Nowhere but Home A Novel - By Liza Palmer Page 0,68
the humidity streams in.
“Hudson, right?” I ask, my mind everywhere and nowhere. I tuck the piece of paper in my pocket, realizing too late that to do so makes me squirm and wriggle in my seat. I shove it down deep and focus.
“You need a drink,” Hudson says, his hand now resting on my car door.
“I need to—”
“Follow me,” he says, tapping my car twice and walking to his car a few parking spaces down.
“I appreciate th—,” I start, but he’s already getting into his car, the engine revving to life. “I could use a drink,” I say to myself, watching as he pulls out of his parking space. I quickly pull out my cell phone and text Merry Carole so she won’t worry.
“Today went fine. Need a drink. Stopping for one with Professor California.” I send the text and back out of my parking space. My phone buzzes as I’m just about to put the car in drive.
“You okay?”
I text back, “I’m good. We’ll talk in the morning. Night-night.”
Hudson drives past guard towers and razor wire and out of Lot B. Just as I’m about to follow my phone buzzes again.
“What will North Star do with two town whores? It’ll be an embarrassment of riches. Be careful. Call if you need a ride.”
I text back, “Will do. Xoxo.”
I follow Hudson down the street that takes us away from the prison. Takes us away from today. I stare at his red taillights as my mind continues its vigilance with the dams, walls, and panic rooms it’s built in the last few hours. Growing uncomfortable with the silence, I turn on the radio and follow Hudson as we wind through the hills just outside Shine to somewhere only he knows. With so much thought about futures and pasts lately, it’s nice to be with someone who is firmly in the here and now.
After twenty or so minutes, we arrive in a town just east of North Star called Evans. Evans is where Hollywood goes to film a “quaint Texas town,” with its main street done up just so and its inhabitants fully aware of how appealing the town is. I only know Evans because North Star beats their football team handily every year. Hell, everyone beats the Evans football team each year quite handily.
Hudson pulls up in front of a picturesque bed and breakfast that’s off the main street. We get out of our cars and walk toward each other in the empty street.
Of course, this is where Hudson is staying for the summer.
“The bar’s just over here,” Hudson says, motioning toward the next block over.
“Oh good,” I say as we begin walking.
“You seem relieved.”
“I thought this might quickly be turning into a whole ‘come on in for a nightcap’ thing.” He smiles back in a way that makes my face flush. We pass warmly lit homes with families sitting on porches sipping lemonade. Doing everything people not from here think small-town life is about. Evans’s townspeople wave and call out to Hudson by name. Everyone knows everyone here—especially the out-of-towners. A lot of the talk is about how hot it is and how Hudson probably wishes he was back in California. He laughs and says the food is better here. Before I know it, we’re in front of the local watering hole. It’s called the the Meat Market. Get it? Even Evans’s bars are endearing.
The bar is better than I would have thought given its name and location. It’s dimly lit—albeit self-conscious. The wood paneling isn’t smoke stained and as old as the railroad, it’s actually tasteful and adds warmth to the room. Hudson and I walk past a pool table and weave through the bar crowd. The crowd is dense and loud. Young. These are college kids home for the summer. A lot of girls in short skirts and cowboy boots sing along to Carrie Underwood as they hang on each other and warn their suitors they’re not above taking a Louisville slugger to both headlights.
I need bourbon.
The crowd moves and sways as Hudson and I inch our way through. It’s a Friday night and this is the only good bar for miles. As the crowd jostles, Hudson takes my hand and leads me on toward the bar. So easy. Just like that and no one is looking, no one is gossiping, and no one is wondering why a man like that would hold the hand of a woman like me. I squeeze his hand tight as we approach