Chapter 4
four
. . .
Indi
T he man in the seat next to me, who's been mumbling to himself nonstop since he sat down, fell asleep. His double chin acts as a cushion for his bobbing head. He's still mumbling, only it's mostly gibberish occasionally punctuated by a loud snore. I stare out the window. Daylight disappeared behind clouds a few minutes after we passed Redding. Cold rain outside and hot breath inside have turned the bus windows opaque. I smear a hole in the condensation, but the outside air is so heavy with mist, I can't see anything but the occasional passing headlights. I pull my sweatshirt tighter around me and sink down even lower in the uncomfortable seat. I try to sleep, but hunger gnaws at my gut, and my head is throbbing in unison with my ribs.
Sunshine got off the first bus and hopped on a second bus, one that would go farther north to Monterey. I followed her like a lost, stray puppy, wishing she'd take me along to wherever she was going. She led me to the bus depot where I could buy a ticket that would take me all the way up the coast to Rockhurst, my hometown. She kindly bought my ticket along with a bag of chips and a soda from the depot vending machine. Then she happily trotted out to find a hotel room for the night. I miss her.
There would be no family in Rockhurst to greet me, feed me, hug me and tell me it's going to be fine, but my good friend, Kinsley, or Kiki as we called her on the cheer squad, still lives in town with her older sister, Nev. Their grandmother raised them. Ellen Honeysett was the sweetest, kindest woman in the world. Everyone called her El Honey. Even the Wilde boys hung out at her house whenever they needed someone stable, someone who could feed them or wash their cuts, someone—an adult—who was not their dad.
Ellen died in February. I promised Kinsley I'd make it to the funeral, but Genie refused to let me take the time off. I apologized profusely, but Kinsley never responded. I could quite possibly get a door slammed in my face, but with Weston in Germany, she was the only person I could think of who might let me stay the night on their couch. The thought of sleeping soundly somewhere other than a library chair, park bench or diner booth brought tears to my eyes.
The sign welcoming us to Bassett, the town five miles inland from Rockhurst, passes by the window in a ghostly mist. I'm getting closer to Rockhurst. Rockhurst and Bassett were always big rivals on the football field. My boyfriend, Zach, was quarterback, and I was head cheerleader in our senior year. We were meant to be together—or at least that was what people said, and I believed it for a long time. Before that, Zander Wilde was quarterback, and he was amazing. Whenever Zander was on the field, the crowds were huge. Everyone came to watch him play, and we always won. Unfortunately, he got into trouble so much, the coach benched him a lot. He had no choice. You could never count on a Wilde brother. They were volatile and unpredictable. It was their dad's fault. People crossed the street or walked a wide berth whenever they had the misfortune of running into Finnegan Wilde in town.
Those days were mostly a blur, but they were fun and rambunctious. The good memories from Rockhurst were tucked away, alongside the tragic ones.
A sadness overtakes me at the thought of being back in my hometown. I haven't returned in years, and in a way, I hope a lot has changed. It will help keep the bad memories tamped down. The day my dad died, my mom was suddenly faced with the job of having to be a caring, thoughtful parent. She wasn't up to the task. Parenting just wasn't in her nature. After his death, she fell apart, only not in the way people normally fall apart after losing a loved one. She realized with Dad gone more responsibility had been heaped on her. She had sixteen-year-old twins who needed someone to turn to after losing the most important person in their life. She couldn't handle it. When we were little, Dad was the one to come to us in the middle of the night after a bad dream or if a stuffy nose kept us awake. He was the one we went to when we were having trouble at school or with friends. Even with a bad knee, he spent hours playing soccer with us, and every time the wind kicked up, he dragged the kites out of the garage rafters and drove us down to the cove to fly them. When Weston left to join the army, and I packed up my boxes for college, Mom put the house on the market. She finally found the happiness she was looking for in Portugal, far away from her kids and anyone she ever knew. We occasionally talked on the phone, but I've had more meaningful conversations with the receptionist at the dentist office than with my mom.
