Chapter 3 #2
And then she was more. I never saw it coming.
I didn’t look at her that way, not until she returned from a summer away as a camp counselor looking less like the girl I’d thrown snowballs at and more like the ones I’d been chasing.
Gone were the lanky limbs, the round cheeks, the childish pigtail braids.
Now she had female curves and a natural beauty that I saw every time I closed my eyes at night.
And she started dating fucking Dillon Sanders.
That’s when I smartened up and, lo and behold, she admitted her crush on me too. That last year of high school with her holds my best memories.
Until, on my eighteenth birthday, I made the worst mistake of my life.
“A bit young to be given that kind of responsibility if you ask me, but she’s managed all right, I suppose,” Dad cuts into my daydream. “For a female.”
“Toughest guard I ever had was female,” I counter.
CO Ansell—a tiny woman who took her job more seriously than any male there.
Her words were her first line of defense, and her tongue was sharper than the shiv an inmate drove through my ribs.
She liked me because I never tried anything with her—no “sweetheart” or “darling”; I was never up her ass with compliments.
My dad grunts. “An interesting dynamic, having that ex of hers running the town and her running the law. But it’s never a bad thing for our family to be tight with the local police, especially now.”
Now that you’re out, he doesn’t have to say. What does Emery think about my return? Has she pinned my mugshot up on their bulletin board yet? Strategized ways to nail me for breaking rules so I’m sent back to finish the remaining years of my sentence? “Do people know I’m out?”
“I’m sure some do. Everyone’ll know soon enough.
Impossible to keep much quiet these days, with all this social media nonsense.
” He shakes his head. I sense him wanting to say something else, but the front door to our house eases open.
Two collies that look much like the ones we had when I went away charge down the steps and race toward us with excited barks.
My throat tightens as my mother follows them, her hand gripping the rail, her quilted jacket haphazardly thrown on.
I could count the number of times on my hands that I’ve seen her over the years. At first it was because I refused visitors. It was too hard, and I was in a dark place. I convinced myself that cutting everyone off was the best thing I could do for them.
The first—and only—letter my father ever wrote to me was about three years into my sentence, to tell me that my mother was battling depression, and it was all my fault.
She’d taken a turn for the worse, unable to get out of bed.
Also my fault. He wasn’t sure how much longer she could go on like that and, if there was any shred of myself left, I’d pick up a damn pen and paper and answer her.
So I did.
And it saved me, even if that wasn’t his goal.
“She’s been waitin’ a long time for this day. Don’t you dare ruin it for her, or it’ll be the last thing you do, I swear to God,” my father warns, low enough for only me to hear.
I know I should close the distance so she doesn’t have to come so far, but I’m frozen, watching her speed toward me, the slightest hobble in her step as if her hip is giving her issues.
She’s out of breath when she arrives. “Logan,” she manages, reaching around my shoulders.
It’s the first hug I’ve received in two decades that isn’t closely monitored by a guard, and I stiffen instinctively.
But she only squeezes tighter. “You’re home now, and you’re not ever leaving me again, you hear?” she whispers hoarsely.
Something about her voice, familiar and yet different—aged and reedy—relaxes me instantly.
I wrap my arms around her tiny frame, sinking into her as my previous numbness gives way to a torrent of emotion.
After all I put her through, and all those years of letters I didn’t answer, of visits I denied, this woman didn’t give up on me.
She’s the only one who never gave up on me.
The lump in my throat swells.
“Let me get a good look at you out of that place.” Her gray-blue eyes shine with tears as she pulls away and assesses me.
“Gosh, you’re bigger than I remember,” she murmurs, her hands cupping my bristle-coated jaw as she inspects my face, wincing at the hooked scar at the outside corner of my left eye. “And so handsome.”
And you’re so much older. She’ll turn sixty-three in February.
But still pretty. My dad always joked that his wife didn’t need him to go to the supply shop with her.
All she’d have to do is smile and every male in the parking lot would trip over their work boots to haul the fifty-pound bags of seed into the back of the truck—not that she couldn’t do it herself.
She’s stronger than her slim frame suggests.
But the years of life and worry have left their mark, creasing and spotting her once-smooth complexion and thinning her blond hair, now decisively gray and bound in a loose braid.
“How was the drive?” she asks.
“Long,” my dad grumbles, answering for me.
“I told you, I was gonna take the bus.” I’d already planned out the route and everything.
“And navigate all those terminals on your own? Heavens, no! So much has changed, and we were happy to meet you there. Right, Holt?” Where she had only softness in her eyes for me, her gaze is tight with warning as she stares down my father.
“Is the coffee on?” he asks, avoiding the need to lie.
She waves dismissively toward the house. “Fresh pot.”
He takes three steps before pausing. “Glad to have you home, Logan.”
“Uh-huh.” I watch him amble toward the porch, knowing that tiny olive branch wasn’t extended on my account. My granddad used to say that if Holt Landry has one glaring weakness in his life, it’s my mother. As far as I’m concerned, loving her has always been his greatest strength.
“Honestly, Mom, you didn’t have to send him. No one was going to kidnap me.” I’m six foot two and I’ve spent two decades working out in my cell to kill time and maintain my sanity. I can drop and give one hundred push-ups without breaking a sweat.
I learned quickly that my size would serve a purpose besides beating boredom. I wasn’t an enemy most wanted to make on the inside. And out here in the real world? I imagine people will go out of their way to avoid the guy who has forgotten how to smile.
My mother squeezes my biceps, as if needing more proof that I’m actually home. “That’s not what I was worried about.”
