1
Lina
Welcome to my childhood home, Pepperhill Kentucky, population: more cows than people. I drive my hometown, in middle of nowhere. It’s the kind of town where everyone knows everyone and their secrets. They all pray together in church on Sunday mornings and drink together at the bar on Saturday nights—at least that’s how it used to be before the bar closed. Not a damn thing has changed since I was seventeen-years-old and moved away with my mom to California. She decided she needed a new start and ripped me away from my school and friends and far away from my dad. The idea of sunny Southern California with the beautiful ocean, Hollywood stars, and endless opportunities was appealing, but it was also overwhelming. In Pepperhill I was the queen bee. Literally the homecoming queen. In this tiny little town my star shown the brightest. Here I was the sun and everything revolved around me. At least I thought it did. I might have been a little full of myself back then. I’d let my popularity get to my head. In reality, I was a lost teenager just like everyone else with insecurity issues and regrettable decisions.
I pull my Honda into the parking lot of the run-down building. I remember when this side of town was bustling—as bustling as a one-horse town can be. It wasn’t any sort of metropolis, but there was a gas station, a small movie theater, car wash, fire department, and this place, the Osprey of Green Road. My dad’s bar. Now all of those businesses are closed.
I’m looking around at all the vacant shops when a car comes out of nowhere, pulling out in front of me. I slam on my breaks to keep from hitting it and lay on my horn. A group of teenagers in the car sneer at me and the driver sticks his hand out the open window and gives me the middle finger before speeding off. And to think, I used to be just like them. Little shits. I shudder at the thought of it.
I’m only twenty-five, so it wasn’t long ago since I was a teenager. Some days it feels like just yesterday, and other days it feels like a lifetime ago. Like now.
I find a spot in front of the building, the same spot my dad always parked his old Ford blue and white two-toned farm truck. I can still remember the smell of gasoline as I rode in the passenger side on our way to the bar.
Getting out of the car, I try to catch my breath. Between my close call with those teens and my anxiety of being back in Pepperhill, I’m finding it hard to keep my bearings.
Even though I wasn’t technically allowed to be in the bar, my dad took me to work with him anyway. There were only two deputies in town and they were regulars at the Osprey and they didn’t seem to mind me being there. I would sit behind the bar, my feet dangling off a barstool above the sticky floor, and draw, or watch whatever sporting event was on TV, or just look up at my dad—who seemed like a giant, but was really only average height—make drinks and slide them across the bar. I loved this place, the smell of beer, the happy chatter of customers or the occasional sad story that my dad would listen to with the same rapt attention as a therapist. Oldies played on the jukebox and my dad would give me a handful of quarters to choose the songs I liked. My favorites were always his favorites, the same ones he would listen to in his truck on the ride to work. Anything by the Rolling Stones, Rush, or Styx.
I take a deep breath and shake away the memories. My father is gone now. Grief washes over me in waves, but only for a moment before I push it away again.
Walking up to the building, the paint peeling, the windows boarded up, I try to pull the door open. I peer through the narrow spaces of the boards, but it’s too dark to see anything inside. I know there’s a spare key somewhere in there because my dad was a creature of habit and he liked to keep things in their place. The building hasn’t been rented out or touched since his passing. It’s practically frozen in time. I don’t want to break the window, but I desperately want inside. I try to shove the door open. My ankle wobbles in my high heels and I fall to the ground, wincing when my butt hits the concrete. This is not working. Hoisting myself off the ground and brushing the pebbles off the back of my jeans, I grab my phone and look up the number for the only locksmith in town.