Chapter 56 Chase
Chase
Six Months Earlier—June
“This is lovely, Chase. I think it suits you.”
My mother floats around the old cabin, assessing every cobwebbed corner. It’s far from lovely. It’s a goddamn prison cell, dressed up in pine, hardwood, and a picturesque background of canopied trees and roaming black bears.
After spending twenty-four hours packing up my rental house, I shoved my clothes into boxes, gathered my guitar-building tools, collected my dog, and drove across the country to Arizona to stay with my parents for the next four weeks.
I knew it was bad then—my failing vision.
Halfway into the drive, I missed a crucial exit and didn’t realize it until I was nearly an hour off course. Signs blurred. Headlights smeared into streaks. I kept the window cracked to feel the wind shift when I drifted too close to the edge of the road.
Now I’m here. In this goddamn pinewood cage my parents call a “healing retreat.”
My mother smooths a dish towel over the counter like that’ll fix something. “It has everything you need. Running water, peace, good light…”
Good light.
Christ.
I force a nod, even as the sunlight through the window scorches my eyes. Everything’s too bright or too dim lately. There’s no in-between. No clarity.
I sink onto the edge of the stiff couch, my dog curling loyally at my feet like he’s afraid I’ll vanish if he blinks.
“Do you want me to unpack your tools?” she asks, too cheerfully. “Might be nice to build something again.”
My eyes close.
I can’t even thread a needle without squinting for five minutes. I’ve sliced my finger twice in the last week trying to sharpen a chisel.
But it’s all I have. My only outlet. My saving grace.
“Yeah,” I mumble. “Sure.”
She hums under her breath. “I wish you found a place closer to home. We hate that you’re so far away.”
Home.
My home isn’t there.
My home isn’t here.
My home is wrapped up in paper-white skin, vivid purple streaks, an angelic voice, and watermelon lips.
Annie.
My girl. My love. My real home.
But not all homes are permanent.
And not all love stories end with a happily ever after.
My father shuffles in through the side door with a bear horn in his hand and a baseball cap pulled low over shaggy, almost-gray hair.
“Got the grass mowed,” he says, sweat dripping down his face.
“Place looks less like a hermit’s bunker and more like a rock star’s hideout now.
You should hire a weekly landscaper, considering you’re sitting on a good amount of savings and barely anything else to spend it on. ”
I grunt a reply.
While I prefer living under my means—having lived that way out of necessity for too many years—I make a mental note to contact companies. Who knows when my vision will be gone for good. Although running a lawn mower over my foot sounds less painful than my current reality.
Mom winds toward me, clearing a path. Then she takes a seat beside me on the couch as Toaster sniffs her arm and gives her a lick.
“Honey, we want to make sure you’re okay before we head home,” she says, worry tingeing her tone.
“You haven’t been alone in over a month.
It scares us that you’re out here by yourself with hardly any cell service, let alone friends close by. ”
“I’ll manage. I’ve done it before.”
She swallows, tucking a glossy piece of hair behind her ear. “This is different.”
“What, because I’m handicapped now?”
Her eyes flick to mine, sharp with the kind of pain that comes from knowing too much. “No. Because you’re shutting down. Again.”
I look away.
For years after Stella died, I blamed them for everything.
Her downfall. Her death. My pain.
The way they couldn’t even say her name out loud, like grief might crack the walls if we let it breathe.
So I cut them out.
I ran.
I told myself they’d failed her, because it was easier than admitting I’d failed too. That I’d refused to face it. That I let my regret fester into resentment and wore it like armor.
It wasn’t until the MRI tech made a soft noise behind the glass and I saw my mother’s face crumple beside me that I realized how wrong I’d been.
They hadn’t stopped loving me.
I’d just stopped letting them.
So when they offered to help—to let me stay with them, to cook, to sit with me in waiting rooms that smelled like bleach and dying hope—I let them.
Because maybe I wasn’t the only one who needed a second chance.
My mother sighs, brushing a speck of dust off her jeans. “We went with you to every appointment. We sat through every scan, Chase. I heard the surgeon say it. I know what you’re facing. And I know you think pushing people away makes it easier.”
“It does,” I mutter.
“It doesn’t,” Dad cuts in, leaning against a wall, his arms folded. “It just makes it quieter. More lonely.”
I clench my jaw, something hot and sour building in my throat. I don’t want to do this. Not now, not when everything inside me is already hanging by a thread.
“I’m not ready,” I admit, barely audible.
“I know.” Mom slides her hand over mine. “But when the time comes and you finally decide you don’t want to go through this alone, please let that girl of yours know. She deserves more than silence.”
I don’t respond. Just stare straight ahead.
Because I’m not sure I deserve her anymore.
And I’m even less sure I ever did.
My father stands near the window, staring out at the swaying tree branches that dance to a silent song.
When he finally speaks, it’s quiet, matter-of-fact.
“Thing about mistakes,” he says, still not looking at me, “you don’t always realize you’re making one until it’s already done.
Until the damage is sitting in the room with you. ”
My heart clenches.
Throat closes.
Palms start to sweat.
All the best mistakes have names.
Example number one: Billy Fritz.
He was the bully I beat the crap out of in eighth grade after he shoved Stella off the monkey bars and she broke her arm.
An immediate suspension followed, then a grounding that bled into summer, keeping me isolated in my bedroom with nothing but brainless cartoons and my guitar.
Stella tiptoed into my room one afternoon with a cast on her arm and a cherry Popsicle in her good hand. “If I ever get married someday, I hope my future husband is as brave as you.”
Just like that, it was all worth it.
Example number two: My Sentra.
I was eighteen, driving up to the Colorado mountains with bald tires, a half tank of gas, and my buddy riding shotgun, swearing we were headed into the greatest weekend of our lives.
The car didn’t make it.
We ended up stuck at a roadside diner all night, drinking burnt coffee, playing cards with a waitress named Midge, and betting on which trucker would fall asleep mid-story.
Best breakdown I ever had.
Example number three: Key West.
I had just left home, burned through most of my cash, and thought saltwater might fix what failures couldn’t.
I slept in my car, busked on street corners, and ate enough gas station sandwiches to question my will to live.
But the sunsets were biblical.
And for a little while, that felt like enough.
That leads me to my favorite mistake: Annalise Adams.
The one that didn’t wreck me all at once.
She did it slow. Quiet. With every look, every laugh, every song, every time she saw straight through the version of me I let the world believe.
And by the time I realized it, I didn’t want to be fixed.
I just wanted to be hers.
But then the headaches started. The changes. The fear. The world blurred, the music faded, and terror became a permanent fixture behind my ribs.
So I did the one thing I swore I’d never do.
I ran again.
I left her.
Told myself it was mercy. That disappearing was kinder than dragging her through the dark with me. I thought it would be easier for her to hate me than to watch me fall apart.
I figured if I left her angry, it’d hurt less in the long run.
I was trying to protect her, trying to spare myself the sound of her breaking.
But I’ve heard it anyway. Every day since.
Now, only time will tell if this mistake will end the same way as all the others.
Or if the lights finally go out for good.