2. Troy
Having to take three flights to get home would exhaust anyone, and that’s exactly what I am—exhausted. I picked up the rental car nearly an hour ago, and as I leave the freeway, my eyes catch the road signs for Cherryville, my childhood home. It seems like it’s been a lifetime since I’ve been back.
Mom and Dad are thrilled I’m coming home. My little sister, with her hyperactive energy, is ecstatic. In fact, I expect her to launch herself at me when I eventually get to my parent’s house. But that won’t be tonight. I don’t have the energy for that emotional roller coaster.
I’m going to stop at the grocery store for a few essentials—coffee and milk being the main things, or I’ll start the day tomorrow in the same mood as the Hulk—and then I need to get home.
I say home, but what that actually means is the temporary rental house I’ve snagged until I can get settled. When I saw it on the website while I was planning my return, it looked ideal. It was also a really good price, but then, Cherryville is hardly a well sought after area. It’s small and cozy and miles away from anywhere someone might want to live.
Is there a part of me that’s worried about coming home? Yep. Is there a part of me that chose a rental in case this all goes downhill? Absolutely.
Like I promised I would, I called Mom when I landed. I’ve been living in Paris for the last ten years, but I still have to call them up and let them know I’m okay. Dad was still at work, and after speaking to Mom, Milly got on the phone. She’s even more excited now than she was when I told her I was coming home. Which, honestly, I didn’t think was possible.
When I hung up, I acknowledged that there was no mention of anyone I know. Particularly the person I left behind. But then, we never mention her. Like an unspoken rule, once Milly knew why I left, she never mentioned her best friend’s name again. It’s been like that for just over ten years.
Besides, the woman is probably long gone by now. Cherryville is a tiny town, and she always had so much more potential than most. I was tempted to look her up before I came back, but then I stopped myself.
Did I really want to know that she’d settled down and was happily married with a family? Nope. Indeed, I did not.
I parked the car, and I was making my way to the grocery store when I heard someone yelling behind me. I turn to see old Mrs. Burton waving her cane and yelling at a retreating car. She was a teacher once upon a time. She’d likely not even know me now.
I walk into the grocery store and feel a strange sense of change. It seems bigger. It has definitely moved with the times. But as I get to the register, Mr. Shore still stands behind the counter. He smiles at me and scans my coffee and milk. Then he looks at me again. I can see him trying to figure out who I am. The recognition is obvious; he just can’t place the name.
“Hello, Mr. Shore,” I say. “It’s been a while. I’m the Heatons’ boy.”
“Troy?” the older man exclaims.
I laugh a little. “That’s me.”
“My goodness, it must be…” He struggles to come up with a number.
“Ten years,” I say.
The old man thinks for another minute and then nods. “Yes. Ten years. My goodness.”
A second later, the grocery door slides open, and Mrs. Burton shuffles in. She looks up at me. It’s a long way. I’m still six foot one and pretty muscular, just like I was when I left. She was short back then, and she hasn’t grown any; that’s for sure. Shoving her eyeglasses further up her nose, she examines me intently. “Well, as I live and breathe, if it isn’t Troy Heaton. The prodigal son returns.”
I’m a little stunned that she remembers me, but then, I did leave a bit of an impression. I was a holy terror as a child. Well, that isn’t exactly true. I was mischievous at best, a bit of a troublemaker at worst. It was never anything dreadful. Just typical teenage stuff, albeit trashy: parties, loud music, fast cars.
At the time, I liked my bad boy reputation. But I’ve grown up since then. In fact, if I saw the teenage version of me on the street, I’d probably scowl at him, too. Or maybe give him a swift clip around the ear. Though you’d get arrested for that these days.
I bid them both farewell and get back into my car. I’m exhausted, and I need to get into a comfortable bed.
When I arrive at the house, I find that the movers have come and gone. I look around the bare living room with all the boxes sitting around. Nope. I’m not even going to open one. If I start, I won’t stop, and I need sleep. Wandering into the kitchen, I find the boxes I instructed the movers to leave separate from all the others. One contains my new coffee maker, and the other contains some generic mugs, both of which I bought online.
It was a strange setup, actually. Given that nearly everything in this house is practically new, furniture included, I needed to have it delivered to a storage unit, then arrange with the storage manager to liaise with the movers. Thankfully, everyone was helpful and understanding, and by the looks of it, things went without a hitch.
I leave the coffee there on the counter and put the milk in the fridge. It looks strange. Ordinarily, I’m used to fridges full of everything from bell peppers and vegetables to cheeses most people can’t pronounce to a range of meats for all courses.
Here, in this cold and, so far, lifeless house, my milk stands alone in the fridge. It’s like a metaphor for my life. Switching the light off, I leave the kitchen; with legs that feel like lead, I climb the stairs.
* * *
When I wake, it’s still dark, and reaching across to the bedside table, I check the bright digits on my phone. Four a.m. Darn it. I’m still on Paris time. It’s going to take me a couple of days to adjust, given that Paris is seven hours ahead of here.
