Chapter 1: Pints and Old Ghosts
The air in the Stag’s Head was thick with the smell of stale beer and old leather. A faint, tinny guitar solo whined from the jukebox in the corner, fighting against the low murmur of a few dedicated regulars. Alina traced a finger through the condensation on her pint glass, watching the water slide onto the scarred oak. It was quieter than she remembered.
“Do I know you from somewhere?”
The voice came from her right, smooth and practiced. She didn’t turn. “Unlikely,” she said, her tone flat. She took a slow sip of her lager.
“Seriously. I never forget a face.”
“And I never entertain bad lines.” She finally glanced over, ready to deliver a withering look. The man leaning against the bar was handsome in a rugged, unkempt way. Dark jeans, a grey henley stretched across broad shoulders, stubble that was more purposeful than lazy. But it was the eyes that stopped her. A clear, knowing green, and a smirk playing on his lips that seemed to unpack her entire history.
Her own hazel eyes narrowed. She studied him. The shape of the jaw. The way he held his head, slightly tilted. A memory flickered—not of this man, but of a boy with glasses too big for his face, organizing a Star Trek trivia night with intense, nerdy fervor.
“No,” she breathed, the glass pausing halfway to her mouth. “David?”
The smirk broke into a full, warm grin. “Took you longer than I thought.”
“You look…” She waved a hand, at a loss. The geeky boy was utterly, completely gone. Erased. In his place was someone who looked like he’d walked off a trailhead or out of a software launch party. “Different.”
“So do you. And yet exactly the same.” He slid onto the stool beside her, signaling the bartender. “You still do that thing where you press your lips together when you’re trying not to laugh at someone.”
“I do not.”
“You’re doing it right now.”
She relaxed, the professional lawyer mask melting away into something easier. “Shut up. What are you drinking? And since when do you open with terrible pick-up lines?”
“It’s been known to work.” He accepted a pint of dark ale from the bartender and clinked it gently against hers. “To homecomings. And to you not changing a bit.”
“Liar. You’ve changed everything.”
“Just the packaging.” His gaze was direct, unsettling in its calm assessment. “The wiring’s all the same. How was the train?”
Before she could answer, the pub door swung open, letting in a burst of cool evening air and the sound of a distant train whistle. A figure was silhouetted against the fading light, dragging a small suitcase, a large bag slung over a shoulder.
Olha stood there, blinking as her eyes adjusted to the dimness. Travel had left her pleasantly rumpled. Her light brown hair was escaping its loose ponytail, framing her delicate face. She wore simple jeans and a soft-looking sweater that highlighted her narrow waist. She looked, as she always had, disarmingly young and full of a quiet, warm energy.
She spotted them and her face lit up with a genuine, effortless smile.
She beelined for the bar, dropping her bags with a soft thud. “You started without me,” she said, her voice a gentle, chiding melody.
“We were testing the product for you,” David said, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Quality assurance.”
“Sure.” Olha turned to the barman, a guy in his fifties with a bored expression. “Could I just have a glass of the Merlot, please?”
The barman looked her up and down, his gaze lingering on her face. He grunted. “ID.”
Olha’s cheeks flushed a soft pink. She was twenty-seven. It happened every time. Alina bit her lip to stop a laugh. David just watched, amused.
“It’s in my… hold on.” Olha fumbled in her bag, pulling out a wallet. She handed over her driver’s license. The barman scrutinized it, glanced back at her, then shrugged and poured the wine.
“You could at least try to look your age,” Alina said, accepting a one-armed hug from Olha, who smelled like train air and vanilla lotion.
“I do! He’s just blind.” Olha took her glass and turned to David. Her expressive almond eyes took him in with a slow, careful sweep. The playful smile on her lips faltered for just a second, a flicker of surprise and something else—recognition, but of a new thing. “David,” she said, her tone softer. “Hi.”
“Hi, Olha.” He didn’t stand, but he leaned in, his presence somehow taking up more space. He kissed her cheek. His stubble brushed her skin, and she felt a tiny, unexpected jolt. “You made it.”
“We all did.” Olha slipped onto the stool on his other side, creating a triangle. She took a tentative sip of her wine. “It’s so weird being back. Everything’s smaller.”
