Post
by Soapy » 30 Oct 2025, 19:31
Season 2, Episode 11
Brice slouched onto the worn barstool, the vinyl cracked and sticky beneath him, fifth tequila soda in hand. The clear liquid left a sticky warmth settling in his chest, loosening the knot in his stomach that had been building since he landed at the airport that morning. The bar smelled of stale beer, smoke residue, and a faint tang of fried grease. Above him, a Confederate flag hung on the wall, faded and wrinkled, flapping slightly from the vent above like some twisted relic of a place he didn’t belong.
He wasn’t supposed to be here. Not like this. Not against every lesson his parents had drilled into him about responsibility, self-control, and appearances. And yet here he was, laughing too loud at jokes the bartender didn’t even make, texting the coaches while the rest of the patrons stared at him like he was some underaged troublemaker who’d slipped through the cracks.
Brice’s fingers shook as he typed the final message: I’m ready to make the move, coach.
He pressed send, shoved the phone into the front pocket of his hoodie, and let the buzz of liquid courage wash over him. Everything felt softer, hazier. The tension in his jaw dissolved into the plastic sheen of neon lights bouncing off the bottles behind the bar. He glanced around, noting the empty tables, the couple of guys playing darts in the corner, the waitress leaning against the counter scrolling through her phone.
A bathroom door creaked open behind him. The thirty-something woman he’d been chatting up returned, smirking as she slid onto the stool next to his.
“Ready?” she asked, tilting her head, letting the alcohol haze make her voice a little warmer, a little softer than he expected.
Brice nodded, feeling a strange satisfaction bubble in his chest. He let the tequila fuzz coat his thoughts, ignoring the gnawing emptiness beneath it. This wasn’t him. Even at his lowest, it wasn’t him but perhaps that’s what provided the satisfaction.
The bartender set down a fresh round for her, and Brice let his gaze drift to the back wall, the faded confederate flag a silent reminder that this place wasn’t meant for someone like him. But it didn’t matter. Not tonight. Not now.
…
Malcolm slid into the booth across, the worn vinyl squeaking under him. Steam curled lazily from her coffee cup, carrying the faint scent of cinnamon and cream.
“Long night?” she asked, stirring her coffee absentmindedly.
“Depends who’s asking,” Malcolm replied, offering a smirk. "Nothing some quality bourbon can’t fix though."
She laughed, the sound bouncing off the tin ceiling. “I like that."
"I know you would,” he said, pulling out a flask from his suit jacket.
"Never a dull moment with you,” she said, leaning back.
"You would know about that,” he said with a grin.
She raised an eyebrow. "I think we’re past that, Malcolm. You made that very clear. What is this really about?”
"Britney Campbell,” he said, low and deliberate.
…
“Brice, we need to talk about this,” Liz’s tone carried that sharp edge that always made him bristle, the one that sliced through his hangover worse than any tequila.
“Not right now,” he muttered, dragging his suitcase behind him.
Tom’s voice was quieter, measured, attempting to temper Liz’s fire. "We can talk about it tomorrow."
"No, fuck that,” Liz shot back, "He’s calling them back right now!"
Brice’s fingers curled into fists, nails digging into his palms. “No, I’m not."
"You’re not going to fucking Virginia, Brice,” Liz continued, ignoring him. “You call them. Apologize. Tell them it was a mistake. Then you call Purdue. Right now.”
“I said I’m not calling anyone,” he snapped, spinning to face them. "This is my fucking life, right? I’m the one that has to go there, right? How about I make a fucking choice for myself for once in my fucking life?"
Sophie peeked around the doorframe, amused despite herself.
"Wow,” she said softly, and Brice shot her a glare.
"Go back to your room, Sophie,” Liz barked. Sophie grinned and retreated, still leaning against the frame, watching the fallout like it was her own private show.
Brice shoved the suitcase aside and took a deep breath, the hangover twisting in his stomach.
"This is the fucking problem with you! You always want to control every little fucking thing, every little fucking facet of my fucking life! Me and Connie would have figured that shit out. It’s fucking bums without even a GED that have kids at fifteen and they’re okay! They figure the shit out! But no! You had to step in and fucking do everything like how you want it! Fuck how I want it!"
Liz’s hand trembled slightly as she adjusted the papers on the counter, her composure cracking. "There was nothing to figure out,” she said softly but firmly.
"Yes, there is! There was!" Brice’s voice rose, bouncing off the walls. “You’ve always tried to run my life, every choice, every step. You ruined my fucking life!"
Tom stayed silent, leaning against the counter, his expression unreadable. Brice could feel his father’s eyes burning into the back of his neck, watching, waiting, measuring.
Liz’s voice sharpened. “Brice, you’re not thinking straight. You’re hungover, upset, and you’re making a decision that has real consequences.”
“I don’t care!” Brice yelled. “I don’t care! You always think you know best. You think you know everything, and look where it’s gotten me. Look where it’s gotten us! You had to get involved with Connie. You had to find out everything, control everything. And now? Now she’s gone, Mom, she’s fucking gone!"
