Cyrus
Chapter eight
Crisp Mornings
The only sounds in Bluestone this morning are blue jays and robins chirping as the town sleeps. I use the heel of my boot to recline my rocker, taking my time to savor the simplicity of the moment. I’ve adapted back to the more relaxed pace of country living faster than expected.
It feels unreal that I once believed living at a hectic pace was a place where I thrived.
Fucking hamsters on a wheel, go, go, go.
I recoil from the intrusive thought. Now, if my internal clock would get with the program and stop waking me up every morning at four, that would be fucking great. I have to blend in with the locals.
Though, now that I think about it. The time Liam and I have spent together recently makes being away from the city worthwhile. Liam’s happy here. The key reason behind that change is approaching our house in her little red jeep. Mom jumps out, coming up the stairs.
“You’re up awfully early.”
“Good morning to you, too.”
Grinning, she approaches and hugs me tightly. Her slight frame is so much smaller than my own. When did my perception of my mother change to one of fragility? She’s always been short in stature and tough as nails. We pull away from each other, her eyes taking in the exhaustion behind my own.
“Having trouble sleeping again?” she questions, concerned.
“If I had, I wouldn’t trouble you with it.”
She leans back, looking at me. Carefully offering the same gentle words she’s spoken to me for as long as I can remember. “Cyrus, I don’t care if you’re eighty—”
“I will always be your baby,” I finish the quote that she has repeated to me for as long as I remember.
Her face morphs into a genuine smile. “I assume with how often I tell you it would be ingrained in your memory.” I know she sees the whispers of ghosts still along the edges of our matching eyes.
Never one to be able to hide anything from her, I try my best to give her a warm smile.
“I’m available to talk about it if you need to. ”
Of course, she would see through the bullshit. My voice hoarse, I say, “Roger that, Mom.” Her lips thin into a tight line, something desperate in nature on her face as she takes in the devastating level of my grief…
“I’ll make breakfast for my boys.” Her words are soft, almost a whispered prayer that one day she’ll show up and her son will be here instead of this ghost of him.
There’s potential that one day. I’ll be able to sleep and wake without Caleb walking beside me—a constant reminder that he’s never coming back.
There’s also the chance of winning the lottery.
I should probably buy a lottery ticket; I would have better luck at winning than getting a good night’s sleep.
I force my smile to mirror hers. “Boy’s grown a foot since you started cooking for him every morning.”
“Well, sweetie. That’s what grandmas are for.”
Looking back at the view, I watch the morning dew evaporate as a sweltering summer day begins. I sense Mom’s eyes on me as I sit in silence, sipping my rapidly cooling coffee.
As usual, she’s correct in her assumptions.
I spent the night battling a series of nightmares and jerking awake more times than I care to admit.
The smallest sounds trigger a chain reaction that activates the fight-or-flight reflex.
I replayed Caleb’s death on an endless loop, the back of my eyelids a front-row seat to a moment I wish I could burn out of my mind.
Hours of frustratingly failing at rest, I finally forced my body out of bed.
Liam will be thrilled Grammy’s back again this morning.
They’ve spent their days playing with friends and getting to know the community.
Making friends with neighborhood kids, many of whom are children of my childhood friends.
Barbecues, birthdays, and reunions are now commonplace.
Two childhood friends are conspicuously absent.
She chose him. She didn’t want me. It’s best to get over it.
City crime or small-town crime never rests. However, there are smaller numbers in the community. It’s more manageable. Leaving more time for Liam and me to bond.
When we moved in, we started at the local lumber store, blueprints in hand, gathering materials. When I bought this house, mature trees were non-negotiable. The central location was a bonus, especially with a lively son who’s spent years begging for a treehouse complete with a zipline.
Wood creaks beneath my boots as I cross the wraparound porch toward the side yard. Mom and Liam come around to meet me. Liam barrels into my side, tiny arms squeezing tight.
“Hi, Dad.”
“Hey, pal, giving Grammy another tour of the new place?” He nods enthusiastically.
“Buddy, she’s been here every day for a month. I think she’s seen it all,” I remind him, mostly so Mom doesn’t get trapped in another forty-minute explanation from an excited seven-year-old. Liam shrugs like that’s irrelevant, then grabs both our hands and tugs us toward the backyard.
“C’mon, Grammy! I gotta show you something really, really cool.”
“Patience, son,” I warn gently, laughter already creeping into my voice.
Our combined laughter drifts across the quiet yard as Liam pulls us toward his new clubhouse.
