Chapter 8
Now
Silas
It’s an unseasonably warm morning for this part of Oregon in spring.
The steam rising off the asphalt is so thick it looks like smoke.
I have the day off, I scored the last marionberry scone from Savvy’s this morning, and my coffee is perfect.
Bea moved the bulk of her things in over the past week, but whenever I offer to help her unpack, her replies get increasingly shorter and standoffish, so I figure she might need some space.
That aside, by every other account, I should be in a positively chipper mood.
Instead, I am idling in a parking lot forty miles outside Spunes, staring across a verdant expanse of lawn at a cheerful brick building that looks more like someone’s home than a community center, and I can’t even make myself get out of the truck.
Out front, rising up from a bunch of colorful pansies at the base, there’s a marquee that reads:
9:00 A.M.: PING-PONG TOURNAMENT
12:00 P.M.: BURN SURVIVORS MEETING*
(*LOVED ONES WELCOME!)
I’ve tried to attend one of these group meetings before.
Up until four months ago, for the year that it was covered by the union, I saw a bimonthly therapist without fail.
From the very first point that I was physically healed enough to take myself, I worked on getting over the accident.
Near-death experience, my doctor often encouraged me to call it.
When our time together came to a close, she gave me a list of other resources I could seek out, most of which I ignored at the time.
I’d been antsy and tired of feeling purposeless, ready to get back to work. I’d checked off the necessary boxes.
Then the first panic attack happened. I consulted that list and saw the website for the group meetings.
I figured since I’d actually enjoyed going to therapy before, I would probably enjoy this, too.
I like talking to people. I liked talking with my doctor, analyzing and codifying all my thoughts and feelings.
It probably cured some part of my inner middle child to have someone pay attention to my stream of consciousness for an hour.
I even liked how my doctor laughed indulgently when I remarked on this to her.
This is why I was so confused by the nerves that overtook me the first time I showed up to a group meeting, but at least that time I made it past the door and all the way into the room.
A spread of cookies and refreshments had caught my eye.
I was loading up my plate when I spotted someone else walking in.
A Black man about my age, built like my brother Micah, excessively tall and fit, with a huge grin on his face.
Missing the lower half of his right leg.
Behind him came another man, but I couldn’t tell you his age.
That man’s burn scars covered most of his face and the entirety of his arms. They’d been laughing to themselves and stopped when they saw me, then greeted me with a nod.
I turned around and felt their stares searing into my back.
Could practically hear their thoughts broadcasting to each other.
“What’s he doing here? What’s he got to be upset about? He looks fine.”
When a pair of women came in with a little girl between them, one side of her face freshly scarred and pink, I couldn’t take it. I set my stupid cookies and lemonade down and left.
I’m not sure why I thought I’d try again.
Lie.
I do know why I wanted to try again. Bea Marshall is why. The way she’s willing—even eager to honor Merritt best, despite treading all her heavy feelings. The way she’s scraping together her bravery and determined to dive in.
It was the way she looked at me when I volunteered to go through that list with her, the tight set of her shoulders collapsing in relief. It felt like a risk, inserting myself that way, especially given our history, but—
A knock on my window scares a high-pitched yelp out of me. I turn and see one of the guys from the first time I showed up here, the second one with the facial scars. My thermos slips in my clammy hand, and I clumsily shove it into its cup holder.
“What are you doing?” the man asks through the glass.
“What! Ah—” I stammer. The man’s brow folds, and I realize I’m still staring. I have no idea why I start patting my pockets like I’m searching for my keys. I am well aware that they’re in the ignition.
“Meeting started five minutes ago,” the man says. “You coming in or what?”
Oh my god, I think. Why am I turning around and rifling around my back seat? What specific subset of wigging out is this? Jesus Christ. I finally get ahold of myself and, looking straight out of my windshield, say, “Forgot I had a meeting.”
“Bro, you’re at the meeting.”
“No, uh.” Fuck. “I mean an appointment. I gotta go.”
I flip the truck into reverse and all but peel out of the parking lot.
I drive back to Spunes in silence, seesawing between acute embarrassment and disgust until I end up back at Savvy’s.
I don’t deserve a treat, but I think I fucking need the comfort.
