Chapter 7
Nothing’s changed.
I think that’s the most depressing part out of the plenty to choose from.
Seven years.
Sevenfucking years.
And nothing has changed.
I stare at the exterior of the trailer where my mom still lives, and it looks the same. I could have been gone for a week. Or a month.
I thought something would look different. So far, all I’ve noticed is the dirt road leading to the trailer park was paved. Based on the bumpiness driving here, it would have been better left alone.
“My shift ends at six,” my mom tells me. “I’m low on groceries, but I’ll bring something back for dinner. Cormac should be here in a few hours.”
I nod, not coming up with anything to say.
My mom refuses to talk about her illness. Suggesting she cut back on her hours at the store will only devolve into another fight. And I can’t offer to go get groceries because I have no car and no money. I’m helpless. Useless. Sitting around and waiting for my little brother to return from college is an unappealing prospect. And my only option.
I climb out of the sedan she’s had forever. I tuned up the engine, back in high school when I was working at Hank’s garage. My mom has never mentioned car trouble, so I guess it’s held up all right. One thing that didn’t go wrong.
My mom reverses as soon as I shut the car door, turning around and avoiding the worst of the potholes.
The asphalt I cross is more cracked than complete, evidence of harsh winters and minimal upkeep. I’m sure the town put up a fight about paving it in the first place. They like to pretend this place doesn’t exist, not invest time or money in it.
“Ryder.”
I pause, halfway across the small yard, to glance at the neighboring trailer. Mrs. Nelson is standing, holding an orange watering can, staring at me like I’m an apparition that fell straight out of the sky.
The polite smile appears automatically. She’s a bit of a busybody, but Mrs. Nelson was always willing to help out with Cormac or to grab a package. Seeing her is surprisingly nostalgic. She still dresses like she’s hoping to be seen from space.
“Hi, Mrs. Nelson.”
None of the shock has dimmed from her expression. “I didn’t know you were coming home.”
My mom is the furthest thing from an oversharer. And your child getting released from prison, even if it’s eight months early for good behavior, isn’t exactly a proud parental moment to brag about.
“It was sudden,” I say.
Not that seven years passed quickly.
“I know a lot of people will be happy to see you.”
My brow furrows at the odd phrasing. My mom is relieved I’m out. She’s also dying, preoccupied by more important matters than my criminal record. Cormac is consumed by his own life, finishing his sophomore year of college and excited about a summer internship that’s set to start soon. The only other person I told about my release was Tucker. That’s not a lot of people.
She’s being polite, I guess. I know I look like shit, bedraggled and beaten down.
“Nice to see you,” I say, then continue walking toward the front door.
When I reach the stairs, I realize why my hands feel so empty; I left the plastic bag of my belongings in the back seat of my mom’s car.
Not that it really matters. My phone is useless—dead and disconnected from service—and my lack of a car makes my expired driver’s license unnecessary as well. All I care about are the letters.
I’ve got nothing. It makes leaving so tempting.
Starting over sounds so much better anywhere else. Some town where I can walk around without being stared at or whispered about. Someplace without painful memories.
But I can’t leave my mom. I’d never forgive myself, even if she would.
I fish the spare key out from under the ceramic turtle Cormac painted in art class the year we first moved here, then unlock the front door. A slight breeze stirs the air before I step inside, making the wind chimes someone hung up across the street tinkle. I glance over and glare at the cheerful sound before stepping inside and shutting the door behind me.
Staring at the interior of the trailer is incredibly nostalgic. The kitchen is neat and tidy, which wasn’t always the case when I was younger and is a relief to see. My mom has been living alone for most of the past two years, ever since Cormac left for college. She easily could have backslid into bad habits.
I flip through a few magazines on the counter, then walk over to the fridge. My mom was right; it’s mostly empty, but I’m not that hungry anyway.
I shut the fridge door. Take a seat at the kitchen table and drum my fingers against the worn wood. Pick up the landline and dial the phone number I still have memorized.
“Franklin Construction.”
“How come you don’t have a work phone?” I ask.
“Ryder?” Tuck laughs. “Holy shit, man. You’re out?”
I rub at a scratch on the scuffed surface. “Yep, I’m out. Couple of hours ago.”
“Wow. Congrats.”
