March of Pain 2026 Masterlist | Clyde Masterlist | Rory Culkin Masterlist | Main Masterlist 𐴱 Taglist 𐴱 Pinned Post
A/N: Fun fact, I've had to use Narcan easily over a hundred times, and let me tell you. That shit is like magic. The first time I used it, I was alone, shaking like a leaf and near tears, but holy shit. Watching it work was so fucking cool. If you don't know anything about Naloxone, I'd highly suggest looking into it. Especially if you or anyone around you is using any kind of drugs.
Summary: Clyde finds you unresponsive after experimenting with harder drugs for the first time. He finds himself having to Narcan you and perform CPR.
Warning: Angst, Drug use, Drug overdose, CPR and rescue breaths, Brief mention of a needle, Overdose reversal, Whump.
This is Day 16 of my March of Pain writing challenge, where I post a whump piece inspired by a list of prompts every day.
Prompt: Overdose
WC: 578 Words
It was a little too quiet when Clyde came to.
The two of you had been up late partying and he'd passed out not long after you'd shut your eyes. It didn't feel like he'd gotten much sleep though.
His eyes swept across the room, landing on the red glow of the alarm clock accross the room.
3am on the dot.
Christ, he'd barely gotten two hours.
You'd both popped a handful of pills a few hours before. An assortment of unlabeled tablets that were cheap enough that he hadn't asked many questions. The effects had been immediate. You'd started nodding off and Clyde had managed to drag you to bed before you passed out.
He groaned, scrubbing his hands over his face and turned towards you.
The first thing he'd noticed was the soft rattling sound coming from your throat.
Your lips were blue.
You were breathing, but just barely.
"Shit." Clyde breathed, shaking you by the shoulders roughly. "Baby, wake up."
You were limp in his arms.
"C'mon." He muttered, dragging his knuckles over your sternum hard enough to bruise.
You didn't flinch.
"No, no, no" his eyes darted from your face to the door frantically before he decided to start shouting.
"Help!" He screamed, still trying to draw some kind of response from you "I need some help in here!"
Johnny burst into the room only moments later, looking panicked and sleep rumpled.
"What are you-" He started, but trailed off when he saw what was happening "Oh."
"She won't wake up!" Clyde was sure he was crying, but couldn't find it in him to care "I don't-"
"Narcan kit." Johnny's brain seemed to reboot and within a half second, he was sprinting back down the hall.
Clyde was glad that someone else was able to do the thinking.
You'd stopped breathing altogether by the time he came back and Clyde had started to give you CPR clumsily in his panic. He had to pause his efforts when Johnny tore back into the room, fumbling with his cellphone.
He was quick to tear open the Narcan kit as soon as it hit the matress beside him, shouting for Johnny to call 9-1-1.
He managed to snap the top off of the ampule, but his hands were shaking too badly to get the needle into it.
He knew how to use it. you all did. But knowing in theory, and actually having to use it on someone he loved were entirely different.
"I-" He sobbed, trying so hard to focus while Johnny rambled to the 9-1-1 operator, trying to give them a picture of what was going on. "I can't get it!"
"Fuck," He sucked in a breath and forced himself to focus, finally managing to draw up the lifesaving medication.
"C'mon, baby." Clyde muttered under his breath as he plunged the needle into your thigh, rubbing the skin hard after the spring pulled the needle into the syringe. "Come back to me."
"It's not working." He breathed shakily, going back to doing chest compresions and rescue breaths "Jesus, fuck. It isn't fucking working."
"Give her another one." Johnny called out instructions from the dispatcher on the other side of the line.
All Clyde could do was nod and try again to draw up a dose, hitting you in the arm this time.
It only took fifteen seconds for you to sit up suddenly, gasping for air like a switch had been flipped.
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Requests for Headcanons, one-shots, Imagines, or Miniseries ideas are welcome and much appreciated. You can find links for my Main Masterlist and instructions on how to get on a taglist above.
✦ Backstory Headcanons
Headcanons for Clyde's backstory explaining why I think he acts the way he does
Clyde x Reader 𓆩♡𓆪
✦ Dating Headcanons
General headcanons for dating Clyde
Clyde x Reader 𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩✿𓆪
✦ Crushing on you Headcanons
Headcanons for Clyde having a crush on you
Clyde x Reader 𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩✿𓆪
✦ NSFW Headcanons
Headcanons for everything NSFW with Clyde
Clyde x Reader ཐི♡ཋྀ
✦ Strangers in the Snack Aisle
Short meet-cute one-shot for meeting Clyde in a grocery store in a twist of fate
Clyde x Reader 𓆩♡𓆪
✦ High Sex with Clyde
You and Clyde are smoking together when things get hot and heavy.
Clyde x Pre-established relationship!Reader ཐི♡ཋྀ
✦ Greedy Girl
Lazy overstimulation with Clyde
Clyde x Pre-established relationship!Reader ཐི♡ཋྀ
✦ Handcuffs with Clyde
Your night with Clyde ends with you handcuffed to the bed, begging for him to touch you.
Clyde x Pre-established relationship!Reader ཐི♡ཋྀ
(Kinktober 2025 Day 5)
✦ Edging with Clyde
You and Clyde spend a lazy Sunday in bed with a joint, and all the time in the world. He's especially keen to remind you that that he's intent on taking his time.
Clyde x Pre-established relationship!Reader ཐི♡ཋྀ
(Kinktober 2025 Day 25)
Dividers and Headers made by me on my side blog @dividers-are-us
Rory Culkin Masterlist 𐴱 Main Masterlist 𐴱 Taglist 𐴱 Reading List 𐴱 Pinned Post 𐴱 Moodboard side-Blog
Summary: Lazy overstimulation with Clyde
Warning: NSFW, Overstimulation, hand stuff, Oral Fem!Receiving, Praise kink, Dirty talk, thigh riding.
“You like that, baby?” Clyde muttered, a joint dangling from his lips while he lazily worked you over with his fingers. “You look so pretty over there, do you know that?”
He held your stare and smirked faintly while you panted, splayed out and naked on the couch, writhing while he sat there, fully clothed and looking casual as ever, toying with you. You’d already cum twice, but you just couldn’t seem to get enough of him.
You made a low, whining sound and nodded, eyes pleading for him to speed up.
“What is it?” he cooed. “Use your words, sweetheart. What do you need?”
“Faster,” You breathed, arching your back. “Please, Clyde.”
“You wanna cum?” he sped up a little, thrusting his fingers into you hard while you gasped and groaned, “must want it real bad if you’re saying please.”
“I do!” You moaned softly, struggling not to let your eyes roll back. “I need it.”
“Where’d your manners go?” Clyde slowed down slightly, and you made a pathetic, desperate whining sound.
“Please!” you whimpered, trying to grind your hips down further on his hand, “Please, please, please, make me cum!”
“There you go,” He sped back up, unable to bite back his smile. “Good girl.”
Fuck, he loved hearing you beg.
It made him feel so special and wanted. Like you needed him so desperately that you’d do anything just to have him touch you.
Watching you come undone had to be his favourite thing to do. The way your entire body tenses and your breath hitches in your throat while your walls flutter around him just before you come crashing over the edge. Then the drawn-out, loud moan that tears out of your throat as you throw your head back and let your eyes roll.
It always made him salivate, even when he had cotton mouth, and this time was no exception.
He felt the rush of liquid coating his fingers while he continued to fuck them into your spasming cunt, and tossed what was left of his joint into the ashtray so he could get a taste.
Before you’d even finished cumming, you jolted when you felt his mouth on you.
Your hands flew to his hair, tugging at it desperately while you squirmed under him.
Clyde pinned your hips to the couch with one hand and used the other to work with his mouth, quickly building you up to orgasm again despite the slow, lazy pace he’d set.
All that could be heard were the gasps and moans falling from your lips and lewd sounds coming from your soaked cunt.
He watched you through hooded, bloodshot eyes as he lapped at your cunt, dragging the tips of his curved fingers over that deliciously spongy patch on your insides, sending you into oblivion.
You gasped, arching your back into his hand, clenching around his fingers while they fucked you through your orgasm and his tongue traced slow circles over your clit.
He pulled his fingers out of you and nudge you up into a sitting position with the other hand, sweeping you into his lap when your fucked out body complied slowly, still shaking from your most recent climax.
Clyde had you sitting on his knee and shoved his fingers into your mouth, groaning when your tongue rolled around them, clearing them of your slick.
When you were finished, he grabbed you by the back of the neck and pulled you down for a kiss.
“You got another one in you, baby?” He muttered against your mouth.
You whined, unsure, but then he bounced your fucked out body on his knee and you felt the way the rough denim of is jeans dragged against your poor, overly sensitive clit.
“Oh, fuck I can’t!” You cried out, head thrashing from side to side, “It’s too much!”
“C’mon, sweetheart,” He cooed, just barely moving his leg beneath you, “You can do it, I know you can.”
Despite the tears welling up in your big doe eyes, your hips were starting to rock against him of their own volition, sending waves of both pain and pleasure through you.