Liam and I ascended the ladder. It has an open floor plan, chalkboard walls, a tube slide, and a treasure box to keep secrets in. Our chests puffed with pride at our accomplishment.
Squeezing my head through the child-sized window as I take in the bird’s-eye view. Mom’s tilted frame angles to watch us, a ghost of a smile playing on her lips. “You want to come up?”
“No, thank you, dear. The Queen enjoys her feet firmly planted on the ground. You two have fun.”
“Probably for the best; it’s password-protected,” Liam says proudly.
“I would hate for the fort to have a security breach.”
“Those hips not what they used to be, Ma?” I quip.
Her eyes flash with warning. “I may not climb ladders, son, but you’ll have to come down sometime.”
“I’m joking.”
“Sure you are.”
“Dad, Grammy will totally beat you,” Liam interjects.
“No, she won’t. She’s a big softy.”
“Cyrus, I won’t be able to stay for too long today.” Mom’s shout reaches us. “Betty called last night. She started to come down with something yesterday. I had planned to check on her sometime today. I need you to take Liam to his hair appointment.” I peered back out the window.
“I trimmed Liam’s hair.”
“Believe me, it’s obvious.”
“His cut looks fresh.”
“Stick to your day job.”
My eyes drift to Liam. Dirty blond curls wrap around one ear while tufts stick out in every direction. Uneven. Fluffier in some spots than others. If I’m honest, I envy anyone capable of a perfect blend. Haircuts have always been our thing, though. Leaning down, I ruffle his curls.
“When did you become so sophisticated that you need an expert to chop that mop?”
My mother’s voice floats up to us.
“A jack of all trades is an expert at none.”
Liam leans in, giggling, his dark eyebrows rising. “Grammy’s right.”
“I heard that,” she quips. Mother’s hearing is in better health than those hips, it seems.
“We’ll never hear the end of that,” I whisper in a hushed tone
“Fraid not,” Liam says, leaning forward on his elbows, sitting crisscross.
“Nope,” Mom responds.
“Time for a bath, pal. Today, you’re getting a big boy haircut from a real barber, not your old man.”
“With a tug on the zipline handle, I lean down and whisper to Liam, “Want to give Grammy a scare?”
Matching grins spread across our faces before he wraps himself around my back. Then we jump. Liam whoops behind me as cool morning air rushes across our faces. The rope burns lightly against my palms while I keep our pace controlled on the ride down.
Mom snatches Liam from my back before my boots fully hit the ground, her concern immediately making me laugh. The exertion pulls at my thigh and chest, a sharp reminder that my scars are still healing.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Cyrus Dewayne McCoy, you will give me heart palpitations! You’d better behave!” She screeches in my ear, causing Liam to have another fit of laughter.
“Yes, Ma’am. Next time, he can sit on my shoulders.”
“Cyrus!”
“I’m joking, Mom. Liam, go take that bath before Grammy strokes. I need to take you to visit Lonny.”
Mom’s smile is wicked; she tightens her ponytail, making something in me pause. Ponytail tightening is Mom’s signal that she’s ready to do battle. She bats her eyelashes in my direction, cradling Liam to her, her nails running softly through his wild mane.
“Oh, sweetheart, Lonny sold the shop a few years ago.” I wait for her to continue, to tell me who owns it now.
I know it’s still open, though the name changed.
Twisted Scissors? Or something similar, I picture it in my mind, neat and polished.
Her silence presses on me, making me uneasy.
She’s smirking in my direction, folding her hands behind her back.
She waits me out; my lips pucker. Curiosity wins, propelling me forward.
“Who owns it now?”
Her face morphs into one I’m not familiar with; she’s enjoying this far too much for it to be a simple answer.
“Fallon Lawson.”
Her name shoots through me before I register it—a sudden pain, a hollow flip in my fucking chest cavity. Heartburn. Yeah…heartburn. That’s all.
“Well, shit.” Think of the devil, and there she is. Mom’s lips twist in a sly smile.
“I hope she doesn’t make you wait in the car,”
I scoff. “I’m sure she won’t be that dramatic.”
Mom’s baby-blue eyes widen, her expression turning almost sympathetic. “Good luck,” she says, patting my chest as she passes. “You’re gonna need it.” I ignore the flare of anticipation twisting low in my gut at the thought of seeing Fallon again.
Truthfully, I always knew there was a chance she’d still be here. Bluestone isn’t the kind of town people escape easily, unless she left with him. Still, no amount of time could make me ready to face her again—or the life she built after me.
Small towns make avoidance impossible. Sooner or later, the past always circles back around. Well, fuck. Fuck. Fuck.