Free Second Chances by Abbie Williams

studied the stars. I had left Landon at dawn and was now over a thousand miles away, but as Bly rounded the hood and took my hand with a grin lifting the right side of his mouth, the feeling was washed away. He wrapped his big hand around mine and led the way. I would bring him back to Landon with me, no matter what it took; I glanced up at the waxing moon and vowed it, right then.
    The inside of Bob’s was booming with country music and the clatter of bowling balls flying down the lanes. The crowd was rowdy; the bar side of the building was dimly lit, complete with a neon sign reading ‘Striker’s Lounge’ visible through a haze of cigarette smoke, while the gaming side was brilliantly awash in revolving lights. Bob’s Bowl was obviously a hot spot in Brandt. We hadn’t walked 10 feet before an older man with impressive sideburns and a full beard came directly to us, clapped Blythe on the back and declared heartily, “Junior, good to see you!” He was heavyset and jovial, and reminded me a little of Dodge.
    Blythe drew me to his side and said, “Hey Bob, what do you know? This is Joelle.”
    Bob adjusted his wide-framed glasses with one hand and reached to pump my hand vigorously with the other. He said, “Pleased to meet you, Joelle. We’ve heard all about you.”
    I was mildly startled by this statement, but smiled back at him and said, “Good to meet you, too.”
    â€œAin’t you lovely,” Bob observed then, and winked at me before turning and calling, “Christy, your boy is here!”
    I drew a breath in attempt to calm my jittering nerves as a woman came from behind the bar, in the process of wiping her nose with a tissue. She caught sight of us and her face broke into a smile, a truly welcoming smile. I tried to return it but my lips were stiff; it took everything I had not to fidget. Bly seemed amused and squeezed my hand as his mother approached us.
    â€œHey, Mom,” Bly said. “Your battery is out, huh?”
    She took another swipe at her nose and stopped before us, studying me with forthright curiosity. The first thing I noticed about Christy Tilson was that her eyes were exactly like Blythe’s: beautiful, long-lashed, and the color of faded denim, a warm combination of blue and gray. She was petite, at least six inches shorter than I, slim and fine-boned; her reddish-blond hair probably accounted for half of her overall weight. It hadn’t changed appreciably since the ‘80s, I would have bet money, with corkscrew curls, thick bangs, and a lot of aerosol spray holding it all in place. Her face was darkly tanned and delicately constructed; I realized at once that it did indeed register in my memory. She wore jeans, a black server apron and a black t-shirt with Bob’s Bowl scrawled across it in neon green.
    â€œHi guys,” she said, and her voice was low and mellow; it suited her. She went on, her accent far more pronounced than Bly’s, “And Junior, I know you told me about that damn battery, but I didn’t have time today. You can switch it out tomorrow.”
    Everyone here called him Junior; so where the hell was Blythe, Senior?
    â€œI will,” he assured her. “Mom, this is Joelle Gordon. And this is my mom, Christy Tilson.”
    â€œI figured,” she said, smiling again. “And I do remember meeting you years ago, when I visited Rich and Mom.”
    â€œHi,” I responded. “I remember you, too.”
    â€œGod, you must be exhausted,” she went on, abruptly moving into action. “Let’s get you home for the evening.” And so saying, she retrieved her purse from behind the bar, called good-bye to a handful of regulars, and then shepherded us back out into the night. “I don’t live far.”
    Blythe opened the passenger door for us, and I insisted on taking the rear seat. We drove back through town and then about a mile into the darkness, before Bly