Mr. Mumbler is snoring louder now. It drowns out his mumbles and wakes the elderly couple sitting across the aisle. They both stare over at the big, snoring man with astonishment. The woman gives me a sweet, sympathetic smile. Fortunately for me, my grand bus journey is close to its end. My phone died hours ago, so I have no way to contact Kinsley or find out if she can spare a couch. I'll even settle for a pillow on the floor. My head is achy, and the drowsiness from lack of real sleep thuds through my entire body.
After the horrid scene at Landon's, I found refuge in the public library for the rest of the day. I always loved the library with its inky, papery smell, colorful stacks of books and serene atmosphere. I found a soft chair behind the travel books and closed my eyes. I was woken soon after by a stern-looking librarian who informed me the doors were being locked, and I needed to find a different place to sleep. Some high school students snickered at me as they piled books into their backpacks. I started the day dressed and ready to take on the world and my terrible boss, but by the time I trudged, head down, out of that library, it felt as if that life, my old life had been an illusion. I spent the next two days sitting on park benches and hanging out overlong in markets and shops. I found a diner that didn't mind me sitting all night after purchasing only a plate of toast. I used the restroom to wash my face, brush my teeth and change clothes. I sat in the sticky booth nibbling the toast and drifting off every few minutes. A bus out of town was my next motel room. I found myself with little money left for fare and pouring rain to make things that much harder. Sunshine had been just that, a ray of sunshine in an otherwise really dark place.
The bus goes no farther than the western edge of Bassett. I'll have to walk the two miles to Rockhurst. The driver pulls the bus over and yells "Bassett." I have to shake the snoring man awake, so I can get past him with my duffle. He's aggravated and growly and rubs his face hard before getting up to let me pass. Without a phone, I have no idea what time it is, and my internal clock has been wiped out by the last few days of wandering aimlessly and not sleeping. I glance at the bus driver's dash. It's ten o'clock. Not the best time to show up on someone's doorstep unannounced, but I'm sure Kinsley will understand.
The mist is so heavy it feels like light rain, and a breeze has swept up from the coast. Rockhurst has a nice stretch of beach sitting beneath tall cliffs, but the beaches up here aren't the balmy, hot-ivory sands of the south. Instead of palm trees, towering, fragrant evergreens line the coast. And while we always went swimming on the hottest August days, you could never stay in the water long without a wetsuit.
I always considered Bassett a dreary, unwelcoming town, but that might have been because of the football rivalry. It looks better than I remembered as I walk through the main street of town. There are far fewer shops and places to eat in Bassett. Rockhurst draws in more visitors and tourists because it's closer to the ocean. I pass a dark brick building with small windows tucked up in the walls. Glenn's Pub is written in gold letters on the dark window. I can hear music playing and cue balls clacking as I pass by. It's the only place open on the street.
The pain in my ribs settled into a low, dull ache as I sat on the bus, but the cold air and my brisk walk have awakened the pain. I curl myself into half a ball to avoid the breeze. The cold moisture seeps into my bones and intensifies the ache in my ribs and head. My entire body hurts, and I can feel my final ounces of energy slipping away. If I don't find shelter and a place to rest my head tonight, it might be my last night on earth. That thought drags my energy down more, and I'm practically pulling my feet along by the time I pass the sign welcoming visitors to Rockhurst.
One step past the sign I stop. The gas station Dad used to stop at to fill his tank is still there, but it's changed names, and the attached building has been painted the color of cream. I can still see him walking out of the mini-mart, smiling and holding a new pair of shiny red sunglasses for me to wear at the beach. He always did sweet things like that.
The breeze is stronger in Rockhurst. I will my feet forward toward town. Kinsley and her sister live behind the pharmacy building in a small stone and wood bungalow. The pharmacy sign has changed too. Mr. Grimley, the pharmacist, retired and moved away with his wife and special needs daughter during our senior year. He was always nice and would hand us gumballs whenever we walked into the drugstore. Kinsley and I spent hours in the makeup aisle checking out the new colors and mascaras, and he never yelled at us or told us to move on even though he knew we weren't going to buy anything.
