Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Sawyer
I WAKE WITH a jolt, heart hammering. For a split second, I don’t know where I am.
Sunlight spills through the window beside the bed—too bright, too sudden. I squint against it, brain scrambling until the pieces settle: Virginia. I’m at the lake house.
I collapse back onto the pillow, eyes shut tight, aching for the sleep I just left. The kind that was mercifully blank. No dreams. No memories. Just nothing. A pause from the ache.
But the light won’t let me disappear again. Not today.
My stomach growls, sharp and hollow. I press a hand to the concave space beneath my ribs, startled by the loss—of weight, of appetite, of interest in everything that used to tether me to my daily life.
Coffee. I want it so badly I can almost taste it. But I didn’t bring anything with me. No groceries. No plan for any.
Even the thought of standing up feels like too much. But I move anyway.
Not from motivation—just momentum.
I strip out of yesterday’s clothes and make my way to the bathroom. The faucet sputters to life, the faint sulfur smell of the well water here rising like a memory. I let it run, then step under the spray.
The heat steadies me. I scrub my skin with a bar of soap and lather shampoo through my hair. The temptation to slump against the tile overtakes me.
Back in the bedroom, I find a towel under the sink. As I press it to my face, the scent catches me, faint, but familiar. Clean linen. My mother’s favorite.
For a second, I see her standing in the laundry room, pulling towels from the dryer, smiling as she scolds us for running into the lake fully clothed. Her voice echoes through my head, startlingly real.
And just like that, my throat tightens.
I blink her away and reach into my suitcase for clothes. Black yoga pants, a sports bra, a loose workout shirt. The shirt hangs on me now. Like it belongs to someone else. My reflection in the mirror is unfamiliar. Hollow cheeks. Dark smudges beneath tired eyes. Colorless lips.
The bed still looks inviting. The tousled quilt promises the kind of retreat I know too well. I take a step toward it—then stop.
Groceries. At the very least.
I grab my phone. Ten percent battery. I search for stores nearby. Carl’s Place shows up first. The name makes something small and warm flutter in my chest.
Red vinyl booths. A sticky counter. Coconut cream pie behind a glass dome, the promise at the end of a vegetable plate.
That memory pushes me down the stairs and out the door.
*
THE FUEL LIGHT blinks on as I start the car. I remember Carl’s has gas, or used to. Hopefully it’s still open. Not every rural place has completely reopened yet. Not every place wants to.
The road is empty, familiar in the way of things you haven’t seen in years but never really forget. I reach Carl’s sooner than expected.
A single truck is parked at the pump. The driver, older, baseball cap, kind eyes, nods as I pull in, tipping the brim of his hat in a quiet, politely familiar gesture.
I don’t return it.
I realize that too late. And the shame that follows is instant and sharp.
I used to be better than this. Or at least I thought I was.
I grab a pair of gloves from the console and slip them on. After pumping gas, I reach for the disposable mask I brought from the city and loop it over my ears.
Inside, people come and go, unmasked, unbothered. Their eyes land on me. Not hostile, just curious. I feel both exposed and invisible.
I want to tear the mask off, explain myself, assure them I’m not dangerous.
But fear still owns too much of me. It followed me here, and it’s not letting go.
I reach for a basket and head down the far aisle.
“Morning, hon,” an older woman at the dairy case says, her cart a notable mix of dried beans, eggs, and ice cream. “You new to the area, or just hiding from the world like the rest of us?”
Surprised by her friendliness, I smile behind my mask. “Little of both, I guess.”
“You have a good day now,” the woman says and rolls her cart on down the short aisle.
I try to remember what I came to get. Milk. Cereal. Peanut butter. Crackers. Bananas. I keep my head down, moving quickly, until I reach for a roll of paper towels—and collide with someone.
I stumble back, startled.
“I’m so sorry,” I say, voice muffled by the mask.
The man I’ve bumped into towers over me, at least six-three. I’m five-seven, and I still have to tip my head up to meet his eyes.
He steps back, giving me space.
And then I recognize him.
Jake Rowan.
My breath catches, my pulse stumbling in my throat. My first instinct is to turn around and walk away. Pretend I didn’t see him. Pretend he didn’t see me.
But it’s too late.
“Sawyer?”
