Chapter 7 - Lucy
I keep thinking about Riley, just down the hall. About the pain in his voice when he spoke of his brother. The way he tensed during the thunder, momentarily transported back to a war zone. The surprise in his eyes when I didn't flinch away.
And that photograph.
Our families, standing together at the beginning of Cedar Falls. Carters and Mitchells. Side by side in a faded black and white image, launching a venture that would become the foundation of this town.
With a sigh, I throw back the covers and reach for the candle on my bedside table. Sleep clearly isn't coming, and I might as well use the time productively. Maybe examining that photograph more closely will provide some clue about my father's "unfinished business."
The hallway is darker than I expected, my single candle creating more shadows than light. I pad quietly to the wall where the historical photos hang, careful not to wake Riley. The house is silent except for the rain and the occasional creak of settling wood.
I find the photograph easily enough—four stern-faced men in formal attire standing before a newly constructed building. Their expressions give little away; the serious demeanor typical of 19th-century photography disguises any hint of their personalities or relationships.
I lean closer, studying Elias Mitchell's face for any resemblance to my father or myself. He has a full beard that obscures much of his features, but there's something familiar in the set of his eyes, the angle of his brow.
Next to him stands Harold Carter, taller than the others, with a rigid posture that reminds me instantly of Riley. Same broad shoulders, same stance. Even across generations, the resemblance is striking.
"Couldn't sleep either?"
The voice behind me makes me jump, nearly dropping my candle. I turn to find Riley standing a few feet away, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, his hair mussed from restless tossing.
"Sorry," he says, his voice low. "Didn't mean to scare you. Heard footsteps."
"It's okay," I whisper back, heart still racing, though whether from the surprise or his presence, I'm not sure. "I was just looking more closely at the photograph."
He moves to stand beside me, close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from his body in the chilly hallway. "Find anything interesting?"
"Just noticing the family resemblance," I say, gesturing to Harold Carter. "You have the same build. Same way of standing."
Riley studies the image, his profile illuminated by our candles' glow. "My grandfather used to say I got my height from the Carter side. Said we've always been tall enough to 'see trouble coming.'"
"Was he right? About seeing trouble?"
A ghost of a smile touches Riley's lips. "Didn't see my father coming. Or Afghanistan. So maybe not."
I can't help but smile at his dry humor.
"Fair enough. I don't think my family's foresight is any better.
We seem to stumble into trouble rather than anticipate it.
But, well, I wonder what happened between them," I say, gesturing to our ancestors in the photograph.
"They're standing together here, but something must have gone wrong later. "
"From the little I know, the partnership dissolved in 1889," Riley says. "Abernathy bought out both families' interests in the mill."
"You know a lot about town history," I observe.
"Comes with growing up here. Cedar Falls likes to celebrate its past. It's practically a religion."
"Except the parts that aren't so flattering," I guess. "Like whatever drove our families apart."
Riley nods, his eyes still on the photograph. "Small towns are good at keeping certain stories alive and burying others."
We stand in silence for a moment, both contemplating the mysteries held in the faded image before us. I'm aware of Riley beside me—the scent of him, pine and motor oil and something manly and musky.
"Why can't you sleep?" he asks suddenly, turning those amber eyes on me.
The direct question catches me off guard.
"Too many thoughts," I admit. "New place. The storm. Everything that's happened since I arrived."
"Regrets?" His voice is careful, neutral.
"No," I say firmly. "No regrets. Just... processing. It's been an eventful second day in Cedar Falls."
"That's one way to put it."
"What about you?" I ask. "Why are you awake?"
He's quiet for so long I think he might not answer. Then, softly, "Dreams. Not the good kind."
The war. Of course. I should have guessed.
"Do they happen often?" I ask gently.
"Less than they used to." He runs a hand through his hair, leaving it even more disheveled. "Talking about Josh, my father... stirred things up."
"I'm sorry," I say, meaning it. "I didn't mean to pry earlier."
"You didn't," he assures me. "I chose to answer."
Another silence falls between us, but it's not uncomfortable. There's an ease to being with Riley that I've rarely experienced with anyone else. No pressure to fill the quiet moments with meaningless chatter.
"It's cold out here," I say finally, aware of the chill seeping through my thin pajamas. "And I don't think this photograph is going to reveal any more secrets tonight."
Riley nods, but neither of us moves to return to our rooms. It's as if we're both reluctant to end this strange midnight encounter, this moment of connection in the darkness.
"I could make tea," I offer impulsively. "If you're not going back to sleep anyway."
He considers this for a moment, then nods. "Tea sounds good."
We make our way downstairs, our candles creating a small pool of light in the darkness. The living room still holds evidence of our earlier conversation—empty coffee mugs on the side table, cushions indented where we sat. It feels oddly intimate, these traces of our shared evening.
In the kitchen, I fill the kettle and set it on the gas stove, grateful again for the non-electric appliance.
