David Armstrong hadn't been home in ten years.
At the age of twenty he'd packed his guitar--a beat-up Gibson Les Paul-- said his good-byes, and left.
Always a rebel, he'd had no trouble disappointing half the town, and as for the other half? Hell, they'd expected it of him.
David Armstrong--- the star quarterback who'd had the arrogance to turn his nose up at a full ride of Michigan State University.
The nerve, some said, after everything the town had done to support him and his mother. He'd left for Los Angeles one hot summer
night in July and hadn't looked back until now, and---truthfully---he'd rather be any place other than Crystal Lake.
He ran his fingers through the thick waves at top of his head and cracked his neck in an effort to relieve the tension that stretched
across his shoulders. Damn, but his muscles were tight, his legs stiff. He placed a booted foot on the top step of the Edwardses' porch and pause. He'd been traveling for hours and would just about kill for a bottle of Jack Daniel's, except he was fairly certain it would knock him on his ass. He was dead tired and knew he'd either crash hard or catch his second wind.
He smoothed his hair, trying to tame the waves a bit. It wasn't as long as it used to be, barely touched his shoulders these days. With the earrings and the nose ring long gone, he was almost respectable.
Or, at the very least, as close to some kind of respectability as he was ever going to get.
He glanced at his forearm. The edge of an elaborate tattoo peeked out from under the hem of his sleeve. It was the only thing left over from his hell-raising days, and that was way before LA Ink and Kat Von D had brought tattoos into the mainstream.
Now everyone and their mother had one.
David blew out hot air, tugged his shirtsleeve down a bit more, and glanced around. It was surreal, standing here after all this time. How many nights had he and the boys hung out, shooting the shit and dreaming of a future that would rock their reality?
He shook his head, a bittersweet smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Too many nights to count.
His thoughts darkened, and he clenched his teeth tightly as the reason for his return hit him in the gut. Not everyone's future had turned out as planned. The unimaginable had happened, and it was a sobering reality check.
One that had brought him full circle. Back to Crystal Lake.
Back to this porch.
He glanced up at a pristine blue sky and a plane caught his attention--it's drone a melancholy sound that echoed into the stillness. A warm breeze caressed his cheek, bringing with it the smell of summer---of freshly mowed lawn, flowering brushes, and warm lake water. He closed his eyes and the scent took him back. Memories rushed through him:
Fourth of July celebrations lasted a week. The annual boating regatta filled the lake with hundreds of revelers. Christmas out at Murphy's sugar shack. Tailgate parties and football. Beach nights with the boys, a guitar, a couple of girls, and a case of beer.
He saw the kid he'd been---the teen who'd dreamed large and let nothing stand in his way. Hell, none of them had. The twins, Jake and Jesse, had realized their dream to serve their country, while Mackenzie had fought his way out from beneath his father's fists to make a life in the Big Apple.
Ten years were gone and it seemed like yesterday. Like nothing had changed.
