A Piedmont Lantern Story

Quinton Rhinehart had kept his promise longer than he’d kept most things.

He parked where the dirt road gave up pretending and walked the rest of the way, the bottle tucked under his arm like it might slip away if he loosened his grip. Terrapin Creek sounded the same as it always had, water over stone, patient and unconcerned, which felt comforting.

“Thirty,” Quinton said aloud, stepping into the clearing. “You never did like round numbers.”

He set the bottle down on the flat rock they’d always used, the one with the white scar through it that Keith claimed looked like Tennessee if you squinted. Quinton unscrewed the cap and poured a little onto the ground first. Old habit. Old respect.

“Happy birthday,” he said.

“That’s a cheap whiskey for a milestone.”

Quinton froze.

He didn’t turn around right away. Folks who grow up around Terrapin Creek learn early not to rush things that don’t make sense yet.

“Figured you’d complain,” Quinton said finally. “You always did.”

“Well,” Keith Bullock replied, sounding mildly offended, “you could’ve at least sprung for the good stuff.”

Quinton turned then.

Keith sat on the log by the water, elbows on his knees, looking exactly like he had the last summer they’d been boys together — lean, sun-browned, grinning like he knew something Quinton didn’t. He wore the same old flannel shirt, sleeves rolled, cuffs frayed.

“You’re late,” Keith said.

Quinton laughed once, sharp and wet. “You’re dead.”

Keith considered that. “Yeah, I been hearin’ rumors ’bout that.”

They sat in silence awhile, the creek doing its work between them. Quinton poured another splash, this time into two cups without thinking about it.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Quinton said.

Keith picked up his cup anyway. “Neither should you. But you did make a promise.”

Quinton swallowed. “I did.”

Keith clinked his cup against Quinton’s. The sound was solid. Real enough to hurt.

They drank.

Keith wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “You look older.”

“You don’t,” Quinton said.

“Perks of not stickin’ around,” Keith replied lightly. Then, softer, “I didn’t mean to go when I did.”

“I know.”

“I hated leavin’ you with all that quiet,” Keith said. “You was always bad with it.”

Quinton stared at the water. “You missed a lot.”

Keith nodded. “I know.”

They talked then, the way they always had. About nothing much. About everything. Keith listened when Quinton spoke of the years after, the weight of them, the way life kept movin’ like it didn’t know it was bein’ rude.

When the bottle was half-empty and the light had started to thin, Keith stood.

“Time,” he said.

Quinton’s chest tightened. “You gonna stay?”

Keith smiled, gentle and familiar. “Nah. I just came to see if you was gonna show up.”

He stepped back toward the trees, the edges of him already softening, like memory does when you don’t chase it.

“Hey,” Quinton said. “Happy birthday.”

Keith grinned. “You too.”

And then he was gone.