Chapter 2
Lucas
The muscles in my arms burn as I stare up at the ceiling of my old bedroom. That same branch outside scrapes against the window pane in the wind, and the scent of the vanilla candles my mom used to burn linger in the air.
I always remember stuff like that. The little things.
They stick in my memory more than faces or conversations.
More than any holiday.
More than my dad’s funeral. That was a blur. But I guess it would be. I was only eight.
I remember how the seatbelt smelled in his old Buick. The sounds of the heavy doors clicking shut. The argument he and Mom had over whether the light above the stove was a nightlight or not, and the crusty feel of my bath towel when I left it on the radiator to dry during a snowy December night.
I remember Madoc.
How I was so scared to meet him that first time, and how he smiled all that day, and how I didn’t realize how much I needed all of those smiles.
How he sat and talked to me after I got beat up in eighth grade, even though I have no recollection of what he said. I just remember that he was there.
How he taught me to drive when I was fifteen, and when he put his cufflinks on me before I left for prom—the ones his father gave him.
He just stared at my sleeves as he worked.
Wouldn’t even look me in the eye, because he was probably afraid I’d be embarrassed by the pride on his face and the love he had for me.
The pride…
If only he knew.
I unclench my hands, liquid heat spreading across my chest as I throw off the sheet and swing my legs over the side of the bed.
I drop my elbows to my knees and squeeze my eyes shut as I run a hand through my hair. Fuck.
Picking up the compass from the bedside table, I flip it open and point the needle, my head following just slightly to the right, finding north-northwest.
It points out of the house, to the street, beyond the old neighborhood, toward the deserted country road, and into the woods. Toward the one thing I always point it.
Snapping it shut again, I set it on the table and wipe off the sweat on the back of my neck, my palms gritty with grime that’s not really there anymore. The little things…
The grandfather clock downstairs chimes three, and I rise. I won’t get back to sleep.
Descending the stairs of my mom’s old house, I leave the lights off and head into the kitchen, past the empty living room and the boxes of photo albums from the closet. I fill a glass with water and swallow it down, filling it again.
And as I turn north-northwest, I pause for a moment, feeling the tug of that invisible string.
I know if I walk forward—across the kitchen, through the wall, past the fence—and straight for six miles, from this spot, I can put an end to it.
I can stop dreading the disappointment I’ll cause and start enduring it.
Instead, I drift into the living room, the hardwood floors glowing in the moonlight streaming through the bare windows.
The cleaners left the house in immaculate condition yesterday, and aside from a few remaining belongings to dump into storage, the house is ready to be put on the market.
My mother left two months ago, thriving in a senior community in Arizona, but she made sure to leave behind the one remnant of our family that she knew I’d never let movers or some realtor throw into the garbage.
It was her way of forcing me home. After eight years.
I smile at my father, gazing into his gray eyes. “I’m taller than you now,” I tell him.
His Coast Guard dress jacket and cap hang on the bracket where the curtains were attached.
His favorite chair that they used to hang on sits in the storage unit I rented yesterday.
I haven’t decided where I wanted the coat and hat yet.
Take it with me back to Dubai or leave it in storage here? I’m still deciding.
“Nothing has changed, though,” I continue. “Just like you said it wouldn’t. I knew you were right.”
I swallow hard, staring down at my glass of water. His eyes burn into me, and I almost shrink.
“I’m still not telling anyone, though.” I swirl the water. “And I’m still going to leave in a few days.”
My dad was a lot like Madoc. But my dad is dead, so he never has to be ashamed.
Flicking my eyes back up to his picture on the wall, I study the cap over his light hair and the smile of a hero that makes him look so much younger than me, even though he was the same age as I am now when he died. He smiled a lot too. Just like Madoc.
I loved playing racquetball with him today.
And seeing Quinn. Jesus. The way she looked up at me from under the bill of that hat, the same big eyes... I noticed that about her a long time ago. It was the way she looked only at me. As if waiting for something.
A painful swell fills my chest. “God, I miss them, Dad.”
All of them.
And I can’t wait to leave. I’d forgotten how small this town is, how everyone notices everything, and how slowly things move. I like the city. The busyness of Dubai is addicting. There’s always someone to meet. Things to see. Places to be. Food, music, work…
Shelburne Falls is a fucking fish bowl.
