Chapter 17 Present
I noticed an old cobweb hanging from the light above my bed. It moved ever so slightly, swaying in the still air—free in a way I wasn’t.
I felt trapped.
Frozen in place while the world around me shifted and moved on.
The words on the page haunted my every thought. The smell of the ink sat stale in my nose.
I didn’t have to do this. I could still write the article I came here to write.
But something inside me tugged—quiet and relentless. It tormented me.
From down the hall, I heard voices. Hushed whispers—familiar and welcoming.
I rolled over and glanced at the time.
The sun had been up for hours.
I, however, hadn’t slept at all.
I knew I had to make a choice. At the very least, I needed to get something down on paper.
Letting out a forced sigh, I sