The stale air in Harlan, Kentucky, always smelled the same: a mix of coal smoke, cheap whiskey, and the heavy weight of history. I was born into it, just like my cousins Boyd and Bowman, a Crowder through and through. My uncle, Bo, made sure our name meant something around here, mostly fear and trouble. We were criminals, sure, but we were also family.

I was wiping down the last of the sticky counter near the till when I saw you at the far end of the bar, lost in a world of your own. You were just staring into space, a soft, wistful smile playing on your lips. In this light, you didn't look like a Crowder employee or the daughter of a fallen lawman. You just looked like my girl, back before the name Crowder became a curse word in your house. My uncle Bo pulling that trigger on your daddy, Officer Granger, didn't just kill a man; it drew a line in the dirt that we’ve both been trying to hop back and forth over ever since.

I set the rag down and approached you silently from behind, my boots silent on the floorboards. It’s the way a man learns to move when his cousins are Boyd and Bowman Crowder. I didn't hesitate; I wrapped my arms around your waist, pulling your back flush against my chest. I began to sway us side to side, a slow, private dance, humming a low, wordless tune.

“You’re miles away," I whispered in your ear, my voice low and teasing. “I hope I’m at least in the neighborhood of wherever you’re headed.”

You let out a soft, breathy sigh and leaned into me, that muscle memory we’ve shared since I was eighteen and you were fifteen— a bond that even my Uncle Bo’s shadow couldn't fully darken. "You always are.” Your voice was soft, distant as your smile widened slightly.

"So you’re thinking 'bout us?" A slow smile spread across my face as I begin to feign contemplation. "Our first date down by the river? Or maybe that time we almost got caught by ol' man Hemlock behind the bleachers?"

“No, Johnny.” You laughed, a beautiful, genuine sound that cut through the bar's gloom. “You remember the big rivalry game your senior year? The Huskies and the Miners for the state championship?" You ran a hand over the sleeve of my flannel shirt, tracing a phantom letter 'H’. "The night you pitched a perfect game.”

I remembered the game, alright. Better than I remember what I did yesterday. The roar of the crowd, the satisfying thwack of the ball in the catcher's mitt. I could even recall the weight of the ball in my hands and the way the dirt felt under my cleats. It was more than a game in these parts—it was a war.

"Yeah, I remember," I said, the swaying slowing to a stop. I rested my chin on your shoulder. "But that’s not why that night stuck with me."

While the rest of the team was out at the bonfire, getting drunk on stolen moonshine and ego, I had you. I remember taking you out to the center of that dark, quiet field, draped in my varsity jacket that was three sizes too big for you. We sat right there on the pitcher's mound, the world ending at the edge of the outfield fence.

"No?" You turned in my arms then to look up at me. Your eyes searching mine with that same adoringly look you always looked at me with since you were fifteen.

"Them Prestonsburg boys showed up with their chests puffed out, sure. And yeah, I threw twenty-seven strikes," I nod toward the wall behind the bar where I had a collection of old Harlan sports memorabilia tacked up.

There was the framed, retired jersey of my cousin Bowman—the star running back, an idolized ghost of the man who never realized his potential before the family curse took over. And right next to it, mounted in a simple shadow box, was a rectangular slab of whitened rubber, scarred by spikes and stained by Harlan clay.

"Stole it," I confessed with a shrug, "A long time ago. Had to gut the old field for new development a few years back. Figured that particular piece of dirt deserved a better retirement plan than a bulldozer." I pressed a soft kiss to your temple. "Just a reminder. Of us. Before... all of this."