When Elle hit the main street of Sweet Valley she slowed down. Small town cops didn’t have much to do but find a reason to write you a ticket. The two gas stations, on either side of the highway from one another, were always changing the last digit on their per gallon signs to draw in the summer tourists. The volunteer fire department shared a building with the Odd Fellows Hall, and the City Clerk was next door to the one dentist in town. Most of Sweet Valley’s businesses flanked the highway running through town. Small art galleries, outfitting businesses, auto repair shops and restaurants adapted to fill older buildings dating back to the 1800s when the town was settled. 

Some had been there forever, like Julie Pratt’s Flower Shoppe; half the town thought she’d misspelled the word, the other half thought she was being too “big city.” Some businesses only lasted one summer and fizzled out when the winter turned brutal. Only the steadfast and hardest working were able to make it with such a small population and being cut off from most of the world. The only two things that could always be counted on to be open, Elle thought with a smirk, were the bars and churches. 

As she made her twenty-mile-an-hour drive through the short downtown, The Hotel Belle’s lights brightened the street to her right. She hadn’t gone out by herself since, well, ever. Starting a new life, surviving a death-trap marriage, and all the years before, hadn’t offered her the time or freedom. She had both now; maybe a drink was in order. She parked the truck and walked inside the dimly-lit hotel.

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Swinging doors to the right led to the old brick bar and vaguely familiar faces looked up when she entered. Some of them she knew. Mary Collins had been in her class, an aspiring beauty queen who’d hated that Elle had snagged more attention at the county fair with her baked goods than she had for hers. Judy Prym had been the mayor’s daughter once upon a time. Elle remembered her being far too popular to give any attention to the Sullivan sisters and their rough and tumble upbringing.

Elle kept her gaze straight ahead and nodded to Jim Travers, who had been tending bar at the Hotel since probably the dawn of time. He nodded back with a genuine smile.

“Well, hey there, look who’s come home! Good to see you back in town. Didja bring that rowdy sister of yours?”

“Which one?” Elle smiled and adjusted her hair over the faded bruises, thankful for the low light. She sat on an uneven stool and its legs tipped back and forth while she found her balance.

“Ha! You girls were never in short supply of trouble,” he laughed.

“They’ve all gone back to their grown-up jobs. I’m afraid it’s just me. I don’t have a grown-up job yet.”

“Well, I’m sure that’ll come. Good to see you back, Elle,” he said and put a bowl of peanuts and a cold beer on the bar before turning to attend to a group at the other end. A spark of warmth lit in Elle’s chest. Something she couldn’t quite replicate or explain. She listened to George Strait croon about Amarillo and sipped her beer. Years of being hyper aware triggered a shiver up her spine and she looked into the mirror behind the bar. A pair of beady eyes above a malicious smile had locked on to her. 

Ty Brentwood. 

Elle clutched her bottle, bit her sore lip, and wished she could melt into the peanut shell-strewn floor. Ty had never liked her family. Probably on account of their grandmother firing his father several years before due to his poor work ethic and distasteful behavior. Ty slugged back the rest of his whiskey, wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, hitched up his over-filled Wranglers, and came closer.

“Raising Elle”

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“Well, well, if it ain’t Eleanor Sullivan!” His voice hit her between the shoulders and she flinched. “I thought that was you. What’s the big city girl doing slumming in Belle’s?”

Elle took a drink and didn’t dignify him with a response. When he didn’t take the hint and came closer, she sighed and looked at him.

“Hello, Ty.”

“Aren’t you too good to be mingling with us common folk? Eh? Miss Fancy L.A.?” Ty scooted out the stool beside her. His sweaty warmth seeped into the space between, smelling like hard, cheap liquor.

Elle looked around. The bar was noticeably quieter and hushed voices heightened her discomfort. Judy leaned over the table to hear better, her eyes darting between them. Mary sat back and smirked, happy that Eleanor Sullivan, former goody two shoes, was finally getting put in her place. If only Mary knew the places Elle had already been put.

“I lost my high horse a while ago,” Elle choked out. Ty’s tongue darted across his lips, oblivious to her broken demeanor.

“Well shit, sweetheart, you can ride me home.” He reached down to touch her thigh. Elle knocked his hand away ferociously.

“Don’t touch me.”

“Wassa matter, princess? Doncha want a proper welcome home?” Ty put his arms around her and panicked flashbacks hit Elle. Her body responded.

“Let me go!” She stomped down on Ty’s foot and threw her head back into his nose. His grip loosened.