“Thanks.” My tone is dry. I’m not sure if years of counting down days is an accomplishment to cheer completing.
“Not the right sentiment, huh?”
“Hell if I know.”
Tucker chuckles. “Well, we’re celebrating anyway. You doing dinner with your family?”
“Yeah,” I reply.
“’Kay. I’ll pick you up at eight. We’ll get beers at Malone’s.”
“Can we go to the house instead? I’d rather avoid the stares and finally see this place in person.”
Three years ago, Tucker started his own construction business. He focused on smaller projects at first, then bought an old house in the One section of town with the intention of flipping it. Ever since the sale went through, he’s been saying he wants me to manage the renovation. Business has grown to the point that he can’t oversee everything on his own.
There aren’t many places hiring in town, even fewer who would consider hiring me, so I agreed as soon as I found out about my mom’s cancer. I could use a steady paycheck and something to keep my mind occupied.
“Yeah, sure,” he responds. “Just … promise me you’ll give it a chance.”
I frown. “What are you talking about?”
“Well … it’s been sitting empty for a while. It’s in rough shape. Needs a lot of work.”
“I’ve got a lot of time on my hands, Tuck.”
He chortles. “Right. Yeah. I just … there’s a reason the bank sold it dirt cheap. I don’t want you to get discouraged.”
I lean back in the chair. “I won’t.”
“Okay, I—oh, crap. Plumber is walking over with his bad-news face on. I’ll see you later, okay?”
“Yep.” I hang up, then go back to staring into space.
After a few minutes, I haul myself up and head down the hallway. The door to my bedroom is shut. When I open it, the air is musty.
Cormac should have taken this room instead of letting it sit empty. It’s larger than his, and he’s almost as tall as I am now.
I walk over to the window and stare outside. My favorite part of the view—the boxwood hedge—was torn out and replaced by an ugly plastic fence.
My high school textbooks sit in a dusty stack on the desk, next to a pile of papers. My mom didn’t get rid of or move anything.
I crack the window, letting fresh air in. It’s at least sixty degrees out, cloudy but not chilly.
Rifling through a few drawers confirms nothing got cleared out of my room, so I head back to the kitchen to grab a couple of trash bags.
They’re not stored in the cabinet above the fridge anymore. I open the next cabinet over and stare at the row of colorful tin boxes lined up neatly. I pick up a yellow one and glance at the label. Himalayan Ginger and Lemongrass, it reads.
I’ve never seen my mom drink tea. Certainly not expensive tea, which this appears to be based on the pastel shades and fancy lettering of the packaging. These tin boxes are the nicest items in this entire kitchen. The nicest things in this whole trailer, probably.
I shake my head and keep searching, finding the trash bags two cabinets later.
The next hour is spent sorting through clothes that no longer fit and papers I no longer need. I shower, then sprawl out on the couch to wait for my mom and Cormac to get home. All I can find on television are reruns, which I half watch while absorbing how strange it feels to be entirely alone.
At five forty-five, I hear a car outside. I straighten on the couch, then stand right as Cormac walks in with a backpack over one shoulder and a duffel slung over the other. He barely fits through the doorway, carrying the two bags. As soon as the door shuts behind him, he drops them unceremoniously on the kitchen’s linoleum floor.
“Hey!”
“Hey.” My greeting is noticeably more subdued, not because I’m unhappy to see my little brother. Because it’s setting in, slowly, how much time actually passed.
The trailer might not have changed, but Cormac sure has. I saw him about a month ago, during one of his regular visits. But it’s different to see him here when the last memories I have of him in this kitchen are of a gangly thirteen-year-old.
“Man, is it good to see you.”
I open my arms as he approaches, my throat thickening with emotion as he hugs me tight. Fuck, I missed so much. All of his high school years. Half of college. Teaching him how to drive. Telling him where to buy a fake. Buying him condoms. All that shit I had to figure out for myself, which I swore Cormac wouldn’t have to go through alone.
“Good to see you too,” I choke out as he claps me on the back. “You didn’t have to come all this way though.”
Classes are finished for the semester, but he still has a week left of finals.
“You kidding?” Cormac pulls back and grins. “Not every damn day your big brother escapes the slammer.”
I roll my eyes. “Not much of an escape when they let you out.”
“I know. But that sounds way less cool.”
“Glad I could entertain you.” I glance at the bags on the ground. “Not sure you brought enough back.”
“Figured a few small loads were better than one big one. Speaking of, what’s with the trash bags outside?”
“I went through my room. Don’t think I’ll be needing my Calc textbook anytime soon, and half the clothes don’t fit anymore. You should have moved in there, by the way.”
Cormac makes a face. “Why? It’s your room.”
“For now.”
“You mean, until Mom dies or until you take off in a couple of weeks?”
I clear my throat and sit back down on the couch, hating his blasé tone. I know he had to grow up fast, but he shouldn’t be so cavalier about any of this. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Cormac leans against the kitchen counter. “I wouldn’t blame you if you did. Gotta be weird, being back here.”
“It is,” I admit. “But I’ll adjust. I’m going to work for Tuck. Help him flip that house he bought.”
“The Warren place?”
“I guess so.”
“Huh. Do you know how to renovate a house?”
I flip him off. “Tuck’s got a whole crew. I’ll just be pitching in with whatever needs to get done.”
“That’s what you want to be doing?” Cormac asks.
“I don’t exactly have a ton of options,” I reply quietly.
“You could apply to college. You got better grades than I did in high school, and I got into a decent school.”
“I think that ship has sailed, Cor.”
“Says who? There’s a guy in my Econ class in his fifties. He hated his old job, so he’s switching careers.”
“Maybe one day,” I say, mostly just to placate him. I wasn’t planning to go to college, even before my life derailed. “I’ll see how the construction gig goes.”
“She doesn’t want help, you know. Or treatment.”
My jaw tightens. “She might change her mind.”
“Maybe,” Cormac says, but I get the feeling he’s the one offering me false assurances now. “I’m going to stash this stuff in my room. Mom’s shift ends at six?”
“Yeah,” I reply. “She said she’d bring dinner.”
“Great. I’m starving.” Cormac disappears down the hallway with his bags, leaving me sitting on the couch.
My mom arrives home twenty minutes later with a few bags of groceries. I scrutinize her closely as I help unpack them, but she appears normal. Tired, with dark circles under her eyes, but no signs of sickness. As awful as it sounds, I wish there were signs. It’s too easy to pretend like nothing is wrong without them.
“I stopped and picked you up some clothes,” she tells me while dividing dinner between plates. “Figured you could use a few new things.”
“Thanks, Mom. You didn’t need to do that.”
“Would have been a long walk to the store,” she says in that blunt way she often speaks.
I snort before sitting down at the table. “Uh-huh.”
Cormac returns from the bathroom a few minutes later, and we sit down to eat as a family for the first time in a long time.
No one mentions the reason I spent so many years missing meals here. Or cancer. We talk about Cormac’s internship, and my mom tells a funny story about a customer, and I share what little I know about Tuck’s renovation project. It’s nice and normal and rare.
After we finish eating, my mom moves to stand.
“I’ll grab it,” Cormac says, rising quickly.
I sip my water as I watch him run through what’s obviously a routine. Turning on the electric kettle, grabbing a flower-painted teacup out of a cabinet, then pulling out one of the fancy boxes I noticed earlier. He shakes some leaves into the teacup, soaks them with hot water, and then brings it over to our mom.
“Thanks,” she tells Cormac, leaning forward to inhale the fragrant steam.
I still, suddenly realizing why the familiar jasmine scent is making me tense. “Since when do you drink tea?”
She shrugs, not meeting my eyes. “It’s good for you.”
“So, you just woke up one morning and decided to start drinking tea?”
Another shrug.
I’m not sure why I’m so focused on this. But something about the way my mom is avoiding my gaze makes me feel like I’m missing something. It’s just … strange. Something that’s changed, amid a whole lot that hasn’t.
“Where’s the tea from, Mom?” I ask.
Those tin boxes in the cabinet looked too fancy to be from Wegman’s, the supermarket chain where she works. They look like something that would come from a store that sells nothing but tea.
No response. No eye contact, which only increases my paranoia.
“She visits Mom,” Cormac tells me.
“Cormac!” our mom snaps.
“He should know.” Cormac shifts in his chair, the confident spread of his limbs another reminder of how much he grew up in my absence.
And I’m … stunned. I don’t need to clarify who she is. There’s only one person Cormac could possibly be referring to.
It never ever occurred to me that Elle might keep in touch with my family.
“How often?” My tone is all overdone casualness, which they can probably hear. It’s my best attempt to combat the furious pound of my racing heart.
It’s been seven years. I’m over her, and I’m sure she’s over me. So, what does Cormac mean that she visits?
Cormac’s lips are pressed into a thin line. My mom’s hand twitches toward the spot where her box of cigarettes used to sit, then falls into her lap.
More than once or twice then.
“How often do you see her, Mom?”
“Once a month.” She pauses. Glances at Cormac. “For the past seven years.”
Eighty-four visits. My brain does the math automatically, but is too surprised to manage anything else.
A light breeze could blow me out of this chair right now. I’m flabbergasted. I would have been shocked by once a year.
My mom is unfriendly. She doesn’t try to get to know people or care what they think about her. She’s brash and opinionated. I can’t picture her and Elle sitting at this table a single time, let alone eighty-four times.
Shock ebbs into anger. My hands curl into fists under the table. But I can’t act on it—can’t expel—the hot rush of rage. Because my mom is sick and because I was gone and because I’m not supposed to care how Elle spends her time.
I hope it haunts you—how you ended things.
Elle must have already started these visits when she sent me that letter.
Thankfully, my voice is calm as I ask, “Why?”
I need more of an explanation. I need some part of it to make sense.
“She’s a good person,” my mom tells me. “You two were young, and she grew up differently. Don’t hold how things ended against her.”
I stare at my mom, a fresh wave of shock spreading through my system. I didn’t think it was possible for me to feel any more surprised, and I was wrong.
She’s defending Elle. She’s defending Elle without knowing the whole story. Defending her, thinking that Elle was the one who abandoned me.
Meaning … Elle didn’t tell her. Eighty-four fucking visits, and she didn’t explain how we’d ended. It makes me wonder what they did talk about.
“You should have stayed away,” I state.
My mom scowls at me, and Cormac appears equally annoyed.
“She came here, Ryder. Mom didn’t hunt your ex-girlfriend down and ask for all the gifts.”
“Gifts?” I question. “There was more than the tea?”
They exchange a look that tells me I won’t like the answer.
There’s a honk outside. I glance at the clock on the microwave. Eight p.m.
Immediately, I stand. “That’s Tuck. I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”
“Ryder …” my mom starts.
I shake my head. “It’s fine.”
Then, I hurry out of the trailer like it’s on fire, more eager to escape that kitchen than I was to leave prison, my head still spinning.
Cormac said I should know? I wish he’d kept his mouth shut tight. Wish I hadn’t looked twice at that tea.
Rather than the beat-up green truck Tucker used to drive, a shiny black one is idling at the end of the short driveway. FRANKLIN CONSTRUCTION is printed on the door in neat block letters.
Tuck waves enthusiastically as I approach, but doesn’t step out of the truck. I realize why when I open the door.
“… not sure that I should mix the two, you know?” a woman’s voice is saying. “It was nice of her to offer, but what if I hate it all? How would I tell her?”
“Honey, we’ve eaten at her restaurant twice,” Tuck replies. “Remember how good that duck was? You’re not going to hate anything, and you said she has a long waiting list. What’s the point of having connections if you don’t use them?”
Tuck leans over to hug me once I’ve settled in the passenger seat, punching my shoulder twice before he relaxes back in his seat and mouths, Keira.
I nod.
“So, you think I should accept?”
“I do,” Tuck confirms. “But it’s your call. If you want to find a different caterer, let’s do that. I gotta go, okay? I just picked Ryder up.”
There’s a noticeable pause. The smile Tuck aims my way is amused and a little apologetic. The air in the cab turns tangible, thickened by history and nostalgia and mistakes.
“Hi, Ryder.”
“Hi, Keira,” I respond.
“It’s nice to, um, hear your voice.”
I give Keira credit for effort at least. We barely know each other, our closest connection being Tucker. She also has plenty of reasons to hate me, by proxy.
“You too,” I say. “Congratulations on the engagement.”