“Except David,” Alina quipped, her dry humor slicing through the moment.
David laughed, a low, easy sound. “I hit the gym. Started climbing. It’s better than organizing D&D campaigns for a living.”
“You loved those campaigns,” Olha protested softly.
“I did. But people change. They grow into other things.” He said it simply, without apology. He took a long drink, his eyes moving between the two women. “So. Three years. Lawyer. Married woman. And me.”
“What is you these days?” Alina asked, leaning forward on her elbows. “Beyond the shocking physical transformation.”
“Consultant. I work remotely. Bought the old Miller place on the edge of town.”
“The big one with the orchard?” Olha’s eyes widened. “That’s yours?”
“It is. Which is why you’re both staying there. No arguments. The spare rooms are made up.”
The offer was firm, kind, but left no room for debate. It was a statement. Alina and Olha exchanged a glance over his shoulder—a quick, silent conversation of raised brows and slight nods.
“That’s incredibly kind of you, David,” Olha said.
“It’s practical. We’re here for a week. I want to talk, not shout over this depressing jukebox every night.” He gestured around the nearly empty pub. The song had changed to a melancholic acoustic track. “We can catch up properly. Like we used to.”
“Just us?” Alina asked, her tone lightly probing.
“Just us,” he confirmed, his green eyes holding hers, then shifting to Olha. “A lot has happened. A lot to talk about.”
There was a weight behind the words that settled over the table. It wasn’t threatening. It was more like a door, previously locked, had been nudged ajar. Olha felt a familiar, quiet flutter in her stomach, one she thought she’d buried years ago. She looked down into her wine glass.
Alina watched David watch Olha, and a sharp, curious thrill went through her. This was not the David they had left behind. This man was calm, assured. He had plans.
“Well,” Alina said, breaking the quiet. “To us, then. However we are now.”
They clinked glasses again, the sound sharp and bright in the muffled pub. The past was a ghost at the table, but the present—tense, curious, alive with possibility—was pressing in, and it had David’s new, confident face. He smiled, and it was warm, but in his eyes was the quiet, patient look of someone who has already decided how the game will be played.
He smiled, and it was warm, but in his eyes was the quiet, patient look of someone who has already decided how the game will be played.
“Another round,” David said to the barman, not asking, his voice cutting through the low music. “Whatever they’re having.” He turned back to them. “And you’re both staying at the house. Seriously. No hotels. It’s a big, empty place. It needs the noise.”
Olha twirled her wine stem. “I don’t want to be a burden.”
“You’re not. You’re a guest. There’s a difference.” His tone was final. “So. Latest news. Hit me with it. Three years is a long time.”
Alina shrugged, watching the new pint of lager appear before her. “Work. It’s all work. I made junior partner. It means I argue for a living, then go home and argue with my boyfriend about whose turn it is to buy toilet paper.”
“Is it serious?” David asked.
“The toilet paper or the boyfriend?”
“Both.”
“The toilet paper is a perpetual crisis. The boyfriend is… comfortable. He’s an architect. Likes neat lines and predictable schedules.” She took a long drink. “I think he’s planning a proposal. He gets nervous around jewelry stores.”
Olha’s eyes flickered to Alina’s face, searching for a reaction. “How do you feel about that?”
“Ambivalent.” The word hung in the air, honest and sharp. Alina grinned, breaking its weight. “Mostly I feel tired. Your turn.”
Olha focused on smoothing a napkin on the sticky wood. “I moved. With Mark. To the city. He got the promotion he wanted. I… left my job at the gallery. I’m freelancing now, graphic design. It’s quieter.” She paused. “We bought a condo. It has a balcony with a planter box. I’m trying to grow herbs.”
“And Mark?” David’s question was gentle.
“He’s good. Busy. He sends me a lot of emails during the day. Task lists. Funny memes.” She said it brightly, a practiced recitation. She didn’t mention the quiet dinners, the growing space between them that felt like polite roommates, not spouses. She didn’t mention the dreams she kept having about her old gymnastics bar, and the feeling of flying.
“Sounds domestic,” David said.
“It is.” Olha nodded quickly. “It’s nice. Your turn. Consultant. House with an orchard. This…” she gestured at him, “version. How?”
