my tears ricochet—T.S.

In Blake County, Texas, population 2,575, you had been working at the bar with a man named Nash for a few months now. That was it. That was his name. No middle or last.

Just Nash.

Nash was a gentleman, a cowboy at that. He had a thick, whiskey-smooth Southern drawl that you couldn’t pin to a state. He wore the same cycle of shirts, the same five colors on rotation. Those five shirts all looked like they had been worn thousands of times, which was probably the case. And his cowboy boots.

The cowboy boots.

They had probably seen better days, but they were utterly timeless and so very him.

You knew him very well, always ending up working at the same time. There was something between you two, but neither of you were exactly sure what.

You had followed him upstairs to his apartment above the dive bar before, and he’s driven you home on his old motorcycle.

You didn’t know where this road was going.

You just hoped it wasn’t a dead end.

On a brisk Saturday night, the stragglers were the only ones left at the counter as the grainy replay of a football game quietly purred from the television hung by Nash in the corner of the bar.

You and Nash were cleaning some glasses when the television suddenly changed to a newswoman speaking with a headline below her.

“Breaking News: Billionaire philanthropist Tobias Hawthorne dead at 78”

You had heard the name before, but it had no relevance to you in your little town.

Glancing over at Nash, your soft expression changes to one of worry as you see Nash’s usual mask of nonchalance faltering. The newswoman continues to blabber on about Tobias, focusing on the potential recipient of his estate.

$46.2 billion?

A picture flashes on the screen. It’s four men in polished suits, the one on the far left looking an awful lot like Nash.

“Looks like you’ve got yourself a twin, sweetheart.” You chuckle softly, setting the last glass down along with the towel.

Nash doesn’t respond.

“Nash?” You question, moving to stand next to him.

Nash’s lips are parted softly, his expression dark under his cowboy hat.

You reach out your arm to rub your nails over his back in a soothing manner.

“Sweetheart?” You ask again, your Southern accent soft and quiet.

“Finally, the old man’s dead.” Nash mutters, his gaze dropping to the glass and towel in his hands.

That’s when it hit you.

Nash was Nash Hawthorne, eldest grandson of Tobias Hawthorne.