“Thanks. I’ll, uh, talk to you later, Tuck.”
“Sounds good,” Tucker replies cheerfully. “Love you.”
“Love you too.”
There’s a soft click as the call disconnects.
Tuck immediately leans over for a second hug. “Man, it is good to see you.”
“Yeah, you too.” I grin at my best friend, the heaviness in my chest lightening some.
Tucker Franklin is just one of those people it’s difficult to be depressed around.
“Won’t miss that drive to Leavenworth.”
“Won’t miss a lot about that place.”
Tuck snorts. “I bet. You sure you don’t want to hit Malone’s? Won’t be any women at the jobsite.”
“I’m sure,” I tell his smirk.
Sex isn’t worth enduring the stares and speculation at the local watering hole.
“Reese is excited to see you. She called a few days ago to check in, and I shared the good news. Hope that’s okay.”
“Of course,” I say absently, staring at Hank’s garage as we pass it by. It’s deserted now. Tuck’s uncle closed up shop a few years ago.
“Her folks are trying to get her to move down south with Knox, but she’s holding firm as far as I know.”
“Knox?”
“Her kid.”
“Oh. Right. Dad still isn’t around?”
“Nope.” There’s some anger in Tuck’s voice that tells me there’s more to the story. “He—he looks a lot like Phoenix.”
“Ah.”
“I’ve never asked. I don’t know for sure. And I can’t believe Reese would do that to you.”
“It wasn’t Phoenix’s fault, Tuck.”
Tucker scoffs. “You weren’t dealing, Ryder. You took the fall for that piece of shit and his brother, and they didn’t do a damn thing to help you.”
“I took the deal. If they’d come forward, they would have just ended up in there with me.”
He shakes his head. “You’re too forgiving, man.”
I swallow. “It’s finally behind me. I want it all to stay there.”
“Okay. Message received.”
“So, how’s wedding planning going?” I don’t manage to get the whole question out without laughing.
Tuck groans. “We don’t have to talk about it.”
“Nah, I’m really asking. How is it?”
I was shocked when Tucker told me he was engaged. He and Keira dated on and off for part of senior year, then broke up in college. After graduating, Keira moved back to Fernwood to start her own restaurant. Tuck was still living here, working for Hank and getting his construction business going. They had reconciled and didn’t waste much time deciding it was permanent.
I’m trying to be supportive, same as Tuck has always been toward me. To get over the surprise of my best friend getting married to a woman I barely know. To not resent who her best friend happens to be.
“It’s good,” he tells me. “Venue is booked. Band is booked. Invitations go out next week. Keira’s still deciding on her dress. And the food. We’re going cake tasting this weekend.”
“That all sounds great, man.”
“Yeah, it is. Keira’s amazing. You’ll have to come over for dinner soon, get to know her better.”
“I’d like that.” My fingers tap a nervous rhythm against the door. Fuck it. “They’re still friends?”
Tuck clears his throat. “Yeah. She’s, uh, she’s Keira’s maid of honor.”
Not married then, is my first, idiotic thought.
“I was going to ask you to be my best man,” Tuck continues. “But if it’s too weird …”
It won’t just be weird. It will be strange and uncomfortable and awkward.
Elle and I were volatile under perfect circumstances. There’s just too much of … everything between us. And after everything I learned during dinner, I have so many more questions than I thought I would.
But for Tuck, I will get through it. If he wants me up there with him on the happiest day of his life, then that’s exactly where I’ll be.
“I’d be honored, Tuck.”
“Cool.” His nonchalance doesn’t fool me. I can hear the emotion in his voice. “Okay, here’s the place.”
I glance out the window at the house, whistling under my breath as he stops along the curb.
Tuck sighs. “I told you.”
I climb out of the cab and lean back against the door, crossing my arms as I survey the property.
This is one of Fernwood’s oldest and nicest neighborhoods. The only reason Tucker could afford this place was the elderly woman who lived here died in debt with no living family. The house itself is in a total state of disrepair, the land that’s covered with overgrown weeds the most valuable part of the property.
“Come on,” Tuck says, walking toward the brick path with a six-pack in hand. “The inside is worse, but it’ll look better after a beer. Or two.”
I chuckle under my breath, then push away from the door and follow him toward the house.