2. Micah
2
MICAH
“I’ll be there in a few hours,” I tell Rosie. I’d pulled into a rest stop for a snack and bathroom break, and now I’m getting back on the road.
My stomach throbs as I think about returning to the town where I spent my formative years. Suppose I should be grateful because it could’ve been so much worse. Grandpa was just as gruff as my father, but he never put his hands on me. Made excuses for my dad’s alcoholic rages, apologized on his behalf for passing on the gene. Apparently, it was the same with his own father.
But I held on to all that anger, and other kids at school stayed away from me. I was known as the bad boy who would never amount to anything. I became a self-fulfilling prophecy and played the role well. I channeled all my rage and disappointment into skipping school, smoking weed, and getting in trouble. Used to be that the only thing that calmed me was fishing from the dock or my grandfather’s boat. Until I found the drama club and John McCoy—the only highlights of my teen years. Turned out I was great at acting out my emotions onstage and playing pretend.
But my love affair with John was anything but pretend. It was real, but not enough to keep us together. My fingers find the edge of the large manila envelope I brought along. Not sure how John will respond, but maybe he’ll agree it’s long past due.
As soon as I connect to Highway 1, my pulse speeds up. And not only because of the breathtaking views and hairpin curves.
The last time I was here was right after the McCoys’ boating accident. In the years since, Grandpa has essentially become a shut-in. He retreated from this town and these people—not that he was ever a glowing member of society. I know John tried to keep an eye on him because that’s in his nature. But it was Rosie who found Grandpa after he passed in his sleep. Chuck reached out to me regarding the property, which he claims is unsellable.
I’ll admit it’s outdated and cluttered, but no way someone wouldn’t see the beauty in it. Someone with an eye for that sort of thing. Grandpa had always been a bit of a pack rat, but according to Chuck and Rosie, his habits had grown worse.
Christ, doesn’t this throw a wrench into everything. I’ve been on a roll with auditions, even getting a runway opportunity and a toothpaste commercial. Not enough to break the bank, but I’d had a dry spell for the better part of a year, and my agent just kept throwing everything at the wall. Thankfully, this detour in Aqua Vista shouldn’t take more than a couple of months.
And as soon as we get the house sold, I can put this place behind me for good.
The only exit into town takes me straight past the Jack of All Trades service station, owned by Jack McCoy, John’s older brother. That alone will make my presence known before I’m ready, given that I’m still driving the same beater as last time. And if that doesn’t do it, driving through Main Street toward the foothills of the mountains where my grandfather’s house is located will.
Most of it looks the same—the Slice of Life pie shop, the Honeycomb general store—but something called the Shake Shack makes me do a double take. The large front window is lined with unique shakers—of the salt-and-pepper variety. I swear I even spot mermaids and tree stumps. A collector’s haven, if there even is such a thing for seasoning containers.
And as if on cue, I see Beth from Spellbound out on the sidewalk, speaking to Walter, who’s still going strong with his souvenir stand. We used to steal chocolate frog candies from him when he wasn’t looking, and Beth never called us on it either, though she’d spot us through her storefront window. John said it was because they couldn’t stand each other, which had to do with the Aqua Vista curse myth Walter started and profited from. That’s a whole other story, partly due to living in a small town.
But now their conversation looks friendly enough, so maybe they’ve overcome their old grudges. Interesting. I avert my gaze as I pass, hoping Beth doesn’t notice me, which is unlikely. She knows everything going on in this town, not only because she loves gossip but because she’s intuitive. There’s someone like her on every corner in Hollywood, some as fake as a three-dollar bill.
Though Beth’s gifts are debatable, she predicted my departure from Aqua Vista and, on my way out of town, told me I would hate fame. I ignored her like many who’d grown up with her unsolicited advice, but fuck if she wasn’t right. Not that I don’t love acting. It’s the bullshit that comes with auditions and making a name for yourself in the business that I despise. There’s a dark, sleazy underbelly to the whole industry that someone as green as me had to learn to avoid—the hard way.
John doesn’t know most of it, but there was one night early on when I called him distraught about a certain someone’s audition couch. Thankfully, I left the premises unscathed. Mostly.
Despite that, I carried on and got bit parts while paying my rent by working at a restaurant most nights—like many actors do.
I inhale sharply as the Santa Lucia mountains come into view. The beach and the mountains are among the few things that grounded me when I was most troubled. I turn after the mailbox and head down the long driveway to the brown stone-and-wood Tudor-style house with its pitched roof and decorative gables. There was a time when this place brought me relief, mostly right after I escaped my father’s fists. I was finally safe, but the memories plagued me.
Moving to LA was like a breath of fresh air, even if it practically destroyed me to leave John. I begged him to come with me, but he was dead set on letting me forge my path, married or not. Besides, he despised Los Angeles as much as I did Aqua Vista. Well, despise is probably too strong a word. It was more symbolic than that. More like leaving behind my demons.
Life is messy—even when there’s plenty of love to go around—and my relationship with John certainly is in shambles.
Same with my grandfather. He gave me a secure place to live out the rest of my childhood, but that was the extent of it. He didn’t radiate love or warmth, and he threatened to send me to foster care when I acted out—especially after I nearly ruined his fisher reputation. Instead, I was banished from the docks, and he knew that would be punishment enough.
I often wondered if my father grew up in a cold, distant household too, or if my late grandmother carried the load for my grandfather. Dad never did much reminiscing with me, though I hear he’s much more reflective behind bars. Sobering up after a drunk-driving incident that killed someone might do that to you.
I cut the engine and stare up at the stone house. The wrought-iron balcony on the second floor has the remains of dead flowers in a large pot. I would step out there for a midnight smoke and fall asleep on the uncomfortable chair. My back would be stiff, but I enjoyed the mountain air on my skin.
Sometimes, John would sneak up to my room by climbing the trellis with all the ivy, careful not to get caught by my grandfather, who would sit in his recliner by the large bay window on the mountain side of the house. I can still picture his fuzzy slippers and mug of black coffee. I smile at the memory because it’s one of the good ones.
Uneasiness settles in my chest. Grandpa’s back was a mess from working as a deckhand most of his life. Hauling and sorting the catch, as well as setting lines and traps, led to him using a cane and eventually retiring in his early sixties from a position he loved as a boatswain on Calamity Jane , a large trawler that caught mostly bass, trout, and halibut but wouldn’t turn away cod, herring, and anchovy for a good price. Still, I’d thought the man would live at least another decade. Now I wish I’d insisted on inviting myself for the holidays last year. He always blew them off, and I let him, for obvious reasons. It’d been increasingly harder to return to Aqua Vista.
I exit the car and grab my bag, making a mental list. I have to pick up his ashes and figure out what to do with them. Rosie will know. Then I need to get this house sold.