Chapter 6 - Riley
I can't believe I just told her about Josh. About our father. I never talk about this—not to anyone. Not even to the VA therapist who tried to get me to "open up" during my mandatory sessions after discharge.
But something about Lucy—the way she listens, really listens, without judgment—made the words come out before I could stop them.
She's in the kitchen now, making more coffee, and I'm left sitting here with the strange, hollow feeling that comes after revealing something you've kept buried for years. My heart is racing, adrenaline surging through my system like I've just been in a firefight instead of a conversation.
Thunder cracks suddenly—a deafening boom that shakes the windows—and I'm gone.
Just like that. One second I'm in Lucy's cottage, and the next I'm back in Afghanistan, huddled in a transport vehicle as mortars explode around us. The smell of diesel and burning rubber. The taste of dust and fear. The screams of men who won't make it home.
I tilt my head back, gripping the couch cushions so hard my knuckles turn white. My vision tunnels, narrowing to a pinpoint of light in a sea of darkness. I can't breathe. Can't move. Can't—
"Riley? Are you okay?"
The voice comes from far away, as if through water or across a vast distance. Lucy's voice. Not a soldier's. Not a commander's. Lucy.
I blink, struggling to pull myself back to the present. The cottage. The candles. The storm.
"Riley?" Her voice is closer now, concerned. She's standing in front of me, coffee mugs forgotten, her face a mask of worry.
I force myself to nod, to loosen my death grip on the couch. "Fine," I manage, though my voice sounds strange even to my own ears. "I'm fine."
She doesn't believe me—I can see it in her eyes. But instead of pressing or, worse, looking at me with pity, she simply sits down beside me on the couch. Not touching, but close enough that I can feel her presence, solid and real.
"Just breathe," she says softly. "In through your nose, out through your mouth."
I follow her instructions, years of military training making me responsive to direct commands even in this state. Slowly, the room comes back into focus. The thunder is just thunder, not mortar fire. The flashes outside are lightning, not muzzle flares.
"Sorry," I mutter when I can trust my voice again. "Happens sometimes."
"PTSD?" she asks, her voice gentle but matter-of-fact.
I nod, not meeting her eyes. "Usually have more warning. Can get somewhere private."
"You don't need to apologize," she says, and there's something in her tone that makes me look at her. No pity, just understanding. "My dad had episodes too, after his time in Desert Storm. Not often, but enough that I learned how to help."
I didn't know her father was in the military. This explains something about her—why she moved several times, why she didn't flinch or panic when I checked out, and how she knew exactly what to say to bring me back.
"Two or three tours, right?" she asks, settling back into the couch cushions, giving me space but staying close.
"Four," I answer, finding it easier to talk about this than my earlier confessions. "Afghanistan mostly. Some time in Iraq at the beginning."
"Four is too much."
I shrug. "It was my job. I was good at it."
"Was it hard? Coming back to civilian life?"
No one's ever asked me that so directly before. Most people dance around it, afraid of the answer or afraid of offending me. Lucy just asks, her brown eyes steady on mine.
"Yes," I admit. "Still is, sometimes. Civilian life is... messy. No clear objectives. No chain of command. And people talk so damn much without saying anything important."
That draws a surprised laugh from her. "I guess I'm guilty of that."
"No," I say quickly. "You're different. You ask real questions. Listen to the answers."
She smiles, and something warm unfurls in my chest. "That's possibly the nicest thing anyone's ever said about my conversational skills."
The tension breaks, and I find myself relaxing slightly, settling back into the armchair. The panic attack has left me drained but also strangely calm, like a storm that's blown itself out.
"Do you regret it?" Lucy asks after a moment. "Joining the military?"
I consider the question carefully. No one's ever asked me that, either.
"No," I say finally. "I learned a lot. Discipline.
Purpose. Found people I could trust with my life.
But..." I hesitate, then decide to give her the whole truth.
"I only went because I had nowhere else to go.
No money for college. No skills except fixing engines.
And I needed to get away from my father. "
"You were escaping," she says, echoing my words from earlier.
