2. Jensen
Jensen
I linger in the community center for a while after the meeting adjourns. I’ve got a list of things people want me to fix, but I need a moment to breathe in the familiarity of this space before I get started. This was always supposed to be temporary for me.
My thumb taps the image Ivy sent earlier. She’s going to miss those little rats when she goes home. Maybe I’ll miss them someday, too, but I bet it would take a long time.
Dice comes back inside. “Hey, if the Spirit Sisters had something they needed you to take care of, put them ahead of me on your list.”
He has a soft spot for the old women. He’s known them a long time, and he’s basically a nice guy in general.
“Okay. Thanks. Theirs is minor. Your septic issue might take a while.”
“You know I’ll help. I’ll go rattle Cujo’s cage if we need another set of hands.”
“I’ll probably try to recruit him on my way to your place. Might not mention it’s septic work.” We both laugh. “Hey, you never told me if you had to face her at your last tournament.”
Dice runs his hand through his hair. “You know, it’s a hell of a thing to look across the table at the only woman who could ever outplay you. Full-circle, right back to the way we met. I knew before we even got started that she held the upper hand.”
I know he means that in every way possible. Then and now. “Eh, you’ll win the next hand.”
He shakes his head. “I might be done. When one thing changes, why not two?”
“Careful. They say bad things come in threes.”
“Yeah, but they say that about good things, too. See you in a bit.”
As much as I’d like to avoid them today, I park in front of Whispering Winds, home to the spooky sisters, Alma and Elma, and their spirited business.
Elma opens the door. “Hello, there. It’s kind of you to come so quickly.”
“Yes,” Alma says from somewhere behind her. “Ours wasn’t an urgent request, but we are eager to have the mirror hung. Though its usefulness here may be limited.”
I am not about to encourage her to explain what she meant by that. It could have simply been a reference to how much longer they’ll be able to interact with ghosts here, but it also could’ve meant they believe there is something otherworldly about the mirror itself, and I don’t need to know anything about a haunted mirror. Especially not if they plan on freeing something from it.
The mirror in question is an antique. A very heavy one. Screws alone won’t hold this. I’m going to have to anchor it. I hate drilling into these old adobe walls. Patching holes in them and getting a good match on the color and texture is impossible. Not that it really matters at this point.
If the sisters want this mirror hung, I’m going to hang it for them.
When the job’s done, the twins come up behind me in the mirror to admire it. The three of us are reflected in it, me with my hair sticking out from under my Giants ballcap, and them with their long, gray braids . . . we look like we’re from completely different eras.
But we’ve been a part of the same community for the past four years, all three of us falling more and more out of touch with the way people live outside our fences.
It’s always been odd. But I owe a hell of a lot to this place and these people.
“Is there something special about this mirror?” No idea why I couldn’t just leave well enough alone, but I can’t take the question back.
“Yes,” Alma says. “I felt a special connection to it the moment I saw it.”
I knew it.
“All mirrors are special,” Elma says. “Because our mirror images are how we see ourselves. Photographs are how others see us. Those can be edited to tell whatever story we want people to believe, but the person in the mirror is the one we must learn to love unedited.”
Alma nods. “And images in photos preserve a moment in time. But the you in the mirror is constantly changing, always evolving.”
The thought of standing around, watching myself age makes working on Dice’s septic system look better by the second. “Well, if the mirror is all you needed, I’ll move on to the next person on my list, and let you ladies get on with your day.”
“Before you go,” Elma says. “Look into the mirror again.”
She steps aside, out of the reflection, and then Alma steps away, too.
“Do you see him?” Elma asks.
“Who?”
“The man you’ve become,” Alma says. “She sees him. She’s proud of him. But she doesn’t want him to stop becoming the man he’s meant to be.”
“And she says you aren’t meant to be alone.”
I suddenly smell Jenna as distinctly as if she were standing right next to me. I don’t see her in the mirror, but her scent . . . ten seconds ago, I couldn’t have described it, but memories are powerful enough to fuck with your senses. To make you believe it’s not your imagination when a small detail comes rushing back and hits like a goddamn helmet to your knees.
“I don’t guess it’s healthy for anybody to be alone too long,” I say, nodding at the sisters as I walk toward the door, not meaning to dismiss them, but not wanting to hear more of their spooky life lessons either. It’s too much. My hand turns the doorknob, but I realize I can still smell her, so I hold still.
I hold on.
She’s here, but there’s an unseen force pushing at my back, a voice telling me I have to go, that the past isn’t a home. It’s a photograph. A moment in time captured in an image. Millions of beautiful moments preserved in millions of beautiful images. All forever unchanged.
I’ve spent the past four years trying to remain unchanged, knowing all along that life isn’t meant to be like that. It makes no sense to know something with absolute certainty, but still doubt it with everything you’ve got. Denial is easier sometimes, but the truth doesn’t change.
People change. It’s how we’re meant to be. Moving, but with purpose—not trying to outrun pain, but learning to grow past it without looking away from it. To leave it behind without running from it. So many things I’ve known, yet refused to accept.
But not needing to run? That’s more than a shift in perspective. That changes how I breathe. It shoves the boulder off my back, not because I choose to accept it, but because it makes the choice for me. It leaves me like a fever breaking—cold sweat, weak limbs . . . sudden clarity.
I wasn’t just running to escape. It was the only way I ever knew to be. I’ve never felt like I wasn’t in a race—whether it was to stay at the front of the pack so my dad would see me or to escape the reach of his sight when I wanted him to stop focusing on me or to keep the cruelest pain from gaining on me.
Until this beautiful moment right now.
I’m standing still. All of me. And I’m okay.
Even here in Ivydell, hidden away from responsibilities and obligations, I’ve been running. But right now, I don’t feel like I have to do anything bigger or better or faster or harder, or hide or fight. There’s no fear or anger thrumming in my veins. No strategizing for survival.
No need to run.
I step back to the mirror for another look. Because I need to see it in my own eyes to trust it.
The change is undeniable. I see it for myself.