Riley leans against the counter, watching me move about the small space.
I'm very conscious of my appearance—hair tumbling loose around my shoulders, wearing only flannel pajama pants and a thin tank top beneath a cardigan I hastily grabbed on my way out of my room.
"Mrs. Abernathy left some herbal tea in the pantry," I say, opening cupboards until I find it. "Chamomile and... something else I can't pronounce."
"Sounds adventurous," Riley comments, and I catch a glimpse of that almost-smile again.
"I live on the edge," I reply with mock seriousness. "Mysterious tea blends. Moving to towns where I know no one. Inviting strange men to stay during storms."
"Am I strange?" he asks, amusement coloring his tone.
I look at him over my shoulder, taking in the blanket still wrapped around him, his rumpled t-shirt, the beard darkening his jaw. "In the best possible way," I assure him.
His laugh is soft but genuine, and the sound of it warms me more than any tea could. I've made Riley Carter laugh. It feels like an achievement.
The kettle whistles, and I busy myself with preparing our drinks, dropping tea bags into the mismatched mugs I found earlier
"Let's sit by the window," I suggest, nodding toward a small window seat in the living room. "We might be able to see the stars now that the storm's clearing."
The window seat is just large enough for two if we sit close, which we do, shoulders nearly touching, mugs cradled in our hands. Through the glass, we can see that the clouds have indeed parted, revealing a sky brilliant with stars, more than I ever saw in Phoenix.
"It's beautiful," I breathe, taking in the vast expanse of the night sky.
"One of the few advantages of small-town life," Riley says. "No light pollution. You can actually see the stars."
"What are the other advantages?" I ask, curious about his perspective on Cedar Falls, given his complicated history here.
He considers the question seriously. "People look out for each other, mostly. Like Lou offering his nephew's car. Mrs. Abernathy stocking your kitchen. When there's a real need, the town steps up."
"But not always for everyone," I guess, thinking of his strained relationship with his brother, the shadow that falls over his face when he talks about coming home.
"Not always," he agrees. "Town has a long memory for perceived slights. And some people never quite belong, no matter how long they've been here."
"People like you?"
His eyes meet mine in the darkness. "People like me," he confirms. "The ones who left and came back changed."
"Is that why you live outside town? At your grandfather's cabin?"
Riley nods, taking a sip of his tea. "Easier. Fewer questions. Fewer expectations."
"Lonelier, though," I say softly.
He doesn't deny it, just looks out at the stars again. "I'm used to it."
"Being used to something doesn't mean it's what you want," I point out. "Or what you deserve."
Riley turns to me then, his expression unreadable in the candlelight. "What about you? What do you deserve, Lucy Mitchell?"
The question catches me off guard. No one has asked me that before—not what I want, which is common enough, but what I deserve. As if he believes I merit something good, something better than what I've had.
"I don't know," I admit honestly. "I've been so focused on surviving—getting through Dad's death, dealing with Emma's anger, escaping my mother's disappointment—that I haven't thought much about what I deserve."
"Maybe you should," he says, his voice low. "Everyone deserves something good in their life."
"Even you?" I ask, searching his face in the flickering light.
A shadow crosses his features. "That's debatable."
"Not to me," I say firmly. "You deserve good things too, Riley. Peace. Connection. Forgiveness—from Josh, yes, but more importantly, from yourself."
He looks startled, as if I've seen too much, understood too clearly the burden of guilt he carries. "You don't know what I've done. What I failed to do."
"I know enough," I counter gently. "I know you were a boy who escaped an abusive home. I know you served your country through four tours of duty. I know you came back to face your demons. And I know you help people, even when there's nothing in it for you."
He looks away, uncomfortable with my assessment. "You've known me for two days. You can't possibly—"
"Sometimes you can learn more about a person in two days than in two years," I interrupt. "Especially when the circumstances strip away the usual social masks."
We fall silent again, sipping our tea and watching as a shooting star streaks across the night sky.
"Make a wish," I say impulsively, nodding toward the fading light trail.
Riley raises an eyebrow. "You believe in that sort of thing?"
"Not really," I admit. "But it can't hurt, right?"
To my surprise, he closes his eyes briefly as if actually making a wish. When he opens them again, his gaze is intense, focused entirely on me.
"What did you wish for?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
"Can't tell you," he replies, his voice equally soft. "Or it won't come true."
"That's the rule," I agree, suddenly breathless. When did he move closer? Or did I?
We're inches apart now, our empty mugs set aside, the candle between us flickering, casting dancing shadows across his face. I can see every detail of him in this light—the small scar bisecting his left eyebrow, the faint lines at the corners of his eyes, the stubble darkening his jaw.
"Lucy," he says, my name a question in his mouth.
I don't know who moves first—him or me—but suddenly the space between us is closing, his hand coming up to cup my cheek, my eyes drifting shut as his breath mingles with mine.