I drop my head back on the pillow and stare into the darkness. I’m not going to get any more sleep now, even if I try and force it. In fact, that will only frustrate me more. I could’ve done with more rest, but no doubt, the jet lag will hit me later. What I need now is coffee.
With the steaming mug in hand, I wander into the living room. Dropping into a chair, I sit there and enjoy my caffeine fix. My mind wanders through all the things I need to put in place for my plan to work. After getting a surveyor to look it over thoroughly, I’ve already bought the perfect place for my new business. It’s rundown and needs a lot of work, but for my first venture, it’ll do just fine.
It was—once upon a time, in its younger years—a thriving diner, so it has all the kitchen facilities I need. That saves me some cash, at least. I’ve been saving every penny I could for five full years, so I’ve got the capital. But as one very successful chef imparted to me some time ago, “If you don’t need to spend it, then don’t.” Solid advice.
With my coffee finished, I look at the stack of boxes in front of me. My living room looks like an Amazon warehouse. I left for Paris with nothing but a suitcase, and I came back in pretty much the same way. Though I did bring back a pile of notebooks full of ideas and recipes.
Between online shopping and some things Mom found duplicates of in her house, I’ll have enough to make this place look more like a home. I take a deep breath and push myself off the chair.
All right, then. Let’s go.
A couple of hours have passed, and I’ve managed to get most of the living room unpacked. The work mainly consisted of putting flat-pack furniture together and adding in those touches that make it look more like a home, rather than a place I’m squatting in. It could do with something more, but I’ll worry about that later.
I wander into the kitchen. It’s a huge room with lots of counter space for my experimental cooking. There’s also a large dining area for a table and chairs, which I still need to get.
I’m washing my cup at the sink when I catch a movement. The kitchen window is positioned on the side of the house and faces the house next door. Through the fence, I see long, flowing black hair swaying, and as I look more intently, I watch as the woman through the window appears to be dancing.
I check my watch. It’s six-thirty in the morning.
Who dances at six-thirty in the morning?
She looks to be in good shape, though I can’t see much other than her slender waist with her back to me. How fortuitous to have bagged a house next door to a cute girl.
I shake my head. I don’t have time for that. I’ve returned with one mission: to open my own restaurant. After eight years working under some of the most prestigious chefs in Paris, I now want my own piece of the pie, if you’ll pardon the pun.
While there’s more unpacking to do, I could do with some fresh air. I noticed earlier, through the front window of the living room, that the front garden is a mess. I should get on that. I’m thinking of growing my own herbs. I might be biting off more than I can chew, but who knows?
* * *
I’ve been in the garden for an hour, pulling weeds and trying to tidy the place up. I’m crouching and fighting with a particularly stubborn dandelion root when I hear a door slam behind me.
Straightening, I turn to see the woman next door standing by her car. She has her back to me. She’s wearing a gray pantsuit and showing off a rather toned behind, which, being a man, I can’t help but notice. Her jet-black hair reaches just past her shoulder blades. It has a slight wave in it and shines against the light of the rising sun.
Okay, she’s hot, but you still don’t have time for that.
Maybe not, but I should at least introduce myself. We are going to be neighbors, after all.
“Good morning,” I call out.
The woman freezes like I have a gun to her back or something. I suppose it is still pretty early. Maybe she didn’t expect me to be out here. Heck, maybe she doesn’t even know I’ve moved in.
“I’m your new neighbor,” I explain, so she doesn’t completely freak out.
She heaves a huge sigh and then slowly turns to face me. But suddenly, it’s not her who’s freaking out. It’s me. And with absolutely no decorum whatsoever, my jaw immediately slackens, and my mouth falls open.
“Hello, Troy,” she says tightly.
I can hardly believe my eyes. Am I truly so sleep-deprived that I’m seeing things? No, that’s not it. This is reality. A reality that has just punched me in the gut. Or at least, that’s what it feels like.
You see, the woman standing in front of me—this stunningly beautiful woman, with her perfect skin, sparkling blue eyes, wide mouth, and high cheekbones—is the same girl I once knew.
Well, that’s an understatement. It was far more than that, and you know it.
I do, but I’m currently dealing with the effects of shock here.
“Charlotte?” I breathe in disbelief.
Gone were the thick spectacles she used to wear; her hair is down to her waist and no longer untamed, and she’s lost the slight plumpness she had as a teenager. She also seems to have grown several inches, though the heels she’s wearing might have something to do with that.
I just can’t get my head around it. She’s like an entirely new person. The girl I left behind used to wear clothes her mother made. Life was cruel to her back then. It wasn’t her fault. Her parents were always a bit secluded and, well, weird.
“It’s Charlie now,” she says. “No one’s called me Charlotte for years.”
And while I try to assimilate that information in my stunned shock, I’m desperately trying to think of something to say. But all the words I have in my vocabulary, all those really great words, seem to vanish into the ether. All I can do is stare. Like a huge, bumbling buffoon.