“Ouch! Goddamn it, you little b—”

“That’s enough, Ty.” The deep voice interrupted him and made them both turn. Elle stumbled and looked up to the sweet, blue-eyed boy from so long ago, now a grown and scowling man before her. 

“Blake?” Elle whispered. Her heart rose like a confused mess in her throat. His hair was long and shaggy over his shirt collar. His eyes blazed as he focused on Ty. 

“Oh—uh—hey—hey, Blake.” Ty stuttered. “I was just welcoming Miss Snoot back into town. Doesn’t it surprise the shit outta you that she’d come back here? I mean, especially you!” 

Ty, having neither the brains nor internal governor to choose his words more carefully, laughed at the immediate tension that crackled between Elle and Blake. Mary snorted from her corner. Judy cleared her throat. 

“Why don’t you just go home, Ty,” Judy said suddenly, garnering a look from Mary. 

“I think that’s a fine idea, Ty,” Blake agreed.

“Fuck you! You don’t get to tell me what to do, Blake. The two of you always was too good for everyone else. Now look atcha both. Nothing but broken-down has-beens.”

Elle did look at Blake, her eyes thirsty for him, her heart hungry. He fell into her gaze just as hard. Best friends, before so much hurt had come between. His dark, arched ‘brows fell and he studied her as though she were a problem he thought he’d already solved. When his eyes met her battered face, they softened. 

Ty took advantage of the distraction and hit Blake with a nasty, right hook across the jaw. Blake’s head snapped back, he stumbled two steps, tripped over a chair, and fell. 

“Hey!” Elle shouted as a rush of protective anger filled her. She grabbed the bar stool next to her and swung it across Ty’s back, sending him sprawling across the bar floor, mid-victory dance. 

Blake looked up at her in shock. 

“Jesus, SoCal, you’re a handy fella in a fight,” he grumbled, embarrassed. Elle dropped the stool at Ty’s feet and tried to calm the rising urge to vomit. 

“All right you three, that’s enough! Ty get the hell outta here! Blake, you too. You know you’ve run your tab up and I ain’t givin’ you another goddamn ounce until you pay it. Elle…you okay, honey?” Jim said from behind the bar. Elle peeled her eyes away from Blake and nodded.

“I’m okay.” Her shaky voice contradicted her words.

Ty got up, shot them both a vile look and hobbled out the back door. Whispers flew in the room. Mary snorted “serves her right,” under her breath.

Judy looked at Elle. “You really okay?” she asked softly. 

Elle could only nod as she offered a shaking hand to Blake, still on the floor. He looked at it as though it was a thorn bush and backed away to stand on his own. Elle couldn’t help the way her eyes fell into his, like puzzle pieces snapping into place. Like coming home. Warmth spread through her body and shone in her smile.

“It’s good to see you,” she said. Blake seemed mesmerized for only a second, before he frowned. 

“Wish I could say the same,” he muttered. “Looks like you’ve—Somebody—How are—” he stopped and shook his head. He wiped his bloodied lip on the cuff of his sleeve and smiled cruelly. “You know what? You’re not mine to worry over so I suppose it doesn’t matter how you are.”

“Blake, I should have—” 

“Save it, Elle. I don’t care anymore,” he said and she watched him disappear through the swinging door. Their unexpected meeting, him standing up for her, and the cold distaste he left with, were loops on a rollercoaster that left her dizzy. Jim cleared his throat.

“That was a hell of a shot, kid. Haven’t seen a swing like that since your softball days.” 

“I’m working on my average.” She laughed unexpectedly and Jim returned a deep, gruff laugh. Elle watched Blake pull away in the same beat-up Jeep he’d once driven her through town in. The windows they’d once fogged up. She paid her tab and left with the low timbre of his voice still rattling through her head.

Sarah Reichert (S.E. Reichert) is a writer, novelist, poet and blogger. She is the author of The Sweet Valley Series from 5 Prince Publishing and five other novels. Reichert is the Youth Coordinator of the Writing Heights Writers Association. Her work has been featured in The Fort Collins Coloradoan, Haunted Waters Press, “Sunrise Summits: A Poetry Anthology,” “Rise: An Anthology of Change,” Poetry Ireland Review, and “We Are The West: A Colorado Anthology.” Reichert lives in Fort Collins with her family. In her non-writing hours, she is a mother to two teenage girls, loves being outdoors, and is a 2nd degree Black Belt in Kenpo Karate JuJitsu.

Type of Story: Review

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