“That’s my girl,” He smirked, leaning back against the couch, watching you use his leg to get yourself off. “Look so pretty up there. Greedy little thing today, aren’t you?”
You nodded, shaking a couple of tears loose as you worked up a steady, yet jerky rhythm.
“How many is that?” Clyde asked you, reaching out to brush away the tears with his thumbs, “Four? Five?”
“You don’t even know, do you, pretty girl?”
You moaned, letting your head fall back, but it came out sounding like a sob. You were already back up to the edge of bliss, yet it hurt.
You wanted to cum so badly and your body was moving against him desperately, but you couldn’t stop the tears from pouring down your cheeks.
“Already?” He hummed, watching you completely lose all sense of control as you slammed your hips down on his thigh. “That’s it, baby, make yourself cum. Dirty girl, using my leg to get yourself off.”
His taunting drove you over the edge, and you gasped, so fucked out that you couldn’t keep yourself upright.
“Easy, easy.” Clyde wrapped his arms around you before you could fall right off of his lap, gently pulling you into his chest. “I’ve got you, doll. I’ve got you.”
Your chest was heaving as he pulled both your legs to one side of his lap, giving your poor, abused clit a break from the harsh denim and cradling you in his arms.
“So good for me,” he hummed, kissing your forehead while you panted. “Was that good, baby?”
You just barely nodded, completely limp.
“You okay?” he nuzzled your cheek with his nose, gently wiping the tears from your flushed cheeks. "I bet you're hurting, aren't you?"
You just whimpered.
"Why don't we get you cleaned up, huh?" Clyde muttered, scooping you up to take you to bed. "My perfect, greedy girl."
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Summary: You and Clyde are smoking together when things get hot and heavy.
Warning: Unprotected P in V, Drug use, slight dirty talking
Let me set the scene
You and Clyde are hanging out in his apartment, sitting together on the couch. You’re straddling him, sitting just barely far enough down his legs not to be pressed up against his dick while his hands rest loosely on your hips.
This isn’t an unusual position for the two of you to sit and chat by any means. You’re both big on eye contact and have an unshakeable need to be touching in some way at all times, so it’s really the best of both worlds.
Your eyes lit up with excitement when you saw Clyde reaching for the joint you’d rolled earlier that day and forgotten about.
“Wanna share it?” he asked, as if either of you have ever not shared a joint. The corners of his lips pitched upwards when you nodded eagerly.
Clyde brought it to his lips and patted the couch cushion next to him in search of a lighter until he found one and lit the end of the joint. His hand cupped around the flame, more of a habit than anything after years of lighting his cigarettes outside on windy nights.
He took a drag and offered it to you, breathing the smoke out shakily when you took his wrist and guided his hand to your mouth. Your lips brushed against his fingertips as you wrapped them around the filter, taking a hit of your own.
You sighed happily, letting go of his arm once you’d taken a second puff, shutting your eyes while you felt the smoke fill your lungs.
Clyde licked his lips before planting the joint back in between them, allowing his fingers to trace patterns on the exposed skin where your shirt had ridden up slightly. Your eyes were still closed when he brought it back to your mouth. The pad of his thumb brushed up against your bottom lip, and a soft whine escaped from the back of your throat.
He knew that it drove you crazy when he did that, just like how you knew that it drove him crazy when you smoked right out of his hand like that.
Your eyes fluttered open and darted down to meet his gaze as you took a long inhale of smoke.
He was watching you intently, eyes dark with lust. You didn’t have to look to know that he was straining against the confines of his sweatpants. You knew that look in his eyes well enough to be sure.
Without breaking eye contact, you adjusted yourself in his lap so that you could feel him through the layers of both of your clothing, pressed up against your clit.
A soft groan fell from his lips and the fingers of the hand still gripping your hip dug its fingers into your soft flesh hard enough that you were sure it would bruise.
Your next inhale on the joint was sharp and enough to make your skin break out into a tingling sensation.
When Clyde brought the joint to his own lips, you rolled your hips, earning you a hiss and a sharp slap on the ass when he almost dropped it.
‘Careful.’ he all but growled, wild with want and unable to help the way his hips bucked upwards, grinding into you roughly. ‘Wouldn’t want to waste a perfectly good joint, now would we?’
You shook your head, bottom lip trapped between your teeth to stifle a moan.
One of his hands wound its way into the hair at the base of your skull, firmly tugging, but not hard enough to hurt you. He pulled you towards him and blew smoke into your mouth, following it up with a sloppy kiss.
The two of you made out for a few minutes, not noticing that the joint had gone out in the midst of your desperate, needy kissing. You were clawing at eachother, hands slipping underneath clothes while he tried to keep the lit end of the joint far away from your skin while you continued to grind yourself against him.
Neither of you were big on teasing, so you peeled your shirt off and tossed it over your shoulder, reconnecting your lips while freed his cock from his pants. You pulled your shorts to the side and sunk down slowly, impaling yourself on it.
You let out a collective groan, foreheads pressed together as you got used to the blissful feeling of fucking while high.
Both of you pulled back slightly and Clyde re-lit the joint, letting it dangle from his lips while you arched your back, rolling your hips.
“Shit.” He breathed shakily around the joint before holding it out for you, shuddering when he, again, felt your lips brushing up against your fingertips.
He took a drag and you started bouncing on his cock while he watched, mesmerized by the way your tits moved with every rise and fall.
Your hands were just behind your back, clutching his knees tightly to use as leverage. Your head fell back, muttering a slew of curse words to the tapestry-draped ceiling.
You started grinding your pelvis down, head lowered to meet his lust-filled gaze. Whimpers and soft moans left your lips.
The joint was flicked into the coffee can on the side table, long forgotten, so Clyde could free up his hands. They ran up the sides of your waist, nails lightly dragging over the skin before cupping your tits, kneading the soft skin.
He was always in awe of them. Staring whenever you wore low cut tops. The way they bounced and rippled in his hands was always enough to make his dick twitch, but he just couldn’t tear his eyes away from yours.
He shifted his hips and you struggled not to let your eyes roll back into your head as he somehow buried himself deeper inside of you, his tip slamming against your cervix every time you lowered yourself onto him.
“You like that sweetheart?” There was a lazy smirk on his face despite the urge to just lose himself to the feeling of you wrapped around his cock, pulsating with need, “Hmm?”
You nodded, fucked out eyes boring back into his as the sounds spilling out of your mouth increased in frequency and pitch.
He knew just based on the sounds you were making alone that you were close, teetering the edge of bliss.
“You gonna cum?” He asked, slapping the bare skin of your ass.
You hissed sharply, but nodded frantically.
“Yeah?” Clyde lowered his hands to your hips and guided them slamming into you. Each word was accentuated with a hard thrust “Go ahead, baby. I’ve got you, come on.”
“Cum for me.” He urged, able to feel his own release quickly approaching.
His words pitched you over the edge.
Your head fell back, eyes screwed shut as you reached your peak, convulsing around his glistening cock while he burried his face into your chest, trying to stifle the loud moans falling uncontrolably from his lips.
You clung to eachother, slowing to a stop, breathing heavily as you came back down to earth.
“Shit,” You muttered shakily into his hair once you'd caught your breath.
“Yeah.” he laughed breathlessly, pressing his lips to your collar bone before reaching up to cradle your face in his hands.
“I fucking love you.” Clyde breathed, eyes wide with conviction. “Do you know that?”
“Yeah. I know.” You rolled your eyes playfully, resting your hands over his, “I love you too.”
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A/N: I just watched Electrick Children, and guys, I haven't stopped typing in hours. Love me a skater boy. This is the first little bits that immediately came to mind. Hope you enjoy ;)
Summary: NSFW Headcanons for Clyde
Warnings: unprotected P in V penetration, drug use, public hand stuff
The laziest morning sex. You’ll wake up to a hand creeping up the front of your shirt or his bulge grinding into your ass from behind most mornings. From there, it’s sloppy kissing and soft moans until you’re both out of your clothes and he’s sliding into you oh so slowly. You’d swallow each other’s whimpers and gasps, rolling around in his sheets, slowly working your way up to your peaks.
High sex with Clyde where he’s holding a joint, bringing it to your lips while you ride him, desperately trying to keep his gaze on you, then letting his head fall back in bliss when it’s his turn to take a hit. The way your lips brush up against his fingers when he holds it for you gets him rock hard every single time and is a surefire route to getting hot and heavy whenever you’re smoking together. All you’d have to do is whine about how you don’t want your hands to smell like weed, and he’d be tripping over himself to help, licking his lips in anticipation.
Would absolutely trail his hand up your thigh when he’s driving the van, even if your friends are sitting in the back, chatting and joking while he steals glances at you, smirking when you have to bite down on your bottom lip to keep from whimpering when his fingertips brush up against your panties. If he’s feeling bold, he’ll pull them to the side and run a finger along your slit, sinking into you, but only to his second knuckle. It would drive you wild and lead to frantic sex either in the back of the van once everyone had left or in the bathroom at a bar if you couldn’t get any time alone.
