Date Published: August 25, 2020
Publisher: Three South Press
Friends since childhood, Logan Ritter and Hunter James are now only held together by family ties and a history of codependency. Logan is a doctoral student and teacher who wraps himself in work, Hunter's parents, and his other long-time friend, Missy. Meanwhile, Hunter, struggling to balance his summer undergraduate courses, a part-time job, and his ever-increasing alcoholism, becomes obsessed with a misguided young woman he's never met. As their university town experiences unprecedented fear in the summer of 2002, each man’s life becomes blurred by self-absorption, assumptions, and full-on delusions. When faced with some undeniable truths, Logan and Hunter must decide how to untangle themselves from the false realities to which they've been clinging.
Another mouthful of hoppy beer enriches my senses. Before I can even swallow, I see he has finally made the connection in his brain, his eyes opening twice as wide as I thought was possible. Logan lets out a breath and contorts his face, as if he just caught me doing his precious Buffy, or Cindy, or whatever, doggy style on their Egyptian cotton sheets.
"You're delivering pizzas? A pizza delivery boy? That's just fucking fantastic. Good for you. Something to be proud of after spending a fifth of your life in college." Logan is really great with literature and shit, but he sucks at math.
"Well, like I said, I prefer to say I'm in transfers. I will transfer the pizza from Pizza House to someone's living room," I say, demonstrating the complexity of the gig with large gestures. "Without me, thousands of people would starve. I'm a god-damned humanitarian!"
Logan shakes his head, looks me up and down, and laughs. Not because he finds humor in anything, but because he is mocking me. His judgemental stare causes me to heat up with rage, with the amount of alcohol in my system I’m already highly flammable. “I am not a fucking clown!” I ignite and slap Logan's beer bottle off of the table. It hits the already damaged wall and shatters making a loud, but not out of place, sound. No one else in the bar seems to notice. Logan lets out a slow, controlled breath. Now having a look of disapproval rather than shock, he pulls a fifty out of his wallet, sets it on the table and walks through the bar, leaving me alone.
About the Author
Lana Orndorff works as a freelance writer and lives in Chicago with her husband and son. Missing Colors is her debut novel. As a reader and writer, she prefers beautifully tragic stories that fracture her heart. Because of this, her husband rarely takes her book recommendations.
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