Chapter 3 #3
An ugly, dark thing stirred in the back recesses of my ribs. “Tell your parents hello for me,” I said.
“For real, Landry. Why are you here?”
I looked up. Squinted against the sun. “I heard from a bird you all moved away.”
Unspoken words hovered between us. I wasn’t supposed to see you again.
“My parents did, to Charleston. I commute back and forth when work brings me here.” He unbuttoned his cufflinks and stuck them in his pocket, then rolled up his sleeves an inch. His forehead didn’t hold a single bead of sweat. “Last I heard, you were doing interior design, correct?”
I shifted in place. I knew he still followed me on social media—because I’d made a point to unfollow him. I should have blocked him to avoid this.
A tiny, faint flutter hit my stomach. But if I’d blocked him, he wouldn’t be able to see that I’d moved on. That I could live without him.
“I do,” I said.
“Your work is wonderful.” He cleared his throat. “If I’d realized, I would have hit you up. Maybe brought you onto a project or two?”
“I don’t think our clientele is the same—”
“I’m serious,” he said.
Ivan stood a head taller than me. I used to think that was so attractive. A football player, interested in little old me. The size of him, the athleticism, the screaming on the field when a down was completed or a touchdown scored.
The hand in mine while he taught me to drive a stick.
His fingers in my hair when he pulled me in for a kiss.
The blood in his neck when he flushed with frustration, only to console the moment with words and promises.
Both of us stood, staring at the other.
Finally, I said, “Well, I appreciate it, but I’m actually supposed to be back soon. I’ll see you around, Ivan.” His name on my tongue burned. I kept a wide berth as I stepped around the bench, and him, my eyes already set on my car.
I waited for his steps to follow—but they didn’t.
“I’m sorry about Cadence, Landry,” he called after me.
Just like with my mother, I didn’t respond. I just kept walking.
He knew. He knew about me being in town for Aunt Cadence, and yet he’d acted like he hadn’t.
I flipped through radio stations, eyes glued to the road. One good song before I got home. That was all I needed.
I didn’t have feelings for Ivan. Quite the opposite. I had feelings, but they weren’t the kind of feelings someone might have expected.
I used to have those: the butterflies, the hot palms, the unending smiles. I used to dream about ways to talk to him, pray that he would turn around in history class and ask for help, offer to study together, or look at my answers.
When those moments came, I built them up to mean something. I built them into a safe house, until I realized the house was burning, and the house had never been safe at all.
Stolen moments turned into moments stolen from me. “I love you,” turned into, “if you did, why are you looking at him?” when I hadn’t been looking at all. Compliments turned into insinuations. I was either asking for it from him, or I was looking for it from someone else.
“Come in today for forty percent off”—it broke to static. Click.
I tried again. “In Hannowville, by t … he”—click.
My breathing grew ragged. Infomercial after infomercial. Each one settled on my nerves. I needed something else. They weren’t working—weren’t filling the emptiness correctly—
“Have—or a—ved one—”
A cloud of dust plumed like a kite as I pulled off to the roadside.
Hands shaking, I turned station after station. Click after click, nothing but static or a grating voice, then—a country station crooned through the speakers. I sighed and fell back in my seat, elbow propped on the door lip. I settled my temple into my palm as a harmonica started to whine. Better.
This was better.
The roaring between my ears calmed the longer I sat. I counted the beats through the seat upholstery—the volume loud enough to hit deep, deep in my chest. In the cup holder by my elbow, my phone pinged.
I turned it off. Mom could wait—all of it, for a few moments, could be forgotten.
Everyone dealt with death, memories, and old pain at some point, and it was my turn on the merry-go-round, but I wanted off. I didn’t remember standing in the line for this ride.
I didn’t want to admit it, but Ivan was tangled to Cadence and Harthwait simply by being a piece of my memories. The thought sent my skin crawling: Ivan had the pleasure of crawling into my mind because he was a section of that puzzle, no matter how ugly.
Saliva pooled in my mouth. Hatred. Shame. I wanted to rip the pieces up, cut them to shreds, and burn them. But I couldn’t. The best I could do was ignore it.
I thought of Emma, waiting at home, and how Sayer would be back to help. How they both would look at me with careful eyes, and that only reminded me how I needed to be okay.
So I breathed in deep, and I pulled back onto the road.
Back home, I deposited the seedlings on the front porch—a project for another day—and unlocked the front door. By the time I stepped inside, I realized the foyer was dark. And that I’d unlocked the door.
Which I shouldn’t have had to do.
“Emma!” I called. “Are you hungry?”
Silence met me.
I poked my head into the living room. The sink light still spilled yellow over the sink; the refrigerator hummed in tandem with the AC unit. The TV, on mute, flickered over the walls, the ceiling, the ornate rugs. The grandfather clock tick-tick-ticked as I turned the foyer light on.
“Em?” I stepped back and shut the front door.
The house just felt so—big. I was used to an apartment. Not two floors of empty rooms. With furniture that I’d never use. I circled, glancing at the stairwell.
When no answer came, I took a peek in the office, left of the front door.
A tiny book nook light glowed amber. That particular book nook resembled an alleyway in Italy: cobblestone streets, sand-colored buildings with moss latched to their clay-tiled roofs.
It stood no taller than a dictionary. A dime-sized motion sensor blinked at the bottom—if I were to walk in front of it, it’d flicker the alleyway to life, before falling dark after a few moments.
Had it turned on when Aunt Cadence fell from her heart attack? Had it been during the day, or sometime at night?
Why was it on now, though?
A buzz caught my attention. Back at the foyer table, I dug through my purse. Hadn’t I turned my phone off?
Sure enough, three text messages, all within the last eight minutes.
EMMA: Dinner? I can get pizza. None of those casseroles looked appetizing.
EMMA: Or pasta.
EMMA: Carbs are good, just let me know before I leave the grocery store. You had no ravioli which is blasphemy so I’m at the store.
I leaned back against the handrail. It bit in between my shoulder blades, along all the knobs of my spine, as I typed back, Can you get some greens so I can make my smoothies.
Tick
I paused. Glanced up.
Then, it came again.
Tick
My heart started to flutter. My mouth watered with adrenaline. I stared at the very spot I’d stood in the foyer earlier today, except Sayer had been leaning where I was right now. I stared at the grandfather clock, waiting, just as the sound came again.
Tick
But the grandfather clock sang tick-tick-tick. Even, expected ticks. This sounded like a bug hitting a window, or—
Then I noticed it. Through the open office door, a warm, almost burnt color light clicked on. Two seconds passed, then it turned off.
Then it turned back on.
My breaths turned to shallow, reedy strands. I took a single step forward. The motion light had turned on, sure, but I was too far from the doorway for it to catch me. Even my reflection couldn’t be seen in any of the windows—the curtain in the office was pulled tight.
Tick. On.
Tick. Off again.
My heart thundered, the foyer tightening, my nerves firing to run, to leave, to back away. Because something was triggering the light.
And it wasn’t me.