Recovering alcoholic Sam isn't quite ready to let go of his failing marriage. Gord gave up his dream to care for his dying father, and now he's trapped by an inheritance he doesn't want.
When Sam's new job sends him to Gord's remote farm in the hear...
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2016
4.1
It was a storm of the type that sometimes sweeps across the open prairies in late winter: dense, luminous clouds dissolving into heavy, wet snowflakes that fell thickly and melted softly on contact. When the temperature plummeted into evening, snowmelt on the roads froze to clear sheets of ice and lavender shadows seeped into the air between feathered flakes.
Clouds wallowed in the barren fields as Gord drove into town, high beams blazing futile in the gloom, wipers creaking in protest against heavy clumps of snow gathering on the windshield. Hands were tense on the steering wheel, a cigarette drooping between his fingers. He pulled at it every few seconds, smoke harsh and clearing in his lungs.
The roads were empty, ferocious weather keeping most folk home, but the parking lot out front of Stan's bar was full, cars and pickups looming monstrous in the snow-thick twilight.
Gord zipped up his leather jacket, settled his hat firmly on his head, and took one final drag of his cigarette before he stepped down from the old rusted pickup truck and dropped the butt carelessly into the slush at his feet. Shoulders hunched up against the wind, he stalked across the parking lot towards the warmly glowing windows of the bar.
The door rattled when Gord pulled it open, the rush of hot air syrupy with the musk of damp wool and spilled beer. Music wailed through the speakers overhead, though the rumble of voices nearly drowned it out. Brushing melting snowflakes impatiently out of his close-cropped beard, Gord crossed to the bar.
Stan was wiping down the taps with a worn cloth as grey as his thinning hair. Catching sight of Gord, he tilted his grizzled chin towards the far end of the bar and said gruffly, "Second day in a row. Been here since noon."
"Alone?"
"Yup. Cut 'im off an hour ago, but says he's got nowhere to go. Marky thought you could help."
With a wordless nod of grim thanks, Gord crossed to the indicated end of the bar and leaned on his elbows, callused palms pressed flat into the gleaming pine bartop.
Lifting his head off his arms, Sam blinked up at Gord blearily. Dark irises were caught in a web of meandering red veins. The black plastic frames of his glasses didn't hide the deep shadows under his eyes, the flush of liquor crimson in sallow cheeks. His usually neatly-styled black hair hung lank and uncombed across a sweaty forehead, and dark stubble pricked the angles of his jaw.
Recognizing Gord after a slightly-too-long pause, Sam hid his face in clumsy hands. "Fuck me," he mumbled through his fingers.
"What the hell're you doin' here, Sam?" There was a thread of sadness through the anger in Gord's tone.
"Nothing," Sam lied into his palms.
"Looks like a whole lotta nothin'," Gord said coolly.
"Wanted to see you," Sam confessed in a small voice, knuckles in his eye sockets. "But then I got here 'n I couldn't..."
