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Enjoy this little tidbit of my story, Tits the Season . . .
“You know, Celeste,” I began conversationally. “I could be remembering wrong, but I think you and I used to like each other fine. Back in the day, I mean. When we were growing up, and when we were in high school.”
“What’s your point?” Her hands gripped the steering wheel a little tighter.
“You’re pissed off at me for something, and you have been since I got back to town. I don’t know what I did to deserve it, though. You called and asked me to perform this weekend, and I didn’t even hesitate. I said yes. But from the time I saw you at the bar last night until now, you’ve been bristling at me like a cat in a room full of rocking chairs.”
Celeste shot me a glare filled with venom. “I don’t bristle. And don’t compare me to a cat.”
“I happen to be a big fan of cats, so it’s not like that’s an insult,” I returned calmly. “My point is, darlin’—”
“Don’t you darlin me, Ty Hollins.”
I ignored that. “The point is that you’re acting like I’ve wronged you in some way, and I can’t think of anything that might qualify. So I’d like you to enlighten me.”
She was silent, but I saw the tension in her jaw. With a sigh of defeat, I slumped down and stared out the window.
I forgot sometimes how dark it got out here in the country, especially around midnight in December. Still, the headlights picked up enough of our surroundings that I had a good idea of where we were. Almost without thinking about it, I began to reminisce.
“Krissy and Carl Hochuck’s place is out this way, I think.” I paused for a moment. “That was some party they threw that year—it was the end of the summer a few years after Danny and I graduated. Do you remember?”
Celeste snorted and rolled her eyes, and it was about that time I began to get a clue.