"Yeah. And left Josh behind to deal with the fallout." The familiar guilt rises up, but it's duller now, worn smooth by years of carrying it. "Not my finest moment."
Lucy is quiet for a moment, her expression thoughtful. "Why did you come back? After all that time away?"
This is the question I've been dreading, the one that cuts closest to the bone. But having come this far, I find I want to tell her the rest of it.
"I came back to confront him," I say, my voice low.
"My father. Twelve years in the military, in war zones—I wasn't afraid of him anymore.
Thought it was time to face him, make him answer for what he did to us.
" I stare into the candle flame, watching it dance.
"But he was already dead. Had been for three years. "
"Oh," Lucy says softly. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be. World's better off without him." The words come out harsher than I intended. "But he left me money. And a letter."
"What did it say? The letter?"
I give a short, humorless laugh. "No idea. I ripped it up without reading it. Whatever excuses or apologies he wanted to make, it was too late."
She nods, accepting this without judgment. "And the money?"
"Used it to open the shop." I meet her eyes directly. "Felt like blood money. Dirty. Figured the only way to clean it was to use it to help people. Do something he never did in his life."
Understanding dawns in her expression. "That's why you helped me. Why you're always helping people around town."
I shift uncomfortably. "Just doing my job."
"No," she says with a gentle certainty that brooks no argument. "It's more than that. Lou told me how you fixed Mrs. Peterson's furnace in the middle of that snowstorm last winter. How you drove all the way to Portland to pick up medication for Mr. Gunderson when the roads were closed."
I frown. "Lou talks too much."
"He's proud of you," she says. "The whole town is, from what I can tell."
The thought makes me uneasy. I don't help people to be praised or noticed. Just the opposite—I'd prefer to go unrecognized, to blend into the background of Cedar Falls as much as possible.
"What about you?" I ask, eager to shift the focus away from myself. "You mentioned your father was in the military. Were you close?"
Her face softens at the mention of her father. "Very. He was... steady. Reliable. The complete opposite of my mother, who's all drama and impulse."
"Is that why you're estranged from her too?”
Lucy looks surprised that I remembered. "Not estranged exactly. We talk, occasionally. But we've never understood each other. She thinks I'm too serious, too focused on 'depressing things' like history and writing. She wanted me to be more like Emma—social, outgoing, the life of the party."
"And your father encouraged your interests?"
She nods, a sad smile playing at her lips. "He built me bookshelves when I ran out of space for my history books. Drove me to writing workshops three hours away because they were 'important for my development.' He was my biggest supporter."
The way she talks about him—the warmth, the obvious love—creates a strange ache in my chest. I try to imagine having a father like that, someone who built things for you instead of breaking them, who drove you places instead of driving you away. It's almost impossible to picture.
"I'm sorry you lost him," I say, and I mean it. "Sounds like he was a good man."
"The best," she agrees, her eyes bright with unshed tears. "That's why it's so strange to think of him growing up here and never talking about it. Never mentioning that his family helped found the town. It feels like there's this whole part of him I never knew."
"Maybe he had his reasons for keeping it private," I suggest. "Small towns can leave deep scars."
"Like they did for you?" she asks gently.
I nod, not trusting myself to speak. Yes, like they did for me. Like they did for Josh. Like they apparently did for her father, who left and never looked back.
Outside, the storm has mostly passed. The rain has slowed to a gentle patter, and the thunder is just a distant rumble. Through the window, I can see stars beginning to appear as the clouds break apart.
"Power's still out," Lucy observes, following my gaze. "But at least the worst of the storm is over."
This is my cue to leave. The roads will be clear enough now, and I've already stayed far longer than I intended.
Shared far more than I planned. But something keeps me rooted to the spot—the warmth of the candlelit room, the easy way conversation flows between us, the simple fact that for the first time in years, I don't feel alone.
"I should probably go," I say reluctantly, making no move to stand.
“Stay," Lucy says, then quickly adds, "I mean, it's late, and without power, my guest room's going to be just as dark and cold as it would be if you left now."
