Prodigal

Ethan gazed around the dining room, aware of the constant buzz of conversation. His attention skipped from table to table, spotting familiar faces that time had faded into sepia-colored memories missing context and names. He'd blocked out much of Kingston when he left, needing the fresh start. After everything that had happened, staying was impossible.

For him, anyway. Most of the others hadn't been as lucky. Jackie hadn't escaped. Was Ethan the only one who had?

Six of us were there that night, and now one of us is dead.

The swinging door marked Kitchen swung open and ejected a lean figure balancing a plastic tub on his hip. His khakis and red Mama's t-shirt were carefully pressed, which seemed odd for a bus boy. He moved toward the first abandoned table and picked up dirty dishes and half-full soda cups with practiced ease. With his back to Ethan, Ethan couldn't be sure, but the tangle of curly black hair made his heart gallop.

Then he spotted the tattoos—on his right arm, the mirror image of Ethan's swirling, intricately drawn marks. Tattoos neither of them had asked for and neither could explain.

Jesse.

Ethan's left arm throbbed.

Clanking porcelain and metal utensils startled him. Jesse had shifted the tub to his other hip and was flexing his right arm, opening and closing his fist. His head was angled to the side, giving Ethan a partial profile, and it was him. It was definitely Jesse, with curls of ebony hair hanging over his forehead and a dark beard covering cheeks and chin.

"Jesse?" A voice from one of the tables; Ethan didn't know who, because he couldn't look away.

Jesse lifted his head and looked. His lips curled into a familiar smile. "I'm fine, Grady. Just got lost in thought a minute."

"You sure?"

"Yep."

He finished clearing the table, then carried his tub to the next, this one much closer to Ethan, whom he hadn't noticed yet. Ethan's waitress returned with his slice of pie. It was an orange triangle of heaven, topped with a generous dollop of whipped cream, sprinkled with nutmeg. Ethan's mouth watered at the sight, a split second before his nose caught up.

"You one of our lost lambs, honey?" The waitress stared down at him, one hand poised on her hip, and the name "Clarice" came unbidden. Clarice Jones organized most of the social events in town, and had been a widow for the last forty years or so.

With a quick glance around that told him Jesse had left the dining room, Ethan fixed Clarice with a warm smile. "That I am," he said.