Chapter Seven #2
At the next stop sign, Bo slowed, then double-checked the intersection three times before turning. “Want to talk about it?” he said, softer now.
I shook my head, but my voice came out anyway. “You ever think you saw a ghost, but then it’s not a ghost at all? It’s, like, something worse?”
He took his foot off the gas. “That’s heavy,” he said, but not in a mocking way. Just facts.
I pressed my forehead to the window, the glass icy against my skin even with the heat blasting.
“When I was a kid, I used to imagine my mom would show up out of nowhere. Like, she’d just come and claim me.
I’d spend all night playing out how it’d happen, all the stuff I’d say to her.
” I could feel Bo listening, a solid wall of patience beside me.
“But then I grew up and realized, if she really wanted me, she would’ve come back already.
And after a while, the only thing scarier than seeing her again was that I might never have to. ”
Bo didn’t say anything right away. He drove, careful and slow, like every pothole was a trigger.
I took a deep breath, then another, trying to slow my pulse, but the air just rattled in my chest. “She was outside the diner,” I said, finally. “I’m pretty sure it was her. She looked right at me, but I don’t think she recognized me.”
He thought about that for a second, then nodded. “You want me to turn around?”
“No.” My hands were sweating now, the inside of my hoodie clammy and gross. “I just need to get home.”
“Copy that,” Bo said. He took the next curve at twice the speed limit.
We crossed the bridge out of town, the river glittering below, and I watched the sky get lighter, then darker again as we wound through the trees. My brain was still stuck on the woman’s face, the way she moved, the cold, glassy eyes.
I tried to think about the house instead—about the way the light would hit the reading nook, the sound of Quiad’s boots on the porch, the way his hand covered mine when he reached for it in the dark.
But the fear wouldn’t go away. It crept up my spine, pooling at the base of my skull. What if she came looking for me? What if she found me? Did she have a claim? Did I even matter enough for her to try?
We pulled into the gravel lot at the build site, the truck’s wheels kicking up a rooster tail of dust. The construction guys were already outside, eating sandwiches on the tailgate and trading dirty jokes.
They shouted at us, but I didn’t hear a word of it.
Bo put the truck in park and shut off the engine.
I stayed there, staring straight ahead.
He waited. I could feel him watching me.
“Hey, Levi?”
I didn’t answer.
He tapped my shoulder, just a little. “You’re safe here. You know that, right?”
I nodded, but it didn’t feel true.
Bo opened his door and started unloading the food, calling the other guys over.
I sat for a minute longer, then peeled my hands out of my sleeves.
The tremors were still there, but I focused on the marks that mattered: the bracelet, warm from my skin; the faint outline of Quiad’s name under the leather.
I pressed my thumb to it, just to feel something solid.
After a while, I climbed out. The air was cold and sharp, and my lungs burned with every inhale. Bo handed out sandwiches and steered the crew back toward the house, then doubled back to me.
“You wanna go inside?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I said, and followed him up the dirt path, boots squelching in the spring mud.
The new house was almost a house. The windows were in, the porch was roughed out, and you could stand inside and actually believe it would keep you dry in a storm. Bo propped the door open with a chunk of two-by-four and let me go first.
I walked the perimeter, touching the walls, tracing the lines where the cabinets would go, the marks on the floor where I’d mapped out the reading nook. It helped. Each thing I touched reminded me that I had a place, that there were people who wanted me here.
But I couldn’t shake the fear. It nipped at my heels, whispered that it was only a matter of time before someone came and called me out for being an imposter.
I made it to the back corner, where the kitchen window looked out over the bend in the creek. The sun caught in the glass and lit up the dust motes, turning the whole room into a snow globe.
I thought about calling Quiad. He’d know what to do. Or at least, he’d make it okay that I didn’t know.
I heard footsteps behind me. Bo stood in the doorway, arms crossed, watching.
“You want me to tell Quiad?” he asked, quietly.
I almost said no, but then I nodded.
“Okay,” he said, like it was nothing. “I’ll get him.”
He left, letting the screen door slam. The house was quiet, except for the creak of the frame and the sound of the river outside.
I looked down at my hands. They were still shaking, but the marks on my wrist steadied me. I traced the letters, memorizing the feel of each one. Mine. I belonged here. I wasn’t going back, not for anyone.
When Quiad finally found me, I’d tell him that. I’d tell him everything. But for now, I waited, letting the fear burn off slow and steady, until all that was left was resolve.
She could show up a hundred more times, and I’d still choose this.
Every time.