Wren has enough hired help for the weekends these days, so I’ll be able to compose myself here without her watchful eyes.
My mood plummets lower when I walk in and see Ian Carver. Former best friend. Dated my sister for five years until he broke her heart and got engaged less than twelve months later.
I don’t begrudge him falling for Sage or for our friendship changing back then.
I’m used to not being people’s first consideration, and I was happy for my sister’s happiness.
It all worked out for the best, what with Sage finding Fisher and Indy and the happy family they’ve become.
What I don’t forgive him for is how easily he discarded her in the first place.
Fine. Maybe I do grudge him for how easy it was to sideline our friendship, too. Just a little.
“Officer Carver?” a girl behind the counter calls out. I watch Ian get up and collect his pastry and try not to roll my eyes.
Screw it, I’m feeling agitated enough. “Really?” I drawl. “You couldn’t just give them your name, Officer?”
Ian and his spiffy uniform march over to my spot in line, an affable grin on his face. “Hey, Byrd, how you been?”
I hate when he does this. Acts like we can be chummy. I had no interest in pulling any overprotective-brother bullshit when he fell for Sage. I suppressed any mixed feelings and became supportive and encouraging, even. Now I don’t owe him shit. “Been great, Ian.”
A voice blares out of the speaker on his shoulder, and he twists down the volume.
“Duty calls?” I mock. “Time for you to go save the day?” We both know being a cop around here is a slow, warm breeze.
“Actually, there’s a kitten stuck in a tree,” Ian says, eyes like saucers. “They’re looking all over for you.”
I ignore the jab and order a plain croissant when I get up to the register.
“You’re not getting the last jelly-filled?” Ian asks, and I grind my jaw because I do love those and Wren only does doughnuts, like, twice a month.
But. I turn to Ian with my nastiest sneer. “I would rather not eat another doughnut for the rest of my life than risk being mistaken for a cop, Officer.”
That gets him. Ian’s expression goes slack, and he shakes his head. “Nice haircut, asshole,” he says, shoving past me for the door.
“Nice hairline, dickhead,” I reply. “I’ll miss it when it’s gone in a month.”
I wolf down my croissant in four bites and a smile.
When I pull back into my house a little while later, I’m surprised I don’t see Bea’s car in the driveway.
In one of our abbreviated conversations this week, I thought she said she had to be moved out of her parents’ place by yesterday, but .
. . maybe my days are mixed up. The last thing I want to do is text her to find out where she is, make her feel like I’m hovering.
I wonder what changed since the haircut and the move that’s got her being more reticent again.
Is it the house? Something about this place making her uncomfortable?
I need to work off some of this nervous, jittery feeling. My buzz from dragging Ian has shifted into something anxious again.
I get changed and head out to the gym I’ve got set up in the detached garage, select the first workout playlist I see in my music app, and get to work, trying to lose myself in the rhythm of my feet hitting the pavement while I jump rope in place.
Every time an intrusive thought tries to assert itself, I push harder.
I installed what I think are nice shades on all the windows after I bought this place, but should I have curtains? Time for double-unders.
My sister made me plant a few low-maintenance things in the yard a few years back and I’ve managed to keep those alive, but I don’t have any indoor plants. Should a man pushing thirty-two have an indoor plant or two? I throw myself into some burpees.
I’ve got wood and tile floors throughout, but rugs in every room to keep it cozy. Do my rugs suck? Squats.
After sharing a bedroom with Micah’s clutter for most of my life, I’m pretty good about keeping everything clean.
I’ve got a few bookshelves and a decent array of books, but I don’t really have knickknacks or much in the way of decorations.
Should I have some wall art? Some tchotchkes?
Fuck. I grab a pair of heavier dumbbells.
Push-ups, lunges, weights, more jump rope. I’m all over the place, and I have no method other than getting my brain clear of everything but move and breathe.
I’m gasping, lungs billowing for air, sweat dripping into my eyes and soaking through my clothes when I hear a screeching sound blare out above the music, so loud it rattles my skull.
“Shit.” It’s the smoke alarm. I drop the weights and haul ass out of the garage, sprinting across the breezeway to the house.