“I know.” It was the overwhelming anxiety that hit me when I stepped outside those concrete prison walls. I’ve been in a cage for twenty years, my life not my own. Told where to eat, sleep, piss, what I’m allowed to do but mostly what I’m not allowed to do.
They warn you that being on the outside will shock your system, but you don’t truly understand what that means until it’s happening.
“I wanted to drive, but your father’s pride wouldn’t let me. You know how he can be. Anyway, I figured you two could use some time together. Do you both good.” She hesitates. “Did it?”
I arch an eyebrow. “What do you think?”
She sighs with resignation. “He’s happy you’re home, even if he doesn’t know how to show it.
And he’s changed a lot. Relaxed over the years.
You’ll see. But enough about him. Why don’t we get your things, and I’ll help you settle in your new place.
We’re gonna have a family dinner tonight. Everyone’s coming.”
Unease stirs. “Who’s everyone?”
“Oh, you know. Sarah and Jon and the kids, your uncle Wyatt and his clan, Bobby and Rhonda and their kids, except for Morgan’s oldest. He’s away at a tournament …”
My head’s already shaking. My family has multiplied like rabbits. I haven’t even met half of them. “I don’t know if I’m up for—”
“Nonsense! I’ve been prepping for days. We’ve got a nice big roast from last year’s harvest.”
My objections die on my tongue. I don’t have the heart to disappoint her, even if my father hadn’t threatened me.
The faint sound of an engine draws my attention next door, to the vehicle moving down the lengthy driveway. I can’t see the driver inside but that must be Emery.
The last time I saw her was at my hearing, her eyes vacant as she watched the judge deliver a sentence few expected. If I hadn’t been so numb from this everlasting nightmare, that version of her might have broken me. Still, it haunted me for years after.
How long before I have to face her again?
What will her first words be to me?
“I invited them,” my mom says, as if reading my thoughts. “But Emery’s covering for one of her sergeants today, and Isla has a hockey game.” After a pause, she adds, “I would expect her to keep her distance for a while, given her position in the community.”
“Yeah, I figured.” Still, disappointment pricks me as I reach into the truck and grab the plastic bag that holds my belongings—a faded wallet with my expired driver’s license, a dog-eared copy of The Outsiders, socks and underwear, and a check for thirteen thousand dollars, the money I saved over the years of folding laundry and mopping floors, after deductions and inflated commissary costs.
Mom stares wordlessly at the bag.
“Light traveling, right?” I chuckle, shrugging off the sad state of my life.
My voice seems to snap her out of her daze. “I’ve stocked your bathroom with toiletries and filled the dresser with clothes Jon thought you might like. Even got you a pair of jeans, but if they don’t suit, we can go shopping on Monday to pick out a pair you do like.”
“I have to meet my parole officer on Monday.”
“Perfect. We’ll go after your meeting. There’s a new outfitter. Better prices than Mark’s! But if they don’t have what you like, we’ll drive to North Bay. Make a day of it.” Her words are frenetic as she slides open the garage doors to reveal the tan-colored 1983 Ford F-150.
A wave of nostalgia hits me. That’s Jay’s truck. It was ready for a scrapyard when he got hold of it. A natural with engines, he spent a year rebuilding it while I stood in the wings, playing tool lackey, learning all I could. I was his first passenger in this thing.
And, as it turned out, his last.
“I can’t believe you kept this.”
“Of course I did! I kept everything.” She gestures to the other side of the garage, where mounds of boxes and other clutter fill the space.
“That’s a lot of stuff.” I dismiss it for the moment, refocusing on the truck. “It still works?”
“It could.” Mom smooths her palm over the hood. “We used it around the property for a few years. It needs some love and a cleaning, but I figured it’d be a good project for you to work on. You can bring it back to life, just like your brother did.”
My stomach is in my throat as I move in to get a closer look, popping open the driver-side door. It still smells faintly the same—like motor oil and tobacco. Jay smoked like his life depended on it, sometimes burning through two packs a day.
The interior looks like I remember it too, right down to the strip of silver duct tape sealing a tear in the tan leather seat. I run my fingertip over it now as memories flood back and grief I’d thought long since faded strikes me.
Jay and I left this truck in a coffee shop parking lot before we hopped into that weasel Ian Murphy’s pickup.
It was after we’d driven across the Quebec border to some hole-in-the-wall house turned bar so I could order my first legal beer.
I had no idea what we were doing, right up until we pulled into the small regional airport down the road as a bush plane was landing.
Jay said all we had to do was unload some boxes and drive them to a self-storage warehouse a half hour away. He’d done it several times before.
I was too stupid to ask questions—like why the plane was landing at midnight, why we had to move quick, and what the fuck was in the boxes. Never would I have imagined what Ian and Jay had roped me into, on my birthday, no less.
The gun he slapped into my hand as the police lights started flashing should have woken me up. Everything that happened after that … that’s on me.
The two fuzzy black dice I gave Jay for Christmas still hang off the rearview mirror. I can’t believe no one’s taken them down.
“They’re gonna make me redo all the road tests. The waiting period and everything,” I say, my voice hoarse as I struggle to push aside my emotion. “I can’t drive myself anywhere for a year.” It’s like I’m sixteen all over again.
“So, you’ll redo the test. It’s no big deal. You’ve got time. Lots of time.” Mom smiles with reassurance, before reaching up to grip my face between her palms. This time, her tears fall freely. “It’s so good to finally have my son home.”
I let the weight of her words settle over me. “It’s good to be home.” Even if we’re the only two people who feel that way.