Shallow Creek

Brendan opened the door and rested his forehead against the edge of it for a second.

“It’s not what it looks like, Dad.”

“And what does it look like?”

Brendan looked his father straight in the eye when he lied to him.

“Nothing happened.”

They appraised each other for a few excruciating seconds before his dad nodded.

“Good,” the old man said.

Brendan’s dad then walked off without another word, and Brendan closed the door gently behind himself as he left.

Chapter 21

Schmidt’s was still where he’d left it.  Brendan stepped into the diner and nodded to the lady behind the counter when she told him to pick any table he liked.  The lunch crowd hadn’t arrived yet, so he pretty much had his pick of the place.  He took a seat against the big windows and glanced over the menu noncommittally.  Things more important than a sandwich choice rattled inside his head.

Brendan absently fidgeted with the salt and pepper shakers as the waitress swung by for his order.  Not really caring about the decision, he asked for a chicken sandwich and some dark coffee.  The lady, whose nametag read Betty, flashed him a smile and trotted off to make some magic happen in the kitchen.  Brendan couldn’t see from his vantage point, but he was sure a guy from south of the border did all the real work back there.  That was the way of things these days.

Such an inane thought didn’t distract him for very long.  His pounding headache hadn’t relented and his guilt refused to ebb.  How could they keep something like this a secret?  And in this town?  There was no way.  One of them would get drunk and insinuate something to the wrong person, and then all hell would break loose in the Rhodes family again.  The laugh of it was that Brendan used to think the wedge driven between he and his brother couldn’t get any bigger.

Don’t tempt fate.  That was the lesson here.

Betty returned with his coffee and promised she’d have his sandwich out in no time, but while she was here, did he want some fries with that?  He acquiesced without a second thought.  Sure, fries sounded just great.  Not really, but he was past caring about the fuel going into his body.  He stared out the window at his truck.

Would Michelle cave and tell Grant everything?  That was a serious possibility.  Would he hurt her?  If he did, she’d be the last person he ever touched, that was for damn sure.  No matter what happened, a man shouldn’t be hitting a woman.  Unless she was pointing a gun at him.  That was probably acceptable, but this was an affair of the heart, not the gun.  If he so much as left a bruise on her, Brendan would bury the son of a bitch.

He leaned back in the booth and ran a hand slowly across his head.  Little bumps and bruises reacted to his touch, especially on the back, near his neck.  How those bastards hadn’t done more permanent damage was shocking, but after the brawl behind Trish’s, Brendan was sure those idiots had received the worse end of the bargain.  That Mohawk guy was still feeling that run-in with the dumpster, that much was certain.

True to her word, dear old Betty promptly and gracefully slid a plate in front of him.  He thanked her and didn’t even bother examining his food before diving right in.

“A good eater,” she remarked.  “We like that around here.  You need anything else, hun?”

With his mouth full of chicken, Brendan just shook his head.

“Alright, just bring this check up to the counter when you’re done,” Betty said, laying the bill face-down on the table.  She walked off and resumed her position behind the counter, and Brendan continued to devour his food.

“Hey, you’re Darryl Rhodes’ youngest, right?”

Brendan looked across a few booths at one of the few patrons in Schmidt’s this Sunday morning.  A haggard, weather-beaten face glared back at him.  The leathery texture on Foster McLean’s face hadn’t changed at all in the last ten years, and Brendan got that sinking feeling.

“Yes, sir,” he replied coolly, placing his sandwich down.

“You got a lot of nerve showing up here.”

Brendan knew where this train wreck was heading, but also knew he’d have to play it out with more than one disgruntled father before his time in Shallow Creek was done.

“Clint’s your son, right, Mr. McLean?”

“Damn right, and you did wrong by him, and by me, with what you did to your brother.”

“Sounds like you got it all figured out, sir.”

“Don’t sass me, you little shit.”  McLean banged on the table, earning a scowl from Betty.  “They were heading for the state championship before you screwed it all up.”

The slurred words slipped right past Brendan.  He’d been through much worse in high school, and he’d been just a boy then.  Real life extended well beyond high school football, but some folks in Shallow Creek couldn’t quite grasp that concept, especially drunks like Foster McLean.