I nod. “Jake.” The name feels foreign and familiar all at once. “I… I didn’t expect to see you.”
“It’s been a long time.” His voice is quiet, even, his expression unreadable. It flows over me like warm honey, sweet with something long thought lost.
“It has.”
We stand there, the silence between us thick with years and all the things we didn’t say back then. Still haven’t.
“Do you live here?” I ask.
“I do. You don’t. At least, I didn’t think you did anymore.”
“I haven’t been back in a while.” I hesitate. “I’m—was—a physician in New York.”
Alarm flickers in his eyes. “Oh—”
I rush to add, “I just got here yesterday. I tested before I left. Negative.”
“I’m not worried about that. Just can’t imagine what all you’ve seen,” he says gently, shaking his head.
And I envy him, for the calm, for the steadiness, for his lack of fear.
“I never thought I’d see you again,” he says.
“I never thought I’d come back.”
“You haven’t been back since—”
“No.” My answer is sharper than I mean it to be, really. “My parents passed away last year in a car accident.”
“I heard. I’m sorry about that. Really sorry.” His voice softens. The sincerity in it breaks something loose in me. A single tear escapes, disappears into the mask. I wipe at it quickly, eyes burning.
“Thank you,” I say in a low voice. “I… I should pay for these.”
He steps back, bumping into the cooler behind him. A Coke bottle tips and clinks gently against the others. He looks rattled.
“Okay, then,” he says. “It was really nice to see you, Sawyer. I mean… sort of see you.”
I almost smile. It’s there—just barely. But guilt shuts it down.
“You too, Jake,” I say.
At the register, the woman scans my items with practiced ease, offering a warm smile that doesn’t waver at my mask or gloves. I pay quickly and murmur my thanks before heading outside.
Once I’m back in the car, I yank off the mask, toss the gloves to the passenger-side floor. My chest feels tight. My pulse skips and stutters beneath my skin.
I hate the mask. Hate the stupid gloves. I hate what they represent. Fear and everything I couldn’t stop. Everything I lost.
The door to the store opens, and Jake steps out with a Coke in one hand and a small bag of cashews in the other.
He’s wearing neither mask nor gloves and looks as normal as if it were six months ago and life held no clues of anything so soul-destroying as a pandemic.
He looks around the lot, eyes searching, uncertain—until they land on me.
Before I can start the engine, he walks toward my car. His presence feels like a reminder of another life, one where closeness wasn’t dangerous.
I lower the window halfway.
“Are you okay?” he asks, voice low, gentle.
“I’m fine,” I say. “Sorry.”
“You don’t need to apologize. You don’t have to explain anything.”
His words are simple, but something inside me stirs. A thread pulled taut loosens just enough. I shouldn’t feel comfort in the presence of a man I haven’t seen in years—not after everything. But I do.
“I just wanted you to know… if you need anything while you’re here, I’m not far. I live at the old Patterson place. The one with the strawberry field behind it.”
The memory hits me like a warm breeze. That field. Summer sun. Red-stained fingers. Laughter that felt like it was just a normal part of life.
“Oh,” I say softly. “That’s a beautiful place.”
“I was lucky to get it. The owners didn’t want to sell to a developer.”
“I’m glad they didn’t.” I pause. “You’ve kept it the same?”
“Mostly. I fixed up the house, cleaned up the land. It feels like home now.”
“How many acres?”
“Fifty. There’s a strip of woods and a big pasture that used to be for cattle. I just mow it.”
“That sounds… peaceful.”
We fall into a pause. Not awkward. Just full. Full of questions, of curiosity, of what-ifs.
“I should go,” I say finally, because really there isn’t anything else to do.
“Right.” He shifts his weight, hesitant. “I was going to ask… did your parents ever come back after—”
“No,” I say quickly. “Not as a family. My dad came down now and then to check on things. But they never really came back. I think they meant to sell it… but they couldn’t.”
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I shouldn’t have asked.”
“It’s okay,” I tell him. “I just… can’t talk about it very easily.”
“I understand,” he says, stepping back. “You take care, Sawyer.”
“You too.”
I raise the window and start the car like something utterly terrifying is after me.
And maybe it is. Memories. Of loss. And everything I thought I left behind, but quite obviously didn’t.