A few cars roll past slowly, obviously pausing to see who the wet, crumpled looking stranger is trudging through town. I turn the corner down Kinsley's street. The neighboring cottage has been remodeled to look glassy and modern. I stop in front of Kinsley's house. Her grandmother's yellow rose bushes are still blooming, even shrouded with the salty fog. I stare up at the house, and the tears start again. The house is dark except for a light on the porch. They're in bed, or worse, out for the night. I've come this far, and my head is not only throbbing but dizziness keeps sweeping through it.
I climb the four steps to the front door. In fall, her grandmother used to put a fat orange pumpkin on each step leading up to the door where you'd then be greeted by a wreath made of pine cones and ribbon. A text would have been so much less intrusive. I lift my hand and knock. My fingers are numb from the cold, and my knuckles sting as they hit the hard wood door. I listen, but there's no movement inside, no sign of a light turning on. I push the doorbell. The chimes echo through the house. There is no way to sleep through the noise, but there's no response. They're not home. I turn around and sink down to sit on the top step. My weak legs give out halfway, and I land on my ass with a thud. I suck in a sharp breath and hold it until the pain in my ribs subsides.
I stare out into the foggy darkness. I can sense the familiarity of the town around me, but it doesn't feel like home. I have no idea where to go, but I know another night out in the cold with no sleep or food will put me in my grave. I'm at the place, mentally and physically, where I'm making promises to myself—if I survive this, I'll be less career oriented and worry more about just being happy. If I survive this, I'll call and make amends to people I haven't spoken to, people who felt abandoned by me when I left for college and never looked back, people like Kinsley. And if I don't survive, I will come back to haunt Genie Ross until the end of her days. I will torture her with every ghostly means possible to see that she never has a good day again. I manage a smile as I imagine myself in incorporeal form wandering through Genie's multimillion-dollar house shaking heavy chains and replacing her oat milk with real milk.
Rhonda Dixon. The name pops into my head. Zach's mom always had a sweet spot for me. She was more of a mother to me than my own mom, which wasn't saying much, but I still have fond memories of Rhonda highlighting my hair and cooking me a scrambled egg on a cold afternoon when I came to her crying because I flunked a math test. The Dixons owned one of the nicer houses in town. They weren't rich, but they weren't poor. Zach's dad worked in corporate law, and Rhonda did medical billing from her home office. I remember staring out their big picture window with its incredible view of the ocean. The house was only five or six blocks away. I hate to wake the Dixons, but I'm desperate. It's truly a matter of life or death.
By the time I reach Cliffside Road, my legs are wobbling, and every part of me is trembling. My teeth clatter against each other, but I can't stop shivering. Their house is at the end of a cul-de-sac. If I had energy, I'd jump for joy. There are several lights on in the house. Not only are they at home, but they're awake. I use my last smidgen of strength to pick up my pace.
Rhonda's apple trees are still standing in the front yard. I climb the black slate steps to the front porch and knock. I can hear voices inside but not clear enough to recognize. My head is spinning, and my whole body is shaking so violently I have a hard time keeping my knees from collapsing. I knock again, more urgently. There's no window on the door, but I hear heavy footsteps crossing the entry.
My fingers are so cold they're barely hanging onto the duffle bag. The door swings open, and the breath gets caught in my chest. Silver-blue eyes stare at me as if I'm an apparition. I consider that possibility—that I've died because there is no other explanation for what is happening. I can no longer hold the duffle. It slips from my fingers. The trembling rolls like a freight train through my entire body. There's enough pain in my side to assure me I'm not dead.
"It's you." The words creak out of my dry throat and then I crumple like tissue. I land solidly in his arms. They're way bigger than I remember. My feet leave the ground. I'm too tired to fight what's happening, and his arms are secure and strong.
He pushes the front door shut and carries me into the house. It's warm and dry. My head flops against his hard chest. I summon enough strength to look up at him. Dark beard stubble covers a strong jaw. Something about the set of it tells me he's tense.
"You're the last person I wanted to see." My voice is fading along with all the rational thoughts in my head.
His unearthly blue gaze sweeps down at me. "I know."
I rest my head against him, and something about the way he carries me lets me know it's over, the whole fucking ordeal is over. "This doesn't change anything. I still hate you." My voice is mostly breath now.
"Yeah, I know, Jones."
"You know I hate it when you call me Jones."
"Yep, I know."