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MDNI banner by @cafekitsune
summary: reader returns home & encounters some ghosts from her past.
warnings: 18+! language, mentions of war, amputation.
a/n: it's here!! i hope y'all enjoy this long ass chapter (this is so long its embarrassing LOL). there's some time skipping/flashbacks here so i hope it's not too hard to follow! as always, any feedback is appreciated :)
series masterlist
ONE
The phone had barely rung two times before you answered, thumb punching the accept call button as soon as you glanced at the caller ID. Pulling the phone up to your ear, you looked ahead at the cornfields and the open road in front of you. Your mom’s crackly voice filled your ears.
“Darlin’,” she sighed on the other end. So, she’d gotten your message.You thought to yourself.
Mentally, you kicked yourself for giving her any notice in the first place. You knew she’d try to talk you out of it, like she had successfully done the previous two times you’d tried moving back home.
“You got out, honey.” she’d say. “You got to do what I never did. You went to college, you got your degree, you moved to the city. Don’t throw that away. There ain’t nothin’ for you here.”
You hated that she referred to your hometown like that, the place that raised you: a place to get out of. Sometimes you missed it like you missed a limb.
And after your Gramma’s first stroke it had worked, no matter how guilty you felt for being states away while she recovered.
It had been a minor stroke, the summer before your junior year of college. Not fatal, or with too many lasting health complications, but it had been enough to scare you. It had been enough to scare you into almost dropping out of college and moving home, but your mother and grandmother had insisted that you go back after she’d begun the road to recovery.
Of course, that wasn’t the only reason you decided to go back, a small voice in the back of your head whispered.
Two dark brown eyes danced in your mind's eye; freckles scattered sparsely across tan cheeks, a rumble of a laugh, the crackle of a tape on an old car radio. You dispelled it before you allowed your mind to wander further.
That’s in the past, you insisted, chastising that quiet voice trying to bring up old ghosts.
You wouldn’t let your mind go there again. He left, you reminded yourself, instead resolving to focus on the road in front of you, and the nagging voice of your mother in your ear.
She sighed your name.
“I told you not to come, honey. This is the whole reason we waited so long to tell you–”
“I’m already on the road, mom.” You interrupted her. “I moved out earlier this week, and I’m already on my way home. No use in trying to change my mind on this when it’s already done.”
For the first time in what seemed like forever, you were met with radio silence; Your mother was speechless. There’s a beat of silence before she speaks again. Secretly, inside you’re smug. You’ve managed to outsmart her.
“You’re on the road right now?” She asked in that familiar disapproving short tone.
“As we speak,” you shifted, holding the wheel with one hand and slouching in your seat. Your mother sighed again.
“Stop that,” she said, displeasure evident in her voice.
“Stop what, mama? Driving?”
“Stop sounding so smug,” She scolded in that tone that all mothers have perfected, before addressing you by your full name. “This is gonna upset your Gramma. The last thing she wanted was you putin’ your whole life on hold for this.”
“‘For this?’” You asked in disbelief. “Mama, I can’t believe you waited more than a whole month to tell me the cancer was back in the first place! As if it was none of my business!”
You could practically hear her eye-roll through the phone.
“Now don’t be ridiculous.” She simpered. “We didn’t wanna upset you is all. And we certainly didn’t want you doin’ something so rash, like this.”
You rolled your eyes. This woman was impossible.
“Mom, I’d been considering leaving for a long time. My lease was up, Carla got married. This was just the final nail in the coffin. It was a long time comin’.”
“But you seemed so happy, baby.” she cooed.
“I don’t care! I deserve to know if my grandma is dying or not, and you have no right to keep it from me!”
You were met with silence. It was your turn to sigh.
“I’m sorry,” she conceded softly. “I shouldn’t have kept it from you. I was just scared of something like this happening. You can’t expect me to believe that this whole thing didn’t cause you to up and move home out of the blue.”
“I know, mama, but it’s the truth.” You paused, before continuing, “I put in my notice weeks ago. I’ve missed home. A lot. The city is…so loud. And there are no mountains near Chicago. The land is so flat, and–”
“I know baby, I know.” You could hear her shuffling around on the other end of the line.
She was no doubt calling from the landline in the kitchen at the old house. Thinking of it, your heart yearned. You missed it so much.
“It’s just that this was your dream, baby. And I just know your Gramma’s gonna blame herself for you giving that up.”
“Mom, I’m not giving anything up,” you emphasized the last part, trying to get it through her head. “I still have my dreams, Chicago just wasn’t it. It took me a while to realize that, but I have. And I have no idea where I wanna go or what I wanna do next, but I do know that I miss home. I was planning on coming back even before I found out.”
“Alright,” she began, but you wouldn’t let her continue. You needed to get this out.
“And, that combined with the fact that Gramma’s cancer is back means there’s nothin’ you can do to stop me.”
“Alright,” she sighed on the other line. “I suppose there’s nothin’ I can do about it now. How did you find out in the first place? You never mentioned in that hysterical voicemail you left–”
“I had reason to be hysterical, don’t you think? Findin’ out from Jimmy Logan and all.”
“Jimmy Logan?” she asked in surprise. “Now what were you doin’ talkin’ to him? Did he finally buck up and get a cell phone?”
“Yes, he did,” you chuckled, “Mellie finally convinced him. Anyway, after she helped him get his contacts in order, the first thing he did was give me a ring, saying how sorry he was to hear about Gramma bein’ sick again.”
“But how? I didn’t even tell Jimmy Logan. The only people we told were the ladies in prayer group.”
You laughed.
“Oh, you know how word gets around. Jimmy heard it from Earl at the hardware store, who heard it from Irene, who heard it from her momma, who, if I’m not mistaken, is in your prayer group.”
“Well,” your mother huffed. “I suppose that is how it goes. I’ll tell you one thing, your Gramma will be happy to see you, no matter the circumstance.”
“I know,” you sighed, glad that the air was at least a little cleared between you. You were still hurt that she’d kept something as important as your Gramma’s illness from you, but you understood where she was coming from. She just wanted what was best for you, wanted you to have everything she didn’t.
“Speaking of them Logans,” your mom said. “Have you told her you’re coming home?”
You laughed into the phone.
“Yes, Mellie knows I’m coming home.” You were surprised that she’d even assumed you hadn’t told the youngest Logan about your returning. She’d kill you if you didn’t.
“Good. I know she’s missed you. Last week while she was doin’ my hair, she told me a girl’s weekend every few months and a phone call just wasn’t cutting it.”
Mellie’s face flashed in your mind, and the feeling of dread at returning home started to dissipate. She had that effect on you; Ever since you met nearly 20 years earlier. You smiled, as your mind drifted back to then.
1995
You’d never imagined coming to a new school would ever be this hard. You’d expected it to be like how you’d seen it happen in TV shows or books or those kids movies you liked so much; Where after a rocky start with school bullies, the new kid fell in with the perfect group of friends and everything was fine. That was what you’d anticipated: The melodrama, the excitement. What you hadn’t expected was the monotony and loneliness.
Entering the third grade in october–two and a half months into the term–was never easy. At least that’s what your grandma had told you, and her being your grandma, you were inclined to believe her.
“It’s not gonna be easy,” she’d told you. “And kids can be real mean, darlin’. Especially when you’re new and they don’t know you. But, you just show them how kind, and special, and smart, and funny you are, and you won't have no problem fittin’ in.”
And you’d expected it to be that easy. Boy were you wrong.
On your first day at Daniel Boone Elementary, you’d expected to be met with a little wariness (what with being the new kid and all), but had hoped, in the end, to make at least one new friend to tell your mom and grandma about when you got off the bus and went home. Instead, you got the usual strange introduction to the class by your new teacher, and that was that. No kids even came up to talk to you. You ate your PB&J sandwich alone at lunch, and spent recess alone on the swings.
The following months went by in a similar manner: no new friends in sight. All the girls in your class were either too preoccupied with your hand-me-down clothes to play with you, or too shy to. And the boys wanted nothing to do with the weird new girl with too-knobby knees and too-big teeth because even if you liked the exact same things as them, you were still a girl, which meant you had cooties.
So, at home you’d drift away and pass your time the only time you knew how: through stories. Whether it be babysitters’ club books or PBS kids documentaries on your grandma’s old box TV, your head was always in the clouds. You’d be cryptic when your grandma or mom would ask about school, and they’d begun to notice. Before the snow came and the world froze over for winter, you’d also begun to explore the property behind your grandma’s house, getting lost in nature as you used to.
By spring, your grandma was at a standstill.
The snow was thawing, and after a winter indoors, she was at her wits end. She could recognize a depressive episode when she saw one, and the fact that she was seeing it in you, her eight-year-old granddaughter, made her heart break all the more.
She had been just about ready to call an intervention with the school’s principal and psychologist when it happened. You met the person who would change your life.
You’d met Mellie Logan once before, roughly a month after your arrival in Boone County, when you were still new enough to be considered the least bit interesting at Daniel Boone Elementary. She was a year older than you and about a head shorter, with the same shade of rich brown hair as the older boy you’d recognized her sit with on the bus; Her brother, Jimmy Logan who was a middle schooler, but not the least bit embarrassed to sit by his little sister on the ride home, tugging playfully on her braids. She was in Ms. Granfell’s class down the hall, with whom your class shared a recess and lunch time, along with some of the 6th graders.
It had been on the bus that you’d had your brief first encounter with Mellie Logan. She and about five other kids got off a few stops before yours, down Elm street, and rather than the fact that she had one older brother, that was about all you knew about the girl, and that was all the thought you’d given to her.
The encounter was a small one: your backpack had been in the aisle as the kids filed in from the school at the end of a school-day in early November and she’d muttered a quiet “pardon me,” as she passed you to her usual seat at the back of the bus where her brother was already seated, and that was that. You barely knew her.
Now, though, as you sat in the school principal’s office, bright fluorescent lights shining over the deep mahogany desk, you felt that all of that was going to change. Mellie sat beside you, eyebrows knit together obstinately as she stared directly ahead of her at the clock on the opposite wall, frowning.
It read: 1:23. You sighed.
That meant that you were missing library time with the rest of your class while being holed up in here, waiting while the principal made calls to each of your parents that they had to come pick you up and discuss the incident.
Your stomach sunk in annoyance as you crossed your arms and slumped down further into the armchair next to Mellie.
Great, now they have even more of a reason to think I’m weird, you thought. That was the last thing you needed. You were already having a hard time fitting in in the first place, with girls like Heather Campbell making faces at you and snickering when it was your turn to answer a question or read aloud to the class. You didn’t need to be known as the weird new girl who’d also gotten into a fight with a sixth grader.
You groaned in realization that that was exactly what you’d be known as from now on. You ran a hand over your face. And just wait until your mom found out, until your Gramma found out. Your life was over.
At that, Mellie looked over at you, her formerly sour expression turned questioning at your sudden outburst.
“What’s the matter with you?” she asked, moving to sit on her hands. Her legs were swinging back and forth off of the edge of the seat of the chair. She looked more bored than anything else, which was wild to you, considering the insane amount of trouble you both were about to be in the moment your parents walked through that door.
You looked at her like she was insane, her freckled face a picture of nonchalance, and sighed. Your heart was at the pit of your stomach as you watched the small round clock tick by, each second drawing closer to what was bound to be the end of your eight years on this planet.
You hadn’t intended to get involved. You really hadn’t. But when you’d seen the trampled, embarrassed look in his deep brown eyes, you didn’t know what else you could do.
It was, surprisingly, not in your nature to be confrontational at this point in your life. Though you’d later grow to be quite the headstrong person, the years spent walking around on eggshells with Keith had taken a toll on your personality. You liked to avoid conflict with even your family, nevertheless with the mean fourth graders you’d always hear snickering at people during lunchtime. But when you’d heard them picking on the lanky boy with messy dark hair something within you had snapped.
It was breakfast for lunch day, aka: the best day of the week, and when the bell rang signaling the beginning of lunchtime you moved as fast as your legs could carry you to the cafeteria.
You stepped into the line behind a tall, lanky boy who had to be at least a few years older than you. You recognized him from your bus; He lived on the same street as Mellie and her brother, and like you, always sat by himself on the bus. You thought that he was probably the only kid who was as quiet as you. In fact, you weren’t sure you’d ever even heard the stoic boy utter a word in the month and a half you’d spent riding home with him. His face always seemed to stay the same too, you’d noticed.
Not that you’d been watching him, you corrected yourself.
Right now, though, the boy smiled at you as you came up behind him. A tight-lipped, shy one at that, but his dark eyes shone with genuine kindness that you were almost too flustered to know what to do. Such kindness, even small ones like this, had been few and far between in your time in Boone County. It’d been lonely, and this little boy’s smile made it feel a little less so. A part of you wondered if this town had been similarly lonely for him too. You smiled back.
The sound of giggling broke you from your blatant staring at the boy in front of you. Two girls had entered the line behind you. You didn’t know their names, but you recognized them from the time you had spent people-watching during your month or so of eating alone. The taller one was blonde, with long straight hair and thick braces covering her teeth as she smiled right past you and to the boy standing in front of you. Her counterpart was shorter and a bit stouter, with short pin-curls that practically stuck to her hair. Your stomach dropped as you took in the looks on both of their faces. Their smiles were anything but kind as they looked right through and onto the boy who was oblivious to what was coming.
You weren’t though. Just last week, you’d seen the pair of girls push a little girl in your class off of the monkey bars for “taking their spot,” when you knew for a fact that that girl had been there for all of recess already. Before that, you’d seen them ridicule another girl for her new haircut that had come out much shorter than expected until she cried. These were two girls you knew not to cross, and here they were, sights set on the boy in front of you whose name you didn't even know. And you were caught in the middle of it.
“Uhm, excuse me?” The blonde girl asked, reaching across you and tapping the boy on the shoulder. Her face was twisted in barely held-in laughter, while beside her, her friend’s face held an identical.
The boy turned, eyes wide and curious. Kind. Unaware of exactly how nasty these two could be.
“Y-yeah?” He asked, voice cracking when he stuttered. The blonde looked over to her friend and then back at him.
“Your name’s Clyde, right?” She asked, head tilting.
“Uhm, yeah, tha’s right.” He smiled, bashful. Ears twinged red.
Clyde. That was the boy’s name. It fit him, you thought.
Her friend popped in. “Say, ain’t you a Logan?” She asked, face spread in what seemed like a kind smile.
Something you didn’t buy. You thought as you grabbed an orange from the selection of fruit.
“Yes ma’am,” he said, moving down the line. He picked up a strawberry milk carton before moving further down where the french toast sticks were. You continued to eavesdrop, feeling the most awkward you had in a while as the conversation continued with you, quite literally, in the middle of it.
“Well, Clyde Logan,” the blonde continued, reaching for an identical carton of strawberry milk. Her face was smug. “There’s something Quinn and I have been meaning to ask you for a while now.”
“What’s that?” he asked, curious. He looked at her, eyes open and welcoming and you dreaded the next words that were going to come out of her mouth. It wasn’t gonna be good.
“We were just wondering,” she snorted halfway through, hand coming to her mouth. “Sorry, we were just wondering if you’d done something to upset your momma?”
He chuckled awkwardly, obviously confused, and flicked some dark hair behind his ear. “Pardon me?” he asked, brows furrowed.
“Oh, nothin’. It’s just you had to have done something to have earned a haircut like that.”
Beside her, her friend had given up on controlling her laughter. Wheezing, her friend–Quinn–interjected.
“Or maybe your hairdresser hates you? What did you do to make someone let you walk out of the house like that?” She giggled.
“Don’t be silly, Quinn. The Logans can’t afford a hairdresser. It had to have been his momma. I mean, really Clyde, you had to have done somethin’ bad.” The blonde chimed in again.
“Although, maybe it’s not the haircut, Heather.” Quinn piped in casually, serving herself french toast. “That’s not fair to his momma. It’s those ears. They stick out like a sore thumb.”
“Mhm,” the blonde, heather, nodded. “I think you’re right. And his nose. It's so big. That’s what makes you so unfortunate looking. Not the hair at all.”
Clyde looked like a deer caught in the headlights. Surprise coloring his features, the smallest frown upon his lips.
“Or , you know what,” Heather considered, piling bacon onto her lunch tray. “It’s probably that curse your sister wouldn’t shut up about last year. What’d she call it?”
“The Logan Family Curse.” Quinn chimed in. Heather laughed.
“That must be it!” She giggled in that snotty, preteen way. “Who knew that the Logan family curse was being cursed with bein’ uglier than a mud fence!”
“Or having ears the size of Dumbo’s.”
Looking over at Clyde, you saw his eyes glassy with unshed tears as he looked down at his lunch tray. Crestfallen. It sent white hot anger surging through your chest, and before you could register it, you were turning to face the two girls beside you in line.
“Just because he has straight teeth and you don’t doesn’t mean you have to be mean.” You glared at her. Her smug face morphed into one of anger as her eyes hardened into a glare.
“Excuse me?” she asked. Beside her, Quinn’s eyebrows rose to her hairline.
“You heard me, brace-face.” You stood your ground, glaring right back at her. She gasped at the insult, not ready for a taste of her own medicine. An identical look of horror crossed her companion’s face. From behind you, you heard a familiar high voice call out.
“Clyde? Where are you–” Mellie looked confused, her eyes following the lanky, dark-haired figure racing out of the cafeteria, leaving his lunch tray deserted in line next to you. Her gaze hardened as she looked over at you and the two girls in line. She stomped over, arms crossed.
“What did you say to him?” She demanded, looking between you three. When no one spoke up, she asked again, louder.
“What did you say to my brother?” She seethed. Heather looked at Quinn, an amused smirk on her face.
“Oh, you mean Dumbo?” She asked.
“Nothing–we just gave him some beauty advice,” Quinn descended into the same annoying laughter as her friend.
What happened next was a blur to you. There was a hand in someone’s hair, another pushing someone's shoulder, and the sound of a hand smacking against someone’s face. You were pushed backwards–by who, you didn’t know–and your half-full lunch tray came down on top of you, covering you in scrambled eggs and syrup. Heather screeched like a banshee, and Quinn started crying. A lunch monitor ran over to break it up, and before you knew it, Heather was being sent to the nurse and you and Mellie to the principal’s office.
Which brings you to now.
You sat, smelling of eggs and syrup, and waiting for your life to end. After a few minutes of silence, you looked to the scrappy, brooding girl next to you.
“Did you have to hit her?” You asked, breaking the silence. Scoffing, she turned to look at you.
“Uhm, yeah I had to hit her.” She spat out incredulously. “She was makin’ fun of my big brother. You don’t let people mess around with your kin.”
“But–” you began before she interrupted you, seemingly not hearing you at all. That was something you’d grow to find out was a habit of hers whenever she talked about something she was passionate about.
“And I’d do it again, too,” she said, stubbornly. “I don’t care what Mrs. Findlay says. If you ask me, Heather Campbell had it comin’ and needed to be knocked down a few pegs. I’m only sad I got caught.”
Her matter-of-fact made you giggle a little bit. After all, you couldn’t disagree with her; You’d seen Heather and Quinn unleash their wrath before. Many times in the short time you’d been in town. They needed to be put in their place. And you were glad you’d had at least a small part in doing it, even if it did put a target on your back and was bound to make your life hell indefinitely.
“I am sorry you got involved, though,” Mellie said. “It ain’t fair you got roped into all a’ my trouble-makin’.”
You chuckled a bit.
“Nah,” you sighed. “Before you walked up, I did say some pretty nasty things to them. I guess I deserved it.”
Mellie, looking surprised at that, snorted.
“You?” she asked, eyes wide in apparent disbelief. “You said somethin’ to Heather Campbell?”
“What's that supposed to mean?” you asked, brows furrowed. “And yes, I’ll have you know, I did say something to her.”
“Nothin’.” Mellie said, “it’s just that in all the time you’ve been here, I ain't heard you speak but about two times.”
“I couldn’t let her talk to him like that when he didn’t do nothin’ to deserve it.” You said. “Besides, I was tired of hearin’ her run her mouth all the time and no one sayin’ anything.”
“Well alrighty then.” She said.
A beat of silence passed, the only sound being the ticking of the clock. Then, “what did you say to her?”
You snorted.
“I called her brace-face.” You admitted sheepishly. Beside you, Mellie howled in laughter and after a moment, you joined her.
“You know,” she said pensively, smiling at you, all trace of a sour mood gone, “I think we’re gonna be good friends.”
You smiled back at her, the first real one in a while.
“Me too.” And you meant it.
Present Day
Your mother’s voice snapped you back to reality.
“And what about him?” she asked carefully, words thick with meaning. “Does he know you’re comin’ back?”
You sighed. “Mama, why would he know I’m coming back? Why would he care that I’m coming back?”
“Darlin’, I didn’t mean it like that–”
“He didn’t bother telling me when he came back. I had to find out from Mellie, a month after the fact.” You continued, that familiar white-hot feeling in your chest resurfacing. “Besides, I’m sure Mellie mentioned it to him. She’d have to if he’s gonna continue this disappearing act of his.”
“That’s not fair, baby, and you know it.” She scolded, ever the mother. It didn’t matter that you were twenty-five, she’d always put you in your place when it came down to it. “He’s been through a lot.”
“I’m sure he has,” you agreed half-heartedly.
“And–”
“--Not that I’d know about it! He hasn’t spoken so much as a word to me in years. Not for lack of trying on my part either, you know that mom.”
“I know, baby, I know,” she said. This was a conversation you’d had before. And no matter how many times you did, she’d always brought up the same points.
And now, Clyde Logan had been home for more than two years, but felt like a ghost. Your family hadn’t heard a thing from him. According to your cousin Zach, Jimmy had wanted to throw a coming-home party for him, but had canceled it last minute. You didn’t know what he was doing now.
You knew better than to ask Mellie about it. She was your best friend, yes, but you wouldn’t put her in that position. You wouldn’t make her choose sides or play middle-man between you and her brother. And she knew better than to bring it up with you, too. She saw her brother’s idiocy, and, more importantly, she saw how hurt you were after all that had happened.
So, Clyde generally wasn’t brought up between the two of you. Not in great detail, anyway. No matter how much you knew she had to reign herself in over it. Your best friend was a fixer at heart, and that instinct didn’t go away when it came to her best friend and her brother.
“Let’s just drop it, mom.” You said. “I am not coming home for Clyde Logan, of all people. I’m just happy to be coming home at all.”
“Well, that makes two of us.” she laughed lightly on the other end. “How far out are you?” she asked.
“I’m about halfway through Indiana right now.”
“Whew,” she whistled. “What a drive.”
You laughed at her sarcasm. “Oh yeah, nothin’ but cornfields for miles. That is somethin’ I won’t be missing, that’s for sure.”
“Good.” she said, “You’d better get a move-on if you wanna be home before dinner, then. I’ll call your cousins and see who can make it.”
Your heart leapt at the thought of it, seeing the family again. You’d missed living in the same county as them all; Not having to drive hours to hug your grandma, to hear your aunt Nikki’s laugh, or to engage in yet another political conversation with your uncle Mike.
“That sounds perfect.”
“Alright then. Your Gramma’s gonna be surprised, that’s for sure. And i’m warnin’ you now: She will not be as easily swayed as I am at your comin’ back.”
“Yeah, I know.” You shook your head. “I’ll start preparing my speech now.”
“You better!” She laughed, “I’m gonna let you go, babe. Call your aunts. Love you.”
“Love you too, momma.” You sighed, as the call ended.
The late May sun shone through the clouds, as you steered off of the freeway to continue south. Toward home.
- -
It was well past seven in the evening before everyone left your grandmother’s house—and, I guess, your house too, for now—for dinner.
It had worked: you’d made it home, finally, and even though your grandmother wasn’t happy with you for returning, she understood why. It’d been too long since you’d been home for more than a week or two. Even longer, if you didn’t count the summers you’d come home during college.
After Clyde had left for his third tour, things weren’t the same. You always hosted holidays after that, or visited your extended family in Charleston. You’d missed your hometown, yes. But the pain you felt at how you and Clyde left things hurt you more. Only now, after six months of therapy and the terrifying possibility that your grandmother was dying, did you feel even remotely comfortable enough to come back.
Now, after a long, loud meal with your extended family, you wondered why you’d left at all. The anxiety you’d felt driving into the county limits earlier that evening had dissipated. Home has a funny way of doing that: letting you ease right back in like you’d never left.
Your cousins were getting bigger—now nearly teenagers—and your aunts inquired about your personal life over dinner. Now, after the coffee had gone cold and your last relative had gone home, you helped your grandmother with the dishes—much to her chagrin.
Your grandmother was a kind woman, a gentle woman, but she was also a proud woman, and more stubborn than even you.
“Just because I’m sick doesn’t mean I’m inept, you know,” she slapped your hand away from where it had tried to venture into the soapy water of the sink.
You sighed. So she’s still mad.
“I know, Gramma,” you offered. “Just trying to help.”
She grumbled back, still focusing on scrubbing the plate in front of her.
You gave up, moving instead to dry and put away the dishes she’d washed. As you began, she didn’t so much as spare you a glance, just hummed under her breath.
The kitchen looked untouched from it had been growing up—the linoleum counters, tiled walls, and deep wood of the cabinets perpetually stuck in the 1970s. Some of the glassware your grandmother owned was from the seventies, or even before then, going back to when your mom and uncles were kids. You could tell from old family pictures that the house had changed little since they bought it in 1969. Even after so many years, your Gramma had refused to invest in a dishwasher, insisting on washing dishes by hand instead.
You took a ceramic plate from the drying rack, toweling it off before opening the cabinet to put it away. The cabinet door had the same creak it always did.
“You know,” you tossed over your shoulder at your grandmother. “I was planning on coming back for a while before I heard about the cancer.”
“That’s what you keep sayin’,” she mumbled. “I can see right through ya, though, darlin’. You think I haven’t noticed you haven’t been home in years?”
You bit your lip, trying to ignore the pang of guilt her words sent through you.
“I’m sorry about that, Gramma, I am—“
“Oh, hush,” she waved a suds-covered hand at you, still not turning around. “Long as I get to see you, I don’t care where it is. What I’m trying to say is: you certainly would not have come home had it not been for my diagnosis.”
You deflated a little; in a sense, she was right. You’d been considering returning before, that was true, but part of you deep down knew you wouldn’t have been successful if you hadn’t heard about her sickness.
“What I can’t live with is you giving up your dreams for an old woman like me.”
You scoffed at that, coming up behind her and wrapping your arms around her shoulders.
“Please,” you mumbled into the hug. “You couldn’t have kept me away. I would’ve found out at some point.”
She sighed, hugging you back and leaning into you.
“‘Suppose you’re right,” she acquiesced. “Doesn’t mean I’ve gotta be happy about it though.”
“That’s fair,” you chuckled, letting go and taking another plate from the drying rack. “But you can’t get mad at me. It should be me angry at you for keeping it from me for as long as you did.”
She turned to you then, wiping her wet hands off with a towel. There was a strange look in her eyes as she took you in, eyeing you head to toe. She snapped out of it after a moment and offered you a smile.
“Hm,” she hummed, bringing a weathered hand to cup your cheek. “I couldn’t stay angry at you even if I tried.”
You smiled cheekily at her.
“I know.”
“Hm,” she chuckled, pinching your cheek lightly and patting it. “Now let me finish these up. Mellie’ll be here soon and you haven’t even taken your suitcase up yet.”
You nodded and put the last plate away.
“I’ll turn the radio on for you,” you smiled. “It’s too quiet around here.”
“Alright sugar,” she tossed over her shoulder. “You won’t be sayin’ that come Monday. I’ve got your cousins after school most weekdays. And I thought you were a handful.”
You chuckled.
One thing about your family was true: none of you were boring—especially the little ones. They kept your grandmother on her toes.
“I’m looking forward to that,” you chuckled. That was another thing you regretted about moving so far away: not being there to watch your little cousins grow up.
“I wouldn’t be so sure,” she said. “You might be reconsidering moving back after a few days.”
“Unlikely,” you snorted. “I’m hard to scare off. Well, now anyway.”
Your grandmother sent you a sympathetic smile then, and you knew she’d forgiven you. You twitched a little under her gaze. She almost looked like she pitied you. You understood if she did; she was the one to bear the brunt of your heartache when everything between you and Clyde had blown up. Still, it wasn’t a time you liked to dwell on.
“So, you think you’re finally over that Logan boy?” She asked, crossing her arms and facing you.
You sighed; it was just like your grandmother to not mince words or beat around the bush.
“Jesus, Gramma,” you raked a hand over your face.
“What?” she asked defensively. “Would you rather me tip-toe around you like everyone else? Your mama won’t ask, and you’ve banned Mellie from mentioning that boy.”
“So you thought you’d…” your words trailed off, not understanding exactly why she was bringing this up now.
“I thought I’d mention the elephant in the room. Call it curiosity, sugar,” she smirked at you. “I just figured that since he was the one that kept you away for so long—”
“Gramma, you know he’s not the only reason l left—”
“I know, I know,” she held up a hand to stop you. “But I remember how you were when you left. In the months before. Barely leaving the house, not talking to anyone. Whatever he did, it did a number on you. I don’t want you getting like that again—”
You softened. She was worried about you, of course she was. Your grandmother was nothing if not a mama bear.
“Trust me, Gramma. You do not have to worry Clyde Logan of all people. I’ve been over it for a while, I think. I’ll be okay.”
“Hm,” she scrutinized you through narrowed eyes, before nodding. “Alright. I won’t bring it up again.”
“Thanks, Gramma.”
“You ever gonna tell me all that happened with him?”
“Maybe one day,” you smiled at her sadly.
She nodded at you in understanding.
“Alright, babydoll. You go get ready.”
As you walked up the familiar steps to your childhood bedroom, listening to Patsy Cline drift through the old kitchen radio, you smiled to yourself at the familiarity of it all.
- -
“Trust me,” Camila grabbed your shoulder from the back of Mellie’s ‘85 silverado—her pride and joy and newest fixer upper. “This place is great, and it helps that we don’t have to drive all the way to Madison like we did back in the day.”
You snorted at how your friends were trying to sell you on this new dive bar. Where you’d wanted to go out in Madison like the old days, they’d insisted you stay local tonight.
You shifted in the denim cut-offs that Mellie had insisted you wear. You hadn’t worn them out since your senior year of college. Hell, you hadn’t been out since your senior year of college.
She’d showed up at your door at exactly eight o’clock on the dot, intent on getting you dolled up for a night out. Camila and Gwen, two of your best friends from high school, had shown up soon after. It was like old times—playing your old CDs, the smell of cheap perfume and hair-straighteners flooding your childhood bedroom. You couldn’t even bring yourself to be nervous about going out. Now, two hours later with a new outfit and your hair and makeup done to perfection, you were off to check out the newest haunt in town.
It’d been big news when the place had opened about nine months ago. It wasn’t every day that a new business opened in Logan, so obviously it was the talk of the town. Even you’d heard about it all the way in Chicago. Duck Tape was its name and it had been renovated into a bar from an old bait and tackle shop. And apparently, since its opening, it’d become a staple of your small community. You’d been promised that you’d run into at least five people from high school here, maybe more. It was also in the middle of nowhere.
“We’re basically driving the same distance, Cami.” You laughed. From beside you in the driver’s seat, Mellie smirked.
“Don’t rain on her parade.” She teased. “Cami’s just trying to explain away the real reason why she came here: she’s got it bad for the bouncer.”
Camila gasped and smacked Mellie’s shoulder.
“That isn’t it at all, Mellie Logan and you know it!”
“Mmhm,” Gwen nodded from the other side of her, very obviously not buying any of it. “It has nothing to do with the six-feet, tall, dark, and handsome bouncer. I believe you, Cami.”
You laughed at her sarcasm.
“I don’t know why you don’t put yourself out of your misery and just get his number,” Mellie asks from the front seat, looking at Cami through the rearview mirror.
“And risk rejection? Not a chance.”
You snorted at that, understanding completely. You’d had a few non-serious relationships here and there, but nothing that had stuck during your time in Chicago. And even then, they were alway the ones who had to make the first move.
“Wait, wait, wait,” you interrupted. “Since when do any of these places need bouncers?”
When you were in high school, it was a given that no one underage would even try to get into a bar in Logan. It would have been pointless: everybody knew everybody here, so even if you had the good sense to get a fake ID, you’d be at the sheriff’s station before you had time to order your first drink.
“Since these kids are gettin’ more and more ballsy,” Gwen answered you. “‘Bout a year ago coach Garrison’s kid got busted for drinking underage at Tulman’s. Ever since, they’ve been IDing at the door.”
Tulman’s was the other bar in town, nestled in the heart of downtown.
“I bet coach was pissed.”
“You have no idea,” Cami nodded, picking at her manicured nail. “Gave hell to the guy who owns the place. That’s just another reason why I like Duck Tape better.”
Gwen groaned from beside her. Mellie just laughed.
Mellie sighed beside you, reaching for the gear-shift. “Just ask him out. You miss a hundred percent of the shots you don’t take.”
“Oh please,” Cami laughed, speaking up over the sound of Garth Brooks’ voice coming from the speakers. “Stick to hairdressing, Mel. You’d make a shit motivational speaker.”
A chorus of laughs sounded as Mellie took a sharp turn off of the highway and onto the mountain road where the bar was.
This was so familiar: you and your girlfriends, all dressed up and piling into one car to go out as if you were somewhere glamorous like New York City and not in Boone County, West Virginia. The chatter of the girls around you was comforting, and you relished in it.
This, you thought. This is home.
- -
You dropped your glass when he walked in, brushing past the bouncer with a large hand on his shoulder. Your stomach dropped.
The glass shattered at your feet, sending cranberry juice and vodka splattering over your boots and calves. A few people surrounding you jumped as well, moving away from the shattered glass on the floor. Beside you, Camila started.
“Jesus,” she cried, grabbing your bare shoulder and looking at you. She was trying to get your attention, you knew, but you couldn’t bring your eyes away from the imposing figure of Clyde Logan, who just walked into the bar. “You okay? What—shit.”
She saw him too.
“Mellie,” you heard her whisper, trying to get the attention of your friend who was too-busy flirting with a man in a stetson beside you. Gwen was in the bathroom. “Mellie.”
He was tall—just as tall as he’d always been, but even more imposing. His shoulders stretched broadly across the dark blue button-up he had on. He wore worn blue jeans and work boots and still had that stiff, ramrod-straight posture that he’d come back from basic training with. You blinked.
He was here. He was here.
Even after years, he had an effect on you. You felt stuck to the floor, frozen in place as he made his way to the bar, his left side facing away from you. His dark hair was longer than you’d ever seen it, curling around his ears and down his neck thickly. You couldn’t tell much from the dim-lighting, but you could detect a bit of a stubble along his jaw and above his lip.
Lord have mercy, he was beautiful.
He was gorgeous–even more so than you remembered him. It made your chest ache.
“What?” Mellie turned to Cami, a flirty laugh in her voice.
“Look.”
There was a beat of silence before she spoke.
“Fuck.” Mellie spat. “Fuck, fuck, fuck. He said he wasn’t working tonight.”
You breathed in a ragged breath, everything feeling all of a sudden too much. The neon lights, the chatter of people from all sides of you invaded your senses. The early summer heat was cloying at your skin in the crowded bar. You felt boxed in on all sides.
“I’m just going to,” you mumbled, finally tearing your eyes away from Clyde, who was talking to the man behind the bar. You didn’t finish the sentence, instead electing to train your gaze on your boots and try to make your way to the bar door.
Behind you, you heard Mellie call your name. You ignored her, breathing deeply as you tried to navigate your way to the door.
