’d pray someone pushed past their own exhaustion to reach her, the way I did.
I run my thumb along the brim, then put it back exactly where it was.
Gritty’s is busy but not packed, the kind of midweek crowd that comes in for cheap drafts and routine. There’s the low hum of conversation. Sports are reflected on every screen, and the smell of grilled meat drifting in from the kitchen.
Connor and I head straight for the back. The circular booth in the corner is open, our usual spot when it’s just the guys. He slides in first and stretches out, already looking more relaxed than he did at the station.
A waitress passes by and drops off menus without needing to be asked. I nod in thanks and pull my phone from my pocket to check the time.
Ten minutes later, Anderson walks in. His button-down shirt sleeves are rolled to his elbows. He scans the place, spots us, and heads over, slipping into the booth across from me with a small exhale.
“Long day?” I ask.
“Yes, today in particular,” he mutters. “Markets are all over the place. But I could smell the fries from the parking lot, so things are looking up.”
Connor flags the waitress. “Four beers, please. Coldest you’ve got.”
“Coming right up,” she says.
Anderson looks between us. “Where’s Wes?”
“On his way,” Connor confirms. “He had to move his car; some guy parked like an idiot next to him.”
“Still driving that piece of shit Subaru?” Anderson smirks.
Connor grins. “Yep. Says it builds character.”
The beers arrive just as Wes walks in. He spots us, tosses a hand up and makes his way over. He slides into the open seat next to Anderson. His hair’s a little longer than I remember from last time. He tosses his keys on the table and grabs one of the beers.
“Place hasn’t changed,” he says, raising the glass. “Still smells like floor cleaner.”
Connor laughs. “That’s the charm.”
Wes takes a drink. “You, my friend, look like shit,” he says to Connor with a grin.
“You should see the other guy,” Connor replies. “We had a house fire. Real nasty one. Rhett nearly got barbecued.”
Wes raises an eyebrow. “Glad it missed you, man.”
“You and me both,” I mutter, as I take a swig.
Connor leans back, eyes on the menu. “I’m starving. I’m getting wings. Extra crispy.”
“Ooo, I’m gonna go burger. Medium rare. No tomato.” Anderson flips the menu closed.
I chime in right after, already knowing what I want. “I’m going to have the double burger. Extra pickles and a shit ton of fries.”
Wes doesn’t even look at the menu. “Nachos for me. The fully loaded kind. And I’m not sharing, so don’t ask.”
Connor smirks. “No one wants your sad pile of cheese and jalapeños, man.”
“Bullshit. You say that now, but when it hits the table, you’ll be leaning.”
The waitress comes back, pad in hand. We each rattle off our orders, and she nods without writing them down. She’s been here long enough to know exactly what she’s doing.
“Got it. Beers holding up?” she asks.