My dad stares at me but says nothing. He stopped speaking to me years ago.
Setting my water down, I climb the stairs, throw on some joggers, sneakers, and the white hoodie from the gym last night. In a minute, I have my earbuds in and my phone snug in the pocket of my pant leg, playing “Bother” as I lock up and leave the house.
I scan the street. Empty, except for an old, white Malibu that’s been sitting there since I was in college. Most of the houses are dark aside from a couple of porch lights. I look around again, awareness rising up the back of my neck, before jogging down the steps and onto the sidewalk.
He’s not in town anymore. I’d felt easier about returning once I knew that, but no one knows where he is and…
Others did take his place.
The longer I stay in town, the higher the chance they’ll find out.
I’ll leave as soon as the house is listed and the things my mother left for me are safely stored.
I pass a few overgrown lawns interrupted by the odd manicured yard, but nearly every house needs a paint job and roof or gutter work. The McKeltys still favor that ugly chain link fencing, but…they did replace it, at least. No more rust.
It wasn’t a bad neighborhood growing up, and I can’t say it’s bad even now, but it’s not Madoc’s neighborhood. And it’s not Fall Away Lane. We kept our property up, even without my father—or rather, my mother did. The house could be very easy to sell.
Or it could take forever. It’s not close to schools, and the neighborhood is too old to change its ways, most of the homes inherited or owned by an aging population that won’t be ideal for new families.
Either way, it means nothing to me. It can take a lifetime to sell as long as I don’t have to be here for it.
I jog into town, past Jared’s shop, Astrophysics, and the store where I bought all of my bicycles growing up. E-bikes now sit among the others in the window display.
Coming to the end of the street, I pause, ready to go right to the high school, but the tiny stubble on my cheek hardens like needles, awareness surrounding me.
I don’t have to look to the left to know where that road leads.
Into the country, the path darkening as it courses farther from town and deep into the woods.
Pushing off, I run straight, instead, but I make it no more than a block before Quinn’s shop comes into view on High Street. I tap my earbud, silencing the music.
Frosted.
Crossing First Avenue, I jog down the opposite side of the street from her shop, and I notice a light through the windows. There’s a warm glow way in the back, through the kitchen doors.
A figure moves past and disappears again, and I draw in a long breath, remembering last night at the gym.
“So, what is she…?” my friend Lance whistled behind me as I watched Madoc drive off with Quinn in the passenger seat of his car. “Ten years younger than you?”
He was teasing me for the shit I gave him over his wife’s age.
But something swam in my chest as I watched Jared and Jax barreling after them like a fucking convoy was necessary to make sure their sister got home.
“I wasn’t looking,” I told him.
He just laughed and moved to his car at the curb. “She was.”
I’d forgotten how perceptive Lance could be. When I got into town, I wasn’t even going to call him, but I see him often enough when he travels abroad, and he just got married. He would’ve been pissed if I didn’t contact him after not returning for the wedding.
And Quinn is twelve years younger than me. His wife doesn’t seem so young now.
I really should’ve recognized her last night. Instead, I watched her watching me and thought maybe I could get through this visit with a nice distraction like her in my hands for a few days.
Shit.
I stare at the shop, seeing a glimpse of her again in the kitchen. She wasn’t looking at me last night. At least not like that. I was just important to her once. I’m sure it was weird to see how I’d changed.
I jog across the street, around the side, and into the alley. Coming up on the delivery door, I see a bicycle locked to a drainage pipe. I knock on the door.
Unfortunately, I’d lied to Lance. I had been looking. Before I knew who she was and saw her running around the track.
And I’d really liked looking.
She was staring at me, continually catching my eye every time I turned her way. I’m so fucking stupid. She was looking because she recognized me. I was looking because…
“Who is it?” a light voice calls through the door, sounding just a little timid.
Yeah, a young woman working in here alone in a deserted downtown? She doesn’t want mysterious knocks on the door in the middle of the night.
“Quinn, it’s Lucas.”
She doesn’t answer, and the door doesn’t open.
A few seconds pass, and I lean in closer, amused. “Lucas Morrow,” I clarify.
Another second passes and still nothing.
I open my mouth to say something else, but I have no idea what.