GREENER GRASS, Chapter V

This is the fifth in a series of six stories running this week. Enjoy.

Buddy, meanwhile, walked slowly back to the Challenger. The sun had started its slow descent, turning the sky a bruised orange behind the steeple. The Dodge sat in the lot like a monument to every bad decision he’d made—shiny, loud, overcompensating, and utterly out of place in front of a church.

He slid into the seat and just sat there, staring out the windshield, the silence in the car louder than the rumble it was built to make. He felt better, somehow, having dumped it all on the pastor’s desk like a man cleaning out his garage. But underneath the relief was a deeper ache—a hollow, gnawing emptiness that whispered there was no next chapter. Just more pages of the same.

He turned the key and the Challenger came to life with a snarl that sounded more like a mockery now. It was the sound of someone who had tried too hard to be someone he wasn’t. The engine’s purr, once thrilling, now felt like it was laughing at him. He gripped the wheel like it might anchor him to something, anything.

He pulled out onto the road slowly, the car’s muscle unneeded for the kind of drive he was on. No destination. No hurry. Just a man behind the wheel of a mistake, wondering what the hell came next.

That night, lying on his back in Room 6 at the Naughty Pine, staring at the water-stained ceiling tile shaped vaguely like the state of Nebraska, Buddy came to a decision. It came not like a lightning strike, but more like the last ember of a fire that refuses to die. He had to let go of the Dodge.

It was more than just a car—it was a four-wheeled monument to every poor decision he’d made in the last six months. The payments alone could sink a sober man, and the way it turned heads in a town like Fort Stockton was a constant reminder of the fool he’d been trying to impress someone like Lexi.

So the next morning, Buddy steered the Challenger toward Frontier Ford, “Home of the Straight Shootin’ Deal.” The sun hadn’t fully crested the horizon when he pulled onto the lot, but the flags were already flapping and the inflatable tube man out front was flailing with evangelical enthusiasm.

Rodger was standing just inside the glass doors, coffee in one hand, clipboards in the other, his comb-over flapping like a loose tarp in a spring wind. He’d been selling cars at Frontier Ford since the Reagan administration and had a sixth sense for a man who’d come to trade pride for practicality.

“Well, well,” Rodger said as Buddy climbed out of the Challenger. “If it ain’t Mr. Midlife Crisis himself. What brings you to the land of F-150s and forgiveness?”

Buddy rubbed the back of his neck. “I think I’m finally ready to be a grown-up, Rodger. You got anything that doesn’t come with a supercharger or a judgmental growl?”

Rodger nodded slowly, eyeing the Challenger with a mix of disdain and dollar signs. “I’ve got just the thing. Low mileage, single-owner, and best of all—it won’t make you look like you’re trying to get invited to a keg party you weren’t cool enough to attend the first time around.”

Buddy cracked the smallest smile he’d felt in days. “Lead the way.”

Rodger walked him across the lot to a silver pickup parked between two aging Explorers. He patted the hood like it was a loyal dog.

“This here,” he said with a bit of reverence, “is a 2010 Ford Ranger XLT SuperCab 4×4. Silver Metallic over Medium Dark Flint cloth upholstery. Came in on trade just two days ago from Old Man Priddy. You remember him—used to run the grain co-op before his knees gave out.”

Buddy circled it slowly, taking in the honest shape of the thing. It wasn’t flashy. It wasn’t loud. It was a work truck, pure and simple.

Rodger opened the door and gestured inside. “This pickup has 17k miles and is powered by a 4.0-liter V6 mated to a five-speed automatic transmission and a dual-range transfer case. Gets decent mileage. She’s got a long enough bed to haul lumber, gravel, or guilt—whatever you’ve got weighing you down.”

Buddy snorted softly.

“And best of all,” Rodger added, lowering his voice a notch, “it won’t draw any attention at the Dairy Twin or the church parking lot. This truck blends in like a cottonwood in the wind. And Buddy… Fort Stockton may be the world’s biggest small town, but even here, it’s possible to start over.”

Buddy ran his hand along the fender. For the first time in months, he felt something close to solid ground.

But good feelings didn’t pay off debt, and when Rodger punched the numbers into his computer, reality bit hard.

“I’m gonna be straight with you, Buddy,” Rodger said, sliding his readers down the bridge of his nose. “This Challenger? It’s not worth near what you owe. These muscle cars lose value faster than Mayor Goodman breaks promises.”

Buddy’s shoulders sagged. “Figures.”

Rodger leaned back, lacing his fingers behind his head. “See, it’s the economics of ego. You pay a premium to impress people who don’t give a damn, and by the time you stop trying to impress them, you’ve got a car nobody wants at a price nobody can justify.”

“Sounds about right,” Buddy muttered.

Rodger drummed his fingers on the desk for a beat, then stood. “But I didn’t survive five recessions and two divorces without knowing how to make a deal work. I’ll pull some strings, call in a favor with the credit union. Maybe even convince the finance manager you’re some kind of saint-in-training.”

The idea of Buddy being called a saint, even one in training, made him laugh out loud.

A few signatures, a bit of paperwork, and one brutal trade-in later, Buddy found himself sliding behind the wheel of the Ranger. It smelled like dust and old pine air freshener, and he loved it.

With a half-grin and the keys in his pocket, Buddy headed straight to The Grounds for Divorce.

Lucinda was behind the counter, wearing a crisp white uniform with red piping and buttons and an expression that said she already knew.

“Well, well,” she said. “That midlife crisis sound a little quieter now?”

Buddy slid into his booth. “I traded in my sins for something with a bench seat and a tailgate.”

“That sounds like progress,” she said, already pouring his coffee. “Now what’ll it be—pecan pie or the daily special?”

“Both,” Buddy said. “I think today calls for celebration.”

Lucinda smiled, and for the first time in a long time, Buddy didn’t feel like he was pretending to be someone else.

She returned a few minutes later with the pie—pecan, still warm—with a scoop of Blue Bell Vanilla Bean melting slow across the top. She set it down gently in front of him and slid into the booth across from him.

“When’s the last time you talked to Cora?” she asked, her voice softer than usual.

Buddy paused, fork halfway to his mouth. “Not since… the shower.”

Lucinda nodded slowly, as if she’d already known the answer. “Yeah, well, you know how things go in this town. If it happens in Fort Stockton, it might as well be on the front page of the Stockton Telegram-Dispatch.”

Buddy managed a grim smile. “I figured.”

Lucinda tilted her head, eyes gleaming with something like mischief—or maybe memory. “You know, I had my own run-in with Neil once. A long time ago. There was a shower involved then, too. And his so-called Gift.”

Buddy raised an eyebrow, caught between disbelief and the urge to laugh.

“Don’t look so scandalized,” she said with a wink. “It was a long time ago, and to be honest, it was a little overrated.” He chuckled, the sound catching in his throat like something he hadn’t used in a while. “A big ship don’t mean squat if you don’t know how to navigate the seas.”

Lucinda reached out and tapped the edge of his plate. “Eat your pie, sugar. Life moves on. Even in Fort Stockton.”

She let the words hang there for a moment, then leaned in a little closer, her voice low and even.

“But it won’t move on right for you until you set things straight with Cora. You know that, don’t you?”

Buddy looked up, his fork resting just inside the crust. “What if she doesn’t want to hear it?”

Lucinda gave him a look sharp enough to cut through the steam from his coffee. “You’re the one who left, Buddy. Don’t expect her to be the one to find out if there’s a chance left. That’s on you.”

Buddy didn’t answer right away. He stared down at the pie, the melting ice cream pooling around the pecans like a slow surrender. He didn’t know if he had it in him. But he knew she was right.”