Chapter 27 Present
You know, I pride myself on my work ethic.
Thinking back to that summer—and scolding myself a little now—I showed up for every shift at the creamery, no matter how distracted I was by Paul.
I scooped cones until my fingers were nearly frostbitten, refilled sprinkle jars, wiped down counters, and went home every night smelling like sweet cream.
So much so that, to this day, I still can’t walk past a soda shop without feeling a little sick to my stomach.
That job was a piece of cake—unlike the one I have now.
These days, it’s not just sweat I give.
It’s blood.
And, quite literally, my tears.
I wonder if the people who think my job is a dream would still say that now—especially given my current situation.
Pages piled high. A few paper cuts—though they don’t sting quite as bad as what I’m about to do.
After what happened earlier—stumbling across the article about Katie Newsome—I knew I couldn’t risk going through the rest of these in that confined little room.
So I decided to take the files home.
Somewhere I could breathe.
Somewhere I could fall apart, if I needed to.
This time, I didn’t inch my way in.
I dove headfirst into the pool of my past.
With both hands, I scooped up all the files from ’64 to ’66. I would’ve taken more, but my bag—and my arms—were full. I also wasn’t sure Saddie could cover for me if I checked out half the archives in one go.
Luckily, it was late, and the sound of her pushing open the door came as a welcome break.
My hands were full. My eyes—sore and dry.
Saddie’s smiling face and cheerful voice helped ease the tension still hanging in the air.
“Oh wow!” she said, surprise lacing her words. “You’ve been busy.”
I guess I hadn’t noticed.
As I worked through the articles, I’d unconsciously sorted them into two piles:
One for the fluff piece I’d been assigned to write.
And one for the truth—the kind that could bury the town of Shay if anyone had the guts to print it.
Oddly enough, the stacks were about the same height—for every happy headline printed, there was a darker shadow hiding just behind the page.
She clearly knew I was on to something.
The names on the articles—the ones I’d used as cover pages for each pile—were a dead giveaway.
NEWSOME, printed in that bold, unmistakable font.
A name that carried weight in Shay.
A name that still carried weight in me.
Without needing to be asked, she reached over to a box of unused folders, pulling a few out with practiced ease. Carefully, she separated the two stacks—one for the polished, public version of Shay… and the other, for everything it tried to keep buried.
She didn’t ask questions.
She didn’t need to.
Her hands moved with quiet understanding, sliding each pile into its own fresh folder.
She tucked the files into the crook of her arm, smoothing the front of her skirt with the other hand.
A small wink followed—her red lips parting into a smile, soft and knowing.
It wasn’t just polite. It was understanding.
Reassurance.
And in the quiet between us, her eyes said what her voice didn’t need to—
Your secret is safe with me.
The main office area was dark.
I guess I didn’t need to worry about taking too much from the archives—no one was around to see me doing it.
Saddie and I made it to the parking lot without dropping a single article.
She helped me pop the trunk, and I carefully laid the folders inside, hoping the weight of my bag would keep them from sliding around too much on the drive home.
The trunk closed with a thud—
a sharp sound that made us both flinch, just slightly.
It wasn’t loud, but it landed heavy.
I guess we both were a little on edge.
I knew I had to say something—break the silence in some way.
“Thank you… for everything.”
Saddie gave a small nod, her smile lingering just long enough to feel real.
“You’ll do what needs doin’,” she said gently, her Southern drawl soft but certain.
Then, without another word, she patted the trunk—turned and walked toward her car, heels clicking lightly across the pavement.
I watched her as she pulled out of sight.
Found myself alone yet again. The sounds of my past begged to be released from the trunk I had just locked them in.
I stood there a moment longer, hands resting on the edge of the car, the metal still hot to the touch.
The humid air pressed in around me—but it somehow felt less suffocating.
Like maybe—just maybe—I was getting closer to something that could finally help me breathe again.