Second Helpings - Brandon Witt

ONE

Isaac Reynolds

The windows of the Toyota steamed—even the damn car was sweating. I started to pull into the parking lot but changed my mind and stayed on Main Street. I’d circle around, yet again. What had I been thinking? I’d been possessed, obviously. Or giving in to a midlife crisis. Though, maybe you weren’t allowed to have one of those until you hit forty. Well, I was early for everything else, so why not a midlife crisis?

I glanced at the dash of the car. One hundred degrees. And who knew how much humidity. Pushing seventy percent or more, I had no doubt.

God, I hated this place. Hated it! I could see steam rising from the blacktop. I’d forgotten that. How did people live like this?

Although there’d been a billion reasons I’d moved away at eighteen, the weather wasn’t one of them. And to be fair, New York City wasn’t much cooler. Well, screw being fair. It was New York City. This place? I scowled at the worn-down house on the corner, the one I’d passed five times as I worked up my nerve. They were probably ready to call the police, saying a black guy was scoping out their home. Whatever, assholes. I hit the gas and zoomed by the shack. Yeah, this place? So not New York City.

My plane was leaving the following night. I could turn the car around, drive back to Kansas City, have a great meal on the Plaza, maybe even find a hookup at a gay club and avoid this entire shitshow. Midlife crisis be damned.

And then admit to Clarice that I’d chickened out?

Damn it.

I pulled into an alley a couple of blocks away, left the car running so there wouldn’t be a lapse in the air-conditioning, and opened the trunk. I dug around in the suitcase for a few seconds, the July sun beating down on my back. I hadn’t packed a towel. Whatever. I stripped off my shirt and used the dry parts to wipe off my torso as best I could. Choosing the black pullover, I unfolded it and pulled it on—it clung to my still damp skin. I’d wanted to wear purple. Make a statement. But black would have to do. No statement was worth pit stains when seeing people I’d rather forget.

This time, I didn’t pause. I drove directly to the restaurant, pulled into the parking lot, and headed inside. Hesitating at the doorway, I stared up at the banner overhead. Black-and-red lettering read Bulldogs Twenty-Year Class Reuinion. Yep, reuinion, with an extra i. God damnit.

Closing my eyes, picturing a firing squad, I pushed the door open and stepped through. Frigid air washed over me. I’d forgotten that the hotter it got in the Midwest, the more arctic the air conditioners became. My eyes flew open at the groan I issued. Luckily no one was close enough to hear.

Holy shit.

I stared around the restaurant.

Holy shit.

No time had passed. None. I was eighteen again, less than a month from graduation, hating the date by my side, and dying to be anywhere else.

I’d forgotten prom had been in this restaurant. And I’d intentionally blocked out the teal, pink, and yellow decorations splashed everywhere. The only variations were the balloons in the school colors of black and red. And then I heard it. This time, I groaned and didn’t care who heard. It was bad enough twenty years ago, but somehow so much worse now. “Waterfalls” by TLC blasted over the speakers. It had been our prom theme and struck me as uncomfortable then, though I couldn’t place my finger on why. Now, it was clear. This town, this school, these kids. We were in farmland, where they played country music all day long. And when they changed it up, it was Southern gospel. But the prom committee had wanted to be cool. Cutting edge. Push the envelope or some shit. And now twenty years later, Left Eye was gone but still singing out a life lesson in this hick town.

That was it. I’d come, I’d seen, I didn’t need to conquer. Even Clarice wouldn’t tease about this. “Waterfalls,” seriously? I turned to the door.

“Isaac Reynolds? You came!”

I could still leave. Walk away and pretend I hadn’t heard.

“Isaac?” A hand closed over my triceps and I flinched. “Wow. You’ve gotten big.”

Fixing a smile to my face, I turned. A short pasty bald man looked up at me. I faltered. I had no clue who this was. “Yep. It’s me.”

“Well of course it’s you. Who