David leaned back, stretching his arms. The movement pulled his henley tight across his chest. “Got lucky with some startups early on. Made some investments that didn’t crash and burn. The physical stuff… I don’t know. I just got tired of being the guy everyone pictured when they thought ‘harmless’. I wanted to be looked at differently. So I changed the things I could change.”
“And did it work?” Alina asked, her head tilted.
“People look at me differently now.” He held her gaze, then Olha’s. “Whether that’s better or not, I’m still figuring out.”
The barman brought another round without being asked. The glasses made a solid, clinking pyramid in the center of the table.
“Okay,” Alina said, switching gears as she accepted her fresh pint. “Enough deep life audit. What’s happened here? This town feels like it’s asleep.”
David chuckled. “It is. But even sleepers twitch. The old cinema on Elm finally got demolished. They’re putting up a pharmacy.”
“No,” Olha breathed, genuinely dismayed. “Where did they put the midnight showings of The Rocky Horror Picture Show?”
“Gone. Like tears in rain.” He took a sip. “Mrs. Henderson from the bakery died. Last year.”
A shared silence for a woman who’d given them free day-old cinnamon rolls.
“Her son runs it now,” David continued. “He uses frozen dough. It’s a tragedy.”
“What about people?” Alina pressed. “Simon? That guy who always had the ferret?”
“Simon moved to Portland, became a vegan leathersmith. Or a leather vegan-smith. I don’t know. He sends ironic postcards.” David’s eyes grew distant, sorting through memories. “Jessica from our biology class married Pete Grady.”
Olha made a face. “The guy who dissected his frog and then pretended it was still alive to scare the girls?”
“The very same. They have three kids. He sells insurance.”
“God,” Alina snorted. “The cosmic joke writes itself.”
“And you?” Olha asked softly, her voice almost lost under the jukebox’s next song. “Did you ever… I mean, with anyone here?”
David swirled the dark ale in his glass. “No. Not here. A few things in other cities. Nothing that stuck.” He looked directly at her. “I was always bad at the small talk part. The dating part. I’d rather read a book or plan a hiking route. It doesn’t endear you to most people.”
“It endeared you to us,” Olha said, then immediately looked down, as if the words had escaped without permission.
“It did,” David agreed, his voice softening. “But you two were always different. You saw the wiring, not just the packaging.” He finished his drink. “A lot of other people from back then are just… stuck. Replaying high school. Getting fat. Getting bitter. Talking about the football championship like it was yesterday. It’s depressing.”
“But you came back,” Alina pointed out.
“I bought the orchard. I liked the roots. I just didn’t like the person I had been while I was growing in them.” He stood up, the movement sudden. “One more? For the road. Then we’ll go to the house. I’ll make you both an omelet. I make a great omelet.”
They nodded, a silent agreement passing between the three of them. The comfort was returning, but it was layered now, stretched over new shapes. It was familiar music played on unfamiliar instruments.
As David went to the bar, Olha watched the easy confidence in his shoulders, the way he conversed quietly with the barman. The shy boy was in there, but he was fortified, protected by this new, capable body.
Alina leaned close, her copper hair brushing Olha’s shoulder. Her whisper was a bare murmur. “He’s not just showing us the house, you know.”
Olha’s heart did a slow, heavy roll in her chest. “What do you mean?”
“He’s showing us him. The finished product. He’s been planning this. The reunion. Having us there. On his turf.” Alina’s hazel eyes were sharp, analytical. “The question is, what’s the objective?”
Olha didn’t answer. She watched David laugh at something the barman said, the sound warm and genuine. She thought of her quiet balcony, her silent condo, her husband’s task-list emails. She thought of a time when liking David felt like a secret she kept even from herself.
David returned with three small glasses of amber liquid. “A whiskey. To proper welcomes.”
They clinked. The whiskey was smooth, burning a warm path down Olha’s throat.
“To the town,” Alina said.
“To what’s changed,” Olha added.
David smiled, that patient, knowing smile. “To what hasn’t.” He knocked his whiskey back in one clean motion. “Let’s go home. The stories here are just the old ones. I’ve got better ones waiting.”