Bowtie gaped at Russell. “Dude, are you for real right now?”

“Seriously, do I know you or something?” Russell squared off against the stranger. “Why are you still here? Have you been following me?”

“Dude, after everything we've been through back there, like, how could you not recognize me? Me!“ Bowtie looked to be moments away from pulling out his hair in frustration. “You know what? I get it. Just…let me give you a hint. You cool with that?”

“You’re gonna give me a hint?” Russell asked, even more confused now.

Instead of answering, the stranger cleared his throat and stretched the muscles on his neck and shoulders. Closing his eyes, the guy snapped his fingers in a rhythmic pattern, bobbing his head to some imaginary beat. And living up to his moniker, the weirdo started singing.

“You've got a friend in me,” the guy sang, loud and off-key. “Oh, you've got a friend in me. When the road looks rough ahead and you're miles and miles from your nice warm bed—“

And out of nowhere, forgotten memories from years ago flashed by in his mind one after another, catching up to the present moment. Memories of a short, pudgy teenager who had been loud and obnoxious, a bundle of energy and recklessness, always forcing Russell to watch Asian cartoons with him. Memories of his classmate, his seatmate, the guy Russell hung out with, ate lunch with, and walked home with.

Russell had to cover his face in embarrassment, both for taking this long to remember and for the public spectacle the guy was creating.

“You just remember what your old pal said,” the guy continued, pointing at Russell, his expression all serious and without an ounce of shame. “Boy, you've got a—"

“Fudge me.” Russell clamped the guy's mouth shut, cutting off his tone-deaf fool of a friend. “Clay? You were Clayton Knox all along?”

The guy tried to speak but couldn't, so he waggled his eyebrows instead.

Looking past the man's exaggerated height and size—and his questionable taste in clothes—Russell could see the resemblance to his friend from ten years ago, clear as day.

“I didn’t recognize you without your afro,” Russell said as he lowered his hand. “You've...changed.”

Clayton howled with laughter. “Good grief. I thought you were gonna make me sing the entire song!”

Russell reflected on the incident earlier, and it all started to make sense. The Clayton he had known back in high school had always been a loudmouth, a geek for anything tech- and video game-related, and a coward at heart—but he always had Russel's back. That single undeniable fact should have been enough of a clue for Russell to recognize him.

“Rosie mentioned something about your growth spurt years ago,” Russell said. “Just didn’t picture you shooting up like a freakin’ tree after high school.”

Clayton chuckled. “Talk about being a late bloomer, am I right?”

“I expected to see you tomorrow. Weren't you living in a whole different state?”

“California.” Clayton nodded. “Yeah, my folks even decided to move closer to my place. My siblings too. They finally got to selling our old house back here in town just recently. Asked me to check on how our property's doing when they heard that I'll be here for the weekend. And I thought I'd attend tonight and try to bring some San Francisco flair into this place, you know?” his friend said as he gestured around them.

Russell snorted in amusement. “What flair?”

“Though I didn't really have any luck so far,” Clayton went on, undeterred. “Well, until the drama with your old buddies from the football team, that is.” He puffed out his wide chest. “It was fate, man. I just knew it was my perfect chance to be in the spotlight tonight.”

Russell groaned. How could he have forgotten how shameless Clayton could be? “Hate to be the one to break it to you, Clay. But I swear, you look like The Rock…if The Rock was having a wardrobe malfunction.”

Clayton shrugged. “Haters gonna hate,” he said, giving Russell another waggle of his eyebrows as he looked around, flexing his muscles as if he were posing for the cover of a fitness magazine. “And I know I've become the modern-day Casanova to women everywhere,” Clayton said, jerking his chin to a gaggle of the ladies gawking at the two of them, “but me thinks some are also trying to get a glimpse of you.”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Russell muttered.

“Yeah, no. It's not just because of your legendary infamy, my guy.” Clayton gestured a hand all over Russell’s face. “Some chicks actually dig that blue eye, red hair combo you've got going on, you know?”

“Thanks, bud, but there’s no need to lie,” Russell said. “We aren’t some high school kids who need help coping with teenage insecurities.”

“You…” Clayton sighed before turning silent. He squinted his eyes, his face close, his expression intense.

“What now?” Russell asked then he found himself trapped the next moment.