She's offering me an out—a practical reason to stay that doesn't acknowledge whatever this thing is between us. Friendship? Connection? I'm not sure what to call it, only that it feels important, fragile, worth preserving.
"I wouldn't want to impose," I say, even as part of me hopes she'll insist.
"It's not an imposition," she assures me. "Actually, I'd feel better not being alone during a power outage in a strange house. Every creak and groan has me jumping." She smiles self-deprecatingly. "I've got an overactive imagination. Occupational hazard for a writer."
I find myself returning her smile. "All right. If you're sure."
"I am. And I promise the guest bed is comfortable."
"Thanks," I say. "I appreciate it."
Lucy stands, picking up a candle. "I'll show you upstairs. And I think there are extra blankets in the hall closet."
I follow her up the narrow staircase, ducking slightly to avoid the low ceiling. The cottage was built in an era when people were shorter, and at six-foot-two, I'm constantly aware of architectural limitations.
The upstairs hallway is small, with three doors leading off it. Lucy points to each in turn.
"Bathroom, my room, and this one's yours." She opens the last door, revealing a small but tidy room with a double bed, a nightstand, and a simple dresser. "Sorry there's not much furniture yet. I'm still planning to get more once I'm settled."
"It's perfect," I say, and mean it. The room is clean and simple, with no clutter or distractions. Just the kind of space I prefer.
"I'll find those extra blankets," she says, moving toward a closet at the end of the hall.
While she rummages, I take a moment to look around.
The hallway walls are lined with framed photographs—not Lucy's, I assume, but left by previous tenants or installed by Mrs. Abernathy.
They show Cedar Falls from various eras—the lumber mill in its heyday, Main Street circa 1920, the falls that give the town its name.
One photo catches my eye—a group of men standing in front of a newly constructed building, serious-faced in the way of old photographs. The caption reads: "Founding of Cedar Falls Lumber Co., 1873. L to R: Josiah Abernathy, Elias Mitchell, Harold Carter, Thomas Wilson."
Harold Carter. My great-great-grandfather, if the family stories are to be believed. And beside him, Elias Mitchell. Could that be Lucy's ancestor?
"Found them!" Lucy says triumphantly, emerging from the closet with an armful of blankets.
She follows my gaze to the photograph. "Oh, are you looking at the historical photos?
Mrs. Abernathy said she put them up to give the place 'a sense of continuity with the past.'" She steps closer to examine the one I'm studying. "Wait, Carter? Is that—"
"My family," I confirm. "And possibly yours too. Mitchell."
She stares at the photo, then at me, her eyes wide. "Our families?"
"Looks that way."
"Our meeting seems… quite a coincidence," she whispers.
But we both know it's more than that. In a town as small as Cedar Falls, with histories as intertwined as ours seem to be, meeting like we did—her car breaking down at the town line, me being the one to help her—feels less like coincidence and more like the continuation of a story that began over a century ago.
"Here," she says, handing me the blankets, breaking the moment. "In case you get cold."
"Thanks." Our fingers brush as I take them, "For everything. The coffee. The conversation."
She smiles, and in the candlelight, her face is soft, open. "Thank you for staying. For helping with my things. For... sharing."
I nod, not trusting myself to speak. I've shared more with this woman in one evening than I have with anyone in years. It should terrify me, this sudden vulnerability. But strangely, it doesn't.
"Goodnight, Riley," she says, stepping back toward her room.
"Goodnight, Lucy," I reply, watching as she disappears behind her door with a final smile.
Alone in the guest room, I set the candle on the nightstand and sink onto the edge of the bed. The day has been full of surprises, none bigger than finding myself in this cottage with a woman I met less than forty-eight hours ago.
A woman who now knows more about me than people I've known for years.
I should be panicking. Planning my escape. Building back the walls that keep me safe, separate, alone.
Instead, I find myself thinking about that photograph in the hallway. Our ancestors, standing side by side at the founding of this town. Whatever drove Lucy's father away, whatever kept our families apart in the intervening years, there was a time when Carters and Mitchells stood together.
Maybe, just maybe, they could again.