“Did she.”
“Said some moron held you up for your truck keys, then took off on a bike instead.”
This time Cletus sits up fully and motions for Arden to sit beside him. He takes a swig and waits for the burn to subside before saying, “That kid was a moron. Thought I was driving drunk. Said he was trying to help me.”
“And were you?”
“Was I what?”
“Driving drunk.”
“Now you sound like your mother. It takes a lot to get me drunk, boy. You know that.”
Arden doesn’t want to have this conversation. Not face-to-face. It was different when he was anonymously scaring him out of getting behind the wheel. But having a serious conversation with Uncle Cletus feels wrong. What business did a seventeen-year-old boy have telling a seventy-three-year-old man how to live his life? At least, that’s what his uncle would say. And Arden would have no answer. Time for a subject change.
“Mom said the clerk came out with a shotgun, threatened to shoot the guy’s balls off or something.”
Cletus chuckles. “That Carly. She’s a spitfire if I ever saw one.”
Arden would have to agree. “So you know her pretty well then?”
Uncle Cletus’s mouth tugs into a scowl. “I know her parents don’t have the sense God gave a billy goat. Letting a girl her age work alone at a convenience store on the graveyard shift. I can’t help but check in on her every night. I’ve spent a fortune on vodka I’ll never drink. Too bad that stingy old Bagget won’t stock whiskey but he’ll stock something as useless as vodka. But I guess when you’re old enough, that’ll be part of your inheritance.”
Arden remembers being surprised when Cletus had dropped the bottle of vodka on the ground last night. Cletus hated vodka, said it tastes like tap water. Arden had just assumed the old man’s taste buds had changed. He never guessed his uncle would buy vodka every night just to see Carly.
Cletus takes a sizeable gulp from the bottle, then points at Arden. “You’d learn something from that one, boy. She’s a hard worker. A survivor. Gets things done. That girl doesn’t know it, but she’s going places in life.”
Not what Arden wants to hear. Why is everyone obsessed with going places in life instead of just living life? “Maybe I’ll come with you one night and meet her.” Arden grins. “Sounds like my kind of girl.”
Cletus wipes the excess liquor off his chin with the back of his hand. “She’s way out of your league, boy. You won’t be good enough for her until you get yourself straightened out. Hell, you might not ever be good enough for her.”
This stings more than Arden expects. Even Cletus thinks he’s wasting his life. His uncle is the one person who always thought Arden could do anything. What changed? His quitting the football team? What exactly has his mother been telling Cletus? And what’s so wrong about slowing down and enjoying life? “I will eventually. Get straightened out, I mean.” But the words fall as flat as they feel. Because to Arden, he is straightened out. More than he’s ever been.
“It’s been a year, Arden. It’s time to let her go.”
Arden balls his fists. “Amber has nothing to do with it.” He can’t keep the bitterness out of his voice. He comes here to check on his uncle and now all of a sudden he’s under attack. And what if he’s not ready to let Amber go? She would want him to move on, he knows. But she doesn’t get what she wants. His bending to Amber’s will ended when she took her own life.
“Everyone deals with things differently, son. But you don’t seem to be dealing with it at all. Your mother says you don’t sleep. That you’re out gallivanting, stirring up trouble every night. Says your grades are crap. That’s not going to get you into FSU.”
Nice. He comes over here to check on his uncle and suddenly his baggage is getting checked. “Who says I want to go to FSU?”
“Things are expected of you, boy. You can’t run from that forever. You could get counseling. Heard that helps some folks.”
Arden isn’t going to discuss expectations with his uncle. Not in a million years. “Sure,” he grounds out. “Maybe we could go to counseling together. Me for Amber, and you for Aunt Dorothy.”
Cletus opens his mouth to fire back but closes it again. Anger flashes across his face like a strike of lightning. He takes a long drag from the bottle, his way of hosing the fire in his temper. Then another. Each calculated sip would have scalded a lesser man’s throat. But not a pro like Cletus Shackleford. When he’s done, his face is calm again. “I can see why you think that. But we’re different, you and me. I’m an old washed-up man who’s done everything I’ve wanted to do in life. I’ve got a bank account to prove it.” He waves his hand in a grandiose gesture of the room. “A big, useless house and more land than you could hunt in decades. I was married to the woman of my dreams for forty-three years.”
“You tell me all the time that wealth doesn’t matter. That material possessions are just more things to take care of. Now you’re telling me to go to college so I can get stuff?”
“I’m telling you that you only think you’re happy doing what you’re doing. You used to have drive, son. I don’t care if you’re as poor as a church mouse when you get to be my age. Find something that matters to you. Even when it’s gone.” At this, his uncle’s eyes glisten with threatening tears.