His friend had him wrapped in a bear hug.

“Knock it off, Clay,” Russell groused, tapping Clayton on the back as he stared up at the ceiling. "Can't believe you still haven’t changed.”

The hug tightened, threatening to crack a few of Russell's ribs.

“Darn it, Knox!” Russell hissed through clenched teeth. He struggled to escape his friend’s death grip. “Get off me, you goof!”

Clayton let go, beaming the entire time. “Haven't changed?” He flexed his arms, the sleeves on his huge arms growing taut, the knit fabric straining. “Dude, I leveled up!”

“Yeah, yeah. I can see that,” Russell said. “Everyone here can.”

“And since when did you start saying ‘darn’ and ‘fudge’ and 'freaking’ all the time?” Clayton asked. “Were you in some construction accident or something? Is that how you ended up losing your balls?”

Russell rolled his eyes. “Since the kids got old enough to be able to mimic whatever their favorite uncle says.”

“Aren't you their only uncle?”

“And you may have grown a ruler the last time I saw you,” Russell continued, scrutinizing the gym rat in front of him, “but it just makes kneeing you in the groin all the more easier, yeah?"

“Woah, flag on the play!” Clayton covered his hands over his crotch and sprung a step away, shuddering. “Unwanted flashbacks right there, man! Why'd you have to go bringin’ up my balls into this?”

“You're the one who brought up mine, dum-dum."

“Dum-dum? Damn, it's gonna take a while to get used to this.” Clayton let out a short chuckle before getting serious. “So, what was up with earlier? How'd you end up getting surrounded by those jock-holes in the first place?”

He raised a hand to interrupt Russell before he could answer. “You know what? Let’s start with this—what were you thinking coming here tonight, Russ? Why’d you even bother to return anyway?”

Russell shook his head. “It's really a long story.”

“Well, you’re in luck, my friend.” Clayton rested a hand on Russell’s shoulder. “Good thing we’ve got all the time in the world tonight.”

Russell scanned the entrance of the lounge bar. None of the tables around them were full, but each had at least one occupant, and that was one too many for him. Heading back into the thick of it, they roamed around the room, away from the thickest part of the crowd, and it didn't take them long to find an empty table.

The two of them got to trading stories with one another over a few rounds of beer, reliving events back in high school, and recalling how their individual lives turned out to be after graduation. They exchanged laughter and banter, smiles and snickers, and Russell was surprised to realize he was genuinely having a good time. Before long, their conversations wound down, the storytelling culminating in the events that occurred earlier that night.

Russell leaned back on his seat. “Silicon Valley, huh? Who would’ve thought you’d end up as one of those tech bros?”

“California. Tech capital, wealth capital, babe capital.” Clayton bobbed his head with every word. “Always been my dream, man. Been a culture shock at first, from a small town kid to a big man in a big city.”

“Good for you, Clay.” Russell blew out a breath. “Can't say I can relate. Never been one for crowds myself.”

“Still?” Clayton asked. “I thought that you'd be used to it by now, working in construction and all.”

“It's different,” Russell said.

“How is it any different?” Clayton asked.

Russell gave his friend a noncommittal shrug before eyeing the area around them. The tables were all filled with people either busy eating dinner or getting drunk or both. Every chair and lounge seat appeared occupied, the tall stools surrounding the bar even more so. The smell of grilled meat and alcohol lingered in the air, intoxicating to his senses, yet his appetite still hadn’t returned. The incident from earlier had left a bad aftertaste in his mouth.

“Construction sites are noisy. Everyone just focuses on their work, given our loud tools and machinery and all that.” Russell took a small sip of his beer, savoring the cold, bitter taste. “It's like white noise for me, and I just end up getting lost in my own world for hours on end.”

“Not to mention all that endless back-breaking labor,” Clayton said. “Not exactly the type of environment to make friends and talk about your weekend plans, am I right?”

Russell raised his bottle to that. “Perfect for someone like me.”

“Still, I can’t believe I didn’t piece it together.” Clayton leaned over the table, balancing his chin on the mouth of his beer bottle, his eyes lost in his thoughts. “I should've known something was fishy when I heard you were coming.”

Russell scrunched his brows as he stared down at the beer bottle in his hand. Then his gaze snapped back to his friend. “Wait, you heard I was coming?”

Clayton scoffed. “It was pretty much an open secret. I bet it was Tommy and Caleb who started the rumor, bragging to everyone else.”

Russell clicked his tongue. No surprise there.

“Those fools really don't know how to keep their mouths shut,” Clayton said, pinching the bridge of his nose before giving Russell a wry grin. “And sorry about not giving you a heads up. Completely slipped my mind. I was just so stoked to see you again, you know?”

Russell waved him off. “There's nothing to be sorry for. It’s not your fault I got myself tricked into coming here like a dum—like a dumbass, right?”

“Yeah, no. I get where you're coming from. What I don’t understand is why you're going about this issue of yours the wrong way.” Clayton craned his neck, looking left and right. “My stomach’s been grumbling like it’s mining for Bitcoin. What does a guy have to do to get some of them juicy steaks around here?”

“What do you mean?” Russell asked.

“Didn’t we sit down here to eat?”

“Not that. You said I was doing something wrong?”

“Oh, I mean the way you’re job-hunting is just plain wrong, man.” Clayton gave him a slow shake of his head as if disappointed in him. “Jude Escobar? Are you for real?”

“Why not?” Russell asked. “His father owns the biggest construction crew in Solace Springs.”

Clayton snapped his fingers. “Solace Springs! My point exactly!”

Russell furrowed his brows, still not following.

“Oh, c’mon, dude!” Clayton exclaimed. “Out of all the people here tonight, why didn't you even think of asking for help from…I dunno…Serena?”

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

“Serena?” Russell opened another bottle, taking a moment to let the sweet malty aroma fill the air. “Why are you suddenly bringing her up now?”

“Please. I saw you guys earlier, walking around all chummy-chum-chum.” Clayton waggled his eyebrows at him. “I ship you two, by the way. Dibs on being your best man.”

“What?” Russell asked, more confused now.

“She's a Solace, remember? Serena Solace.” Clayton let out an insufferable sigh. “Like, Solace Springs Golf & Country Club? The Town of Solace Springs?”

Russell froze, the beer in his hand stopping inches from his mouth.

“You know her family has essentially owned this town for more than a century, right?” Clayton smiled as he took a swig of his beer. “I mean, given the meager options you have left, you should already be out there begging her for a job.”

“I…I don’t think that's appropriate,” Russell said. “She and Rosie are close friends. I don’t want to make things awkward between them.”

“Then I could help you out if you want,” Clayton said. “Go move east. Learn to code from scratch. You down with that?” His friend gave him a sleazy grin. “I just hope you like your weather sunny and your babes in bikinis."

But the joke flew over Russell’s head. He slouched back in his chair, resting his head on the edge of the backseat, staring at nothing. His mind finally caught on to what Clayton had been implying. He felt so stupid then.

So what if he had been tricked? Why was he only relying on one offer? He should've come up with other ways to solve the problem instead of wallowing in despair and feeling sorry for himself. It wasn't the end of the world. It wasn't as though he had no other options. Not to mention the most viable one had been there all along staring him right in his face.

“Fudge me,” he grumbled. “Why didn’t I think of that earlier?”

“I mean, watcha gonna do?” Clayton fixed him with a stoic expression. “Some people are born smart like me, and some are born just like you.”

Russell didn't hesitate to flip him off, and his friend broke down laughing at his expense. Russell shook his head, sat straight on his seat, and clapped his hand on his cheeks a few times.

“Dude, what are you doing?” Clayton asked, still chuckling.

Russell ignored him. Leaning forward, he reached for the tray left unattended at the center of their table. He slid the entire thing close to him and gave one of the glasses a quick sniff. Vodka.

He shrugged, downed it in one go, and reached for another to repeat the process. Then another. And another.

“Damn, dude!” Clayton exclaimed. “You gotta learn how to pace yourself. Those shots are gonna pile up pretty soon.”

“Liquid courage,” Russell said, pausing only after his fifth shot. “I've already been humiliated enough for one night. Something tells me asking Serena for a big favor won’t be any less embarrassing.”

Clayton nodded his head in understanding. “I say you’re gonna need the whole bottle of Grey Goose for that.”

Russell figured he could still handle a few more. He was about to get his sixth shot—his fingertips hovering over the small glass—when the surface of the clear liquid rippled.

Had the effects of the alcohol kicked in already?

No. The remaining shots of vodka started undulating. The dozen or so shot glasses clattered on the tray. The lights overhead flickered. The room fell silent until the only remaining sound came from the speakers playing music in the background.

Then the glasses stopped shaking. The lights stopped blinking. The chatter of the half-drunk, self-serving crowd gradually went back to its usual volume. And as if nothing had happened, as if what had happened as nothing but a short blip in the festive evening, everything returned to normal.

Until only Russell’s anxiety remained.

Russell fished his phone out of his pocket and tapped his finger on the screen, his thumb on the power button. He got no response; his phone was completely dead. The digital screen of his watch was the same, which didn’t come as a surprise.

“You got any signal?” he asked Clayton, though a part of him already knew the answer.

“Nada. Not since I got here earlier.” Clayton shook his head, his chin on the table twisting the tablecloth, eyes crossed as he examined the water still rippling in its glass. “Why? What’s up?”

Russell drummed his fingers on the table. “How about your battery? You have any charge left?”

Raising an eyebrow, Clayton lifted his head and took his phone out. “Huh…” Clayton muttered as he stared at the dead screen of his device. “I'm pretty sure I kept it plugged on my drive here."

Russell stared past his friend, his mind going elsewhere. He needed to remain calm, to pretend nothing was wrong, and yet the worry gnawed at him from the inside. He had ignored his feeling earlier, casting it aside as an afterthought. But the disturbance he had wanted to forget had simply been lurking in the background, biding its time.

Was it the thunderstorm? That brief earthquake? That odd sunset back then? Or was this all just happenstance?

No. Russell braced his hands on the table and slowly got to his feet. This was no coincidence.

“I need to find Serena before I head home,” he said. No one else seemed to care. Then again, everyone was busy having too much fun to even begin to care about seemingly unimportant matters. Aside from him.

Clayton sobered the next moment. “You bailing already?”

“I’m also worried about Rosie.”

“Why? Because you haven't heard from her in a few minutes?”

Russell snorted. “Because I royally fudged up tonight—after she explicitly warned me not to.”

“Ah, of course.” Clayton nodded, his face grim. “My condolences.”

Russell pursed his lips. Knowing Serena, his sister would've heard about the whole story by now. And that particular realization made him shudder.

He scanned the room for Serena, hoping she was somewhere close by. People crowded the lounge bar from wall to wall, most of them seated and hidden from view. It was better to start with the entrance and check to see if she was there. He could always try asking her staff for help otherwise.

Wasting no more time, he headed for the exit, and Clayton scrambled from his seat to follow.

They hadn't gotten far when Russell spotted them in the distance. Bradford and the rest of the team had decided to stick together for the night, and they were having the time of their life. Dozens of dark green paper bags filled the center of their table. From afar, Russell was barely able to make out the country club's logo stenciled on the face of each gift bag. A pile of boxes sat beside them, small tokens stacked high like a mountain, all wrapped and ribboned.

Among their group, one guy stood out, looking to be only half as wide as the rest. It was Russell's old pal Jude, and he was sitting among the former starters, the ex-cheerleaders, and pretty much everyone else who had been popular back in high school.

I hope it was worth it, Russell thought.

“Don't mind them,” Clayton said, stepping up beside him and using his large body to block Russell’s view.

Russell grunted, never even missing a step. Instead of cutting through the middle of the room, the two of them wove their way to the nearest wall, steering well away from his former teammates.

Soon, the exit was only a few tables away.

“Yo, Rusty! Leaving so soon?” a familiar voice called out, and Russell cursed under his breath. Their departure didn’t go unnoticed, and it seems the douchebag still had some unfinished business with him.

“What happened to catching up with old friends? Stay! Enjoy the party!” Bradford yelled, getting the attention of those sitting around them. “It's not every day we get to enjoy the services of such a fine establishment—well, not for you, anyway.”

That got a few of their fellow alumni laughing, but Russell paid them no mind. As he and Clayton passed by the final table along their path, the large chandelier in the lobby grabbed Russell's attention.

“You just got ignored, Collins!” a different voice shouted, this time coming from the other side of the room. “That's definitely gonna leave a mark!”

More laughter spread across the lounge, but Russell pretended he didn't hear anything. The chandelier swung from side to side as it hung from the ceiling, the tiny glass beads clinking against one another. An aftershock?

“Shut up, Donald!” Bradford yelled before a clap of thunder echoed from outside. Oddly enough, even with the floor-to-ceiling windows surrounding the lobby, even with the array of windows dominating the far wall of the restaurant, there hadn't been a single flash of light. There was no lightning, yet the thunder kept on coming.

Something was off. Whatever was going on wasn’t normal, and he wasn't the only one who noticed.

“Is it a storm? Is it an earthquake?” Clayton murmured beside him. “Someone tell Mother Nature to make up her goddamn mind…”

The lounge exit was a few steps away, and the clubhouse lobby beyond was fortunately devoid of any crowd. But before they could leave, Russell caught the telltale scraping of wood against wood, the distinct sound of a chair being violently pushed aside. Bradford must have sprung up from his seat after his patience had been emptied out, his fragile ego bruised to a pulp.

If Russell was a betting man, he would wager his own truck that the douchebag finally decided to do something stupid.

He was right on the money.

“Look at the little runt go, boys!” Bradford said out loud. “Can't let our one and only hometown hero leave without at least taking a souvenir with him, could we?”

Souvenir? Russell already had an idea of what Bradford was up to. He knew it like he knew the quarterback all those years ago. Felt it with the dormant instincts of a wide receiver. The gut feeling he’d get when a momentary window opened for that game-changing pass.

Russell sensed it before it even came.

“Bradford, no!” someone shouted behind them.

There was no need for him to look, no need for him to move out of the way. Whatever Bradford planned to ‘give’ him, it would miss.

Clayton was a different story.

His friend turned back to look just as something flashed past Russell's head, right between the two of them. His friend ducked for cover, his instinctive reaction nearly bringing Russell down with him to the floor.

“What the hell?!” Clayton jumped back to his feet, both of them stopping in their tracks as he glared in Bradford’s direction. “Watch it, douchebag!”

“Oh shoot, you almost had him!” a new voice called out, coaxing the rest of the idiots to jeer.

“Damn, Brad! That was a cannon straight into the end zone!” another exclaimed. “If only the dumbass caught it.”

“Dude, he’s called Rusty for a reason,” somebody else answered, starting another round of laughter at a few other tables.

The insults piled on, but the rest of the crowd was silent—a surprise even for Russell. He assumed everyone would be on the jocks’ side. Then again, they didn’t expect Bradford to resort to violence, not in such a formal setting anyway. But these people didn't know him like Russell did.

“Enjoy the gift,” Bradford said once the laughter died down. “Courtesy of the country club and the entire school.”

Russell gave the jerk a sidelong glance. The guy was waving someone off at his table, but Russell was more interested in searching for what had flown past them. Whatever Bradford had thrown had smashed against the jamb of the doorway, leaving a small nick on the wooden frame.

The douchebag could still throw, Russell would give him that. Though he would rather be caught dead than admit that out loud.

He bent down and picked up the makeshift projectile from the floor—a transparent canister of tennis balls. Its cylindrical shape explained how the former quarterback had managed to throw it with a respectable spiral.

“How do you like it?” Bradford asked. “We weren't sure if you play, or if you even own a racket of your own. But given that it's free, I'm sure you aren't going to complain, right? You know, being jobless and all?”

If Bradford had expected a standing ovation for his performance, he was sorely mistaken. The chuckles were few and far between, many of them forced, and some even sounded uncomfortable.

Russell inspected Bradford’s gift in his hand. Perhaps these were the same ones used and sold here in the country club. A crack had formed on the red lid with the airtight seal missing underneath, leaving the balls exposed. And they were old and worn out, not a brand new like he assumed, not the kind the club would give away in a gift bag. Worse, what was covering the tennis balls wasn’t dirt but a different kind of black filth altogether—scribbles, signatures, messages all written by his ‘friends’ in black marker on the rough, faded felt, all thoughtfully dedicated to him.

What a joke.

“Jobless?” He turned back to face Bradford, his former teammates, and everyone there enjoying the show. “C'mon, Collins. I’m sure you could come up with a better insult than that.”

Bradford's mouth twitched.

“You should know better by now.” Russell locked his eyes with Bradford and tapped the canister against his temple. “You should've gone for the head.”

“Well, we wouldn't want you to get hurt now, would we?” Bradford said with a cocky grin. Looking around, he addressed those seated at his table. “Someone just might end up crying to Coach Sanders and snitch on us again, am I right?”

“I'd be careful of pointing fingers if I were you,” Russell said. “If you're worried about a snitch, everyone here knows the rat ain’t gonna be me.”

Bradford scoffed. “Is that so? Is that what you’ve been telling yourself for the past ten years so you could sleep at night?”

“No, I’ll have to thank all the unskilled labor I do everyday for that. Honest work someone like you always love to discrimate.” Russell tilted his head. “Then again, not everyone here is a trust fund baby like you. Not all of us can simply ask Daddy or Mommy for a job like a spoiled brat.”

The smile froze on Bradford’s face, and Russell knew he had struck a raw nerve. Even a few of the guys choked after hearing his accusation.

“And you know what?” Russell continued. “You're not the only one who's updated with events around here.”

Bradford raised an eyebrow. “Oh, yeah?”

“Oh, yeah.” Russell nodded. “I heard you were one of the few lucky ones who got a football scholarship after high school.”

“Of course, I did,” Bradford said, regaining his lost vigor. “I’m not some joke like you, Flynn. I didn't even need one, but what can I say?” The sneer on his face grew sharper. “People get exactly what they deserve.”

“Is that right?” Russell asked through gritted teeth. “Because I also heard you never even set foot on the field for a single second of game time.”

If Bradford’s frozen expression earlier was cold, the ugly countenance the football scholar had now was a deep freeze.

“I guess you were so good that they made you warm the bench all those years in college, huh?” Russell added for good measure. “I guess you’re right once again. People do get what they deserve.”

The rapid murmurs that followed were only broken by a snicker or two from somewhere in the crowd who were watching the spectacle.

Bradford opened his mouth, but nothing came out. The douchebag found himself truly speechless for once. Priceless.

“The ones who haven’t heard must be wondering how that could happen to the great Bradford Collins.” Russell bobbed his head. “After all, everyone here knows how good you were when we were all still in high school.”

“Damn right!” one of the former players shouted from his seat, and the rest murmured in agreement. But even after hearing his friends vouch for him, Bradford didn't regain his usual swagger.

“I mean, how could anyone here forget the amazing quarterback who led our school football team to glory?” Russell acted as if the plastic can in his hands was a football, pretending to be a quarterback in an imaginary game only he could see, and he mimed what a player like Bradford would usually do.

Bradford didn't puff his chest in pride like usual. He didn't hold his chin high in arrogance. Instead, the guy remained silent, his face growing somber.

“If I recall correctly, you did always aim for the head, yeah?” Russell asked innocently.

Bradford didn't reply. Russell would never compliment him without an ulterior motive. And the douchebag was too smart not to know that.

“Serious question, Brad,” Russell continued “How many times did you ever really hit the mark?”

Bradford refused to answer.

Russell tapped the canister on his temple. “You obviously missed just now.”

Bradford should have realized the truth.

Russell tapped the plastic container on his temple a second time. “Honestly, you even missed half the time during practice.”

Bradford should have gathered where Russell was going with all this.

Instead of tapping his temple a third time, Russell stretched his hand out, pointing the canister directly at Bradford, aiming for the kill. “And you definitely missed in our state championship game.”

With a whip of his arm, Russell slung the tennis balls right back at Bradford. His ‘souvenir’ arced across the distance, hurtling toward the football team's table. Of course, Russell was neither a pitcher nor a quarterback, so he missed his target by a wide margin—and hit the next best thing.

The canister crashed into the pile of presents and gift bags. It struck right at the base like a bowling ball knocking down all ten pins, sending the entire mountain of souvenirs tumbling down all over the floor.

Everyone at the table jumped away from the mess as Bradford's expression turned grave. The man stood in place and didn’t move away. His pale skin flushed, his face glowing beet red, a volcano about to blow.

When the venue fell completely still, Russell turned his back on everyone there and simply walked away, his steps the only sound in the dead silence.

Now he was done catching up.