Air, you told yourself. I need some air. Then I’ll be fine.
You tried to push yourself past a particularly large group, squeezing between two peoples’ backs. One of them moved backwards, their foot moving to step in front of yours.
Your boot caught on the foot, and you tumbled forward, losing your balance.
You tripped, scrambling, reaching out with your arms to break your fall as you tumbled.
Only, instead of continuing to fall to the ground, you stumbled into something. Or rather, someone.
Your hands landed on a broad chest, and you felt an arm snake its way around your middle, attempting to steady you. You let out a breath, finding your footing.
You brought your gaze up, an apology on your lips.
“Shit,” you mumbled, pulling your hands back from the stranger’s chest frantically. “I’m sorry—”
Brown eyes stared back at you, brows drawn together and full of confusion. Freckles scattered familiarly across his cheekbones and his lips parted as he looked at you.
Clyde.
You took a large step back, away from him, nearly stumbling again. He looked nearly as shocked as you felt, wide eyes taking you in from head to toe. After all, it had been over two years since you’d seen each other.
You did the same—eyes moving down his thick neck, his broad shoulders, down his chest. He was still so much taller than you.
This was all too much.
You could feel the panic setting back in your bones, and you blinked rapidly, moving to shove past him to the door, your legs carrying you before your mind could catch up.
When you did, he snapped out of it, moving to the side to block you and shoulder-checking you in the process. When he did, something firm and stiff—foreign—jabbed into your stomach, causing you to jerk away, even more past him.
Your brows furrowed in confusion, and you turned to see—
What you saw made the breath leave your chest.
There, strapped to what remained of Clyde’s arm was a prosthetic.
- -
Tears fell thick and hot down your cheeks as you rested your face between your knees on the side of the dingy bar. The rough wood of the paneling on the outside of the bar dug into your back through the thin shirt Mellie had convinced you to wear, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. Your mind was elsewhere.
Gone. Clyde’s left arm was gone–or at least part of it was.
Hurt flooded your chest at the thought of it; your once-best friend returning home from war, part of him missing, alone, and you weren’t there. He’d had to do it alone.
Another wave of tears came.
How could you not have known?
Everyone knew everything about everyone in Logan. It was the way of things and it always had been. It was how you’d found out about your Gramma’s illness, it was how word had spread like wildfire when Mellie’s boyfriend in tenth grade cheated on her, and it was how the whole town knew Bobbie Jo was pregnant with Sadie before Jimmy did. But this.
It struck you all at once; everyone knew. Of course everyone knew. Camila, Gwen, Mellie. Your mother. They all had known and still didn’t tell you.
You felt like someone had torn your heart from your chest.
The sound of gravel crunching under boots tore your gaze up. You knew who it was before he called your name. You’d know the sound of his step anywhere.
Clyde Logan walked toward you, arms clasped behind his back, dark eyes wary. He always looked like this when he was nervous. Even now, you couldn’t believe he was standing before you after so long. Even now, you couldn’t contain the slow simmer of anger that flared in your gut at the sight of him.
He stood there a minute, eyes on yours, before he cleared his throat.
“How…uh, how long you been back?” He offered softly, eyes never once leaving yours.
The slow simmer in your gut reached a boil. You stood to your feet, lip curling at him. You didn’t care enough to wipe your face of tears.
“Really?” You asked harshly, voice slightly raised. Clyde flinched at your tone. “That’s what you have to say to me Clyde Logan—after three years?”
Clyde bit his lip and looked down. He sighed.
“Junebug—-”
“Do not,” you hissed at him, glaring up at his pained expression. “You do not get to call me that anymore.”
He just stared at you, a pained expression on his face.
It didn't surprise you—Clyde had never had a way with words. Even as kids, even as best friends, it had been hard for him to express himself. He was quiet. Now was no exception.
“Did you get my letters?” You hated that your voice warbled.
Clyde’s eyes fell to his boots and you knew the answer from the guilty expression that crossed his face.
You scoffed, even more anger bubbling inside you at the confirmation.
After the fight—the one that sent you packing, right before his third deployment, you’d written him. Countless times, apologizing, explaining yourself, begging him for a response, anything. And you’d never heard anything back.
“I wrote you for months, Clyde.” You said, voice softer now. “When you were over there, I had to get updates from Mellie. Or from my mom, because you wouldn’t write me back. You wouldn’t answer my calls. I didn’t know if you were hurt, or if you—”
You stopped yourself, sniffing.
You stared at his prosthetic arm, finally able to get a better look at it.
It began just under his elbow, strapped on there to give the illusion of a full-limb. You couldn’t tear your eyes away from it.
“Ugly, ain’t it?” He asked, noting how your stare held there. Your eyes snapped to his.
You scoffed, ignoring him and looking away.
“I didn’t say that,” you muttered, drying your face with your palm.
“I told Mellie not to tell you,” he blurted. “After. Made her swear not to. Don’t be mad at her.”
You sighed.
You weren’t angry at her; you couldn’t be. Shortly after you’d realized he wanted nothing to do with you, you’d made any talk of Clyde strictly off-limits in your friendship. Even if she’d wanted to tell you, it was off limits. That was not the case, however, with your own family.
You’d be having words with your mother and grandmother when you returned home.
“My relationship with Mellie is none of your business,” you glared up at him. “It hasn’t been for a long time.”
Clyde scoffed now, the soft, reserved look gone from his eyes and replaced by annoyance.
“What?” you asked. “You got something to say? Say it.”
“Fine,” he barked. “Three years and you haven’t changed a bit.”
Oh, so he was pulling that card, you thought, thinking back to your last argument. You laughed humorlessly.
“Oh, I haven’t changed?” You asked, raising your eyebrows. “At least I had the balls to come back! At least I’m not a coward like you—”
“Coward?” He asked, voice low.
“You heard me.” You spat, voice warbling again with anger. You hated that you got like this; whenever you were angry, you’d cry. “At least I have the stones to face my mistakes. I don’t run away from them, Clyde.”
With that you walked away, leaving him standing there in the gravel of the Duck Tape parking lot.
He made no move to follow you, thank god.
You decided to call it a night, knowing any chance of letting loose was long gone. Though you weren’t angry with her, you didn’t think you could face Mellie or the girls again tonight. You pulled your cell phone from your bag and sent a quick text to the group chat, telling them you’d decided to head home. You sent a separate one to Mellie, telling her you weren’t mad at her but you needed some time.
You walked back to the front of the bar, leaning on the wood of the front railing, and stared at the phone screen. Your mother and grandmother would be asleep by now, and even if they weren’t, you weren’t sure you wanted to see them anyway. You could always call your cousins—but doing that would open up the door to countless questions and speculations at why you were leaving Duck Tape looking an emotional wreck.
Then, it hit you.
You found the contact easily and hit call; there was one person who you knew you could call whenever, wherever to come get you, no questions asked. You just hoped he was up.
a/n: im dedicating this one to @acrossthesestars :) they offered so much encouragement and support the first time i tried to get this fic off the ground 2 years ago. after some reworking and new inspiration, im trying again !
series masterlist
prologue:
You had been obsessed with Greek mythology when you were young.
Maybe it was the timelessness of it all, the beauty, love, tragedy. The might of the gods like Zues and Poesidon, the fierceness of Athena’s wit, the firm unforgiving curve of Hera’s brow. The constellations in the deep, inky sky called out to you.
You learned to read them, pick them out in each season. Orion and his bow, Sirius, wagging his tail at you from millions of lightyears away. You liked to talk to them sometimes, when it got tough at home. When the yelling came to be too much. You’d hole up in some corner with a book reading, or you’d look out your window and wonder. Speak to the dark and wonder if maybe they could hear you.
They had endured tragedy too, after all. And though a stepfather that hit you wasn’t a nine-headed beast or a minotaur, it might as well have been. You wondered what it would be like to walk among them; in the time of the Gods. To witness Persephone tumbling forth to the underworld as the world opened up from under her, to see Hera’s rage and wrath and pain firsthand, to feel Poseidon's breeze as Aphrodite was born of the sea-foam.
You loved them; the myths. And the fiction that followed them, books inspired by stories thought up millennia ago.
But one goddess always confused you. You always avoided her stories; the fiery goddess of warmth, of belonging. It hurt too much. The deity that controlled the two most powerful things that you could never touch; fire--the piercing, blazing, sting of it all. Beautiful to look at and just out of reach. Enchanting candles and bonfires you could never touch, lest you become another Icarus, and melt away from the heat of it. Fire, the thing only the gods could touch. And the other: Home.
Home, the word felt foreign on your tongue, bitter.
The goddess of belonging, the deity of home. Hestia smiled at you from every page she appeared on, lips curving into a wicked smirk, holding something over your head you knew you could never achieve. Never possess, never grasp.
It was said that Aphrodite was the goddess of love, that you knew. But it was something you didn’t believe; to you, Aphrodite was the goddess of passion. Of deep, rushing urges, flighty decisions. She was the goddess your mother's tumultuous relationship was born of. And though what she and your stepfather had was piercing and painful, there was no love to be found there. That you were sure of.
No, in your mind Hestia was the goddess of true love, not just the shallow illusion of it. Warmth, stability, belonging: these were all characteristics of love itself. Something you’d never known.
Your mother loved you; That much you knew to be true, but it was a tragic type of love. The type the poets and romantics wrote about. Your mother was Ophelia, sinking into the deep. She was Juliet with a dagger piercing her heart. She was Cordelia, dying of a heart broken by betrayal. A love from Aphrodite had made her like this. She had been all but ruined by your father, as you saw it. She loved you, fiercely, but as though she was trying to provide enough for a mother and a father.
She tore herself apart trying to conceal what was truly happening from you; the bruises, the broken glass, the old jeep missing from the drive-way. And when he did take it out on you, she tore herself apart trying to put you back together. And that was tragic. More tragic than the fates of Orpheus and Eurydice. More tragic than the birth of Dionysus. More than Echo’s love for Narcissus.
And so the goddess of the hearth and home taunted you.
Appalachia was a beautiful place to grow up, but for a little girl living in her own head, it could get lonely too. The mountains and foothills of the blue ridges lived in your soul; That much you knew. They spoke to you, told you stories, kept you company where there was none.
Your family had made home here for generations. You were as much a part of the land as it was a part of you. Like the West Virginia license plate said, you grew up the same way: “Wild and Wonderful.” Barefoot and wild, a true daughter of the mountains.
Where there wasn’t a father, there were the wildflowers. When your mother would shut down, go quiet and for once stop pretending that everything was alright, there was the oak tree with a tire swing. Through the fights and the screaming and the slamming, there was always this. The land. The grass beneath your feet, the wind in your hair, and the mountains above your eyes. And when it was too hot to be outside, your books were always there to welcome you back to the fold; to provide escape.
So, though your life wasn’t perfect by any means, you’d always remember your Gramma’s words. She lived miles away--to the east, in Boone County, a place you’d visited only as an infant--but she made the hours-long journey whenever your mother needed her, which was often. When she’d catch you sulking about something trivial, like a lost card game or not being allowed to have sweets before supper, she’d arch an eyebrow at you, hand on her hip and say:
“Watch your spite. Whatever attitude you put out into this world is what you gon’ get back.”
This, you’d think. I can be content with this. And the West Virginia wind was always there to answer you with its gentle swaying, older than the trees.
-
The first thing your mind registered on the day that you ran was the cold hand on your shoulder as you bolted awake, gasping.
It was still dark outside, the sun hadn’t even begun to peek over the horizon beyond the trailer that you’d only called home for a few weeks now. Your room was bathed in darkness, and your eyes adjusted, only being able to make out the rough shapes of the objects in your room.
You opened your mouth to scream, too scared to look beside you at who had grabbed you. You’d heard some girls in your class talking about a girl getting kidnapped only two weeks ago one county over. When her hand closed over your mouth to stop you, you visibly relaxed. You could smell the lemon perfume still splashed across her wrist, faint after what must have been a long shift at the diner. Mommy.
“Shh, shh,” She soothed, her other hand stroking your pajama-clad back, “it’s me, sweetie, it’s mama. It’s just me.”
Your little fists rubbed your eyes groggily, taking in your surroundings. You brushed your crazy bed head away from your eyes. It was dark, and the digital mermaid clock on your nightstand read 3:32 am. At the foot of your bed, there were two suitcases; ones you’d only seen when Kieth, your mom’s boyfriend, had gone away for work trips. You’d looked forward to those times; It was when the house was calmest, when you were allowed to have the windows open (Kieth didn’t like it when you’d leave the windows open; it meant people could “see too much”). Your mom would put on her old Fleetwood Mac records and tell you stories about your daddy--How they met and how they found out they were pregnant with you.
You weren’t allowed to talk about your daddy when Kieth was home. He didn’t like it and he’d get that mean look on his face.The kind that made your mom freeze. You were scared of Kieth. Which was why you didn’t know what his suitcase was doing here instead of tucked away where it belonged. He’d be angry about that, and everyone knew what happened when he got angry.
Your mom smoothed your hair behind your ears, whispering with careful purpose, “Time to get up, sweetie. It’s time to go.”
You furrowed your eyebrows. Go? Go where? It was still nighttime, as far as your seven-year-old brain could tell, and you were tired.
Swallowing a yawn you began, “Mommy--”
“Shh!” She whisper-yelled, hand coming over your mouth once again. In her eyes was a look you’d never seen before. Your mom was scared. Your eyes widened, not fully understanding what was going on, but understanding that something was going on, and whatever it was, it was bad. She inhaled through her nose and through her mouth, slowly lowering her hand.
“I’m gonna explain the best I can, sweetie, but you’re gonna have to be real, real quiet, ok? We gotta hurry.”
You frantically nodded, eyes drawn together in what could’ve only looked like complete terror.
“You and I are leavin’, lovebug. I got all we need here,” she patted the suitcase, “and in the car. We’re goin’.” She explained, looking over her shoulder at the cracked door. You could hear Kieth’s loud snoring from the other room.
“Like on vacation?” You asked in a tiny voice, confused. You’d never been on vacation before; Not a real one anyway. Only weekend trips to Atlantic City with your cousins every now and then. Your mom closed her eyes for a moment before shaking her head.
“No. Not like vacation,” she sighed, reaching up to grab your cheek. “I’m sorry honey, really I am. I’m sorry it took me this long to realize we have to go. But we do.”
You wouldn’t know what she was referring to until years later, not really grasping what she was saying in a half-awake, eight-year-old brain. Years later, you’d realize she was referring to Kieth: how sorry she was that it had taken this long for her to leave him. Still, eyebrows furrowed in confusion, you nodded at her. You hadn’t realized she was crying until she reached up to wipe under her eyes, sniffling.
She hugged you then, tight. Tighter than you think she’d ever held you before. In that moment, you’d thought that it was more for her than you. You hugged her back.
She sighed, “c’mon, baby. Get your shoes on.”
“Where are we gonna go, mama?”
“Gramma’s, honey. She’s got a room all ready for us.” By now she was busying herself with getting your pink tennis shoes on your feet. Standing up, you let her pull your sweatshirt over your arms.
She looked younger like this, you thought. Like a Princess, here in the moonlight under the cover of nighttime. Here the darkness hid the dark circles and worry lines that made her look older than she actually was. She grabbed your hands.
“Okay, now we’ve gotta walk really quietly, honey. You’re gonna have to put your feet where mine were, do you think you can do that?”
You nodded, peeking around the door, half expecting Kieth to be standing there, hand raised. You silently thanked whatever god was out there that Kieth had never let you get a dog—you didn’t know if you’d have been able to take it with you.
With careful, slow steps you creeped down the dark hallway, dodging the floorboards you knew to be creaky.
After ten minutes of careful precision—well, as much precision as a half-asleep ten-year-old can have—you made it to the old pick-up that had belonged to your father. The gravel crunching beneath her feet, your mother lifted you up into the back seat. After jumping into the front seat herself, she took a deep shuddering breath before slowly turning the ignition, eyes squeezed shut. The gear moved into drive, and head leaned against the window, you slept soundly, without fear, for the first time in years.
By the time you woke up, it was almost five o’clock. The sun was slowly beginning to show its rays, the sky fading from a deep indigo into a light yellow. You looked out the windows at the mountains, thankful that at least one thing felt familiar. The blue ridges always did.
Your mother turned back, smiling at you. A real smile. It made your heart stutter a bit.
Maybe Hestia hasn’t abandoned me, you thought, thinking back to the days when you’d curse the name of the goddess of fire. Back when you actually believed in the goddess of fire.
“Well look who decided to wake up,” your mother smiled, her eyes crinkling. You stifled a yawn, stretching.
“What’s going on?” You asked apprehensively. “Why did we just leave like that? Mama, when we get back he’s gonna be—“
“We aren’t going back.”
You blanked. Not going back? What? The amount of times you’d wished for this exact scenario were too many to count. You should be happy. But what would you do? Would you live with grandma? Where were your things? You only packed one suitcase and your friend Emma had borrowed your Mulan TShirt—oh and school! Where would you go to school—
Your mother said your name. Your eyes snapped to hers in the rear view.
“It’s gonna be okay. I've got a plan, we’ll be fine.”
She paused and you turned to look at the trees passing by. She sighed before speaking again, “okay?”
“Okay.”
“Good. Oh look!” She gasped, pointing to her right, at a bright green sign.
Now Entering Boone County
“We’re here!” She sighed. “I haven’t been back here since your daddy…” She trailed off, but you knew what she meant. She hadn’t been back here since your daddy had died. Keith wouldn’t let her.
Gazing out of the window at the moving trees, you only thought of what lie ahead. You’d moved enough times in your life, first for your dad’s military postings, and then because Kieth never liked to stay in one place for too long. This wasn’t new, but something about it felt that way. You’d like to stay in one place for a while after this one, you thought. As you watched the hills and farms and houses, the sun began to rise, coloring it all gold. You could get used to this.
As you entered the town, you felt it in your chest: this was going to be home. You were sure of it.
