The Cove by Rick Hautala Page A

pull over to the side of the road and kiss her.
    “So you’re saying I’ll never get a nickname in town, right?” she said.
    Biting his lower lip, Ben shook his head. He didn’t want to tell her, but the truth was, he knew she never would get a nickname — at least not one anyone would use to her face. Already, last night at The Local, he had heard her referred to two or three times as “that flatlander pussy” or the “out of state cunt.”
    “You pretty much have to be born and raised here to get one, I guess,” he finally said.
    Julia nodded her understanding, but her smile quickly vanished.
    “So no matter how long I live here … even if I were to marry someone from town …”
    Ben shifted uneasily at that.
    “… I’d never really be accepted?”
    “It’s not that, exactly,” Ben said, but then they made eye contact, and he shrugged and said, “Yeah. You’re probably right.” He took a breath and exhaled to release the tension. “What can I say? It’s the way it is.”
    They soon brushed past the topic of nicknames, but Ben sensed that she was genuinely hurt thinking the people would never really accept her as part of the town. For the rest of the drive, they talked about other things, and the mood had lightened by the time they got to Brunswick.
    They found a parking space on Chamberlain Street right in front of the restaurant. Julia commented that it might be a bad sign for a restaurant, since it was lunchtime. If the place was any good, shouldn’t it be hard to find parking close to it? Ben insisted he led a charmed life, and they were lucky not to have to hassle with parking. Besides, the Bowdoin students had all gone home for the summer. The restaurant was so popular during the school year, you needed to make reservations well in advance.
    The small bell on a spring above the door tinkled when they entered. The sign at the front of the restaurant read: SEAT YOURSELF , so they chose a table in the corner, by the front window looking out on the street. Their waitress, a young woman with her blonde hair done up in Princess Leia buns, came over to their table. Ben ordered a beer, and Julia asked for some red wine. After their drinks arrived, they ordered some appetizers and were settling back to talk some more when a voice called out, “ Yo , Benny. Benny Brown. Back from Iraq all in one piece, I see.”
    Ben turned around, his eyes widening when he saw Richie “The Crowbar” Sullivan coming toward them. As always, Richie was dressed like a GQ model … if GQ models had faces that looked like a hundred miles of bad road. Today, he was wearing pressed beige Dockers and a brand new pair of white New Balance sneakers. His turquoise golf shirt fit his muscular frame tight enough to show that he didn’t have an ounce of fat on his belly. He was tanned and wore his thinning gray hair swept straight back so it touched the back collar of his shirt. His biceps rippled beneath his tanned skin like lengths of knotted rope, the veins bulging as he held his hand out for Richie to shake.
    “How’s it feel to be home?”
    Ben smiled and nodded. “Fine … just fine.”
    Richie raised an eyebrow. “You sure about that? Looks like someone mopped the floor with your face.”
    Ben forced a laugh. “Nothing like good times with old friends.”
    “ Fuckin ’ war,” Richie said. Grimacing, he shook his head and looked like he was about to spit onto the floor. “Never should’a gone there in the first place. Saddam wasn’t much. We should’a cleaned out that numb fuck bin Laden in Afghanistan, first.” As if noticing Julia for the first time, Richie glanced at her and said, “Pardon my French, ma’am.” He lowered his eyes and bowed.
    Ben smiled to himself when Julia didn’t offer the French word for fuck .
    “So how’s your old man doing? How’d the launch go yesterday?”
    “Fine … It was a good time. You should’ve come.”
    “I was gonna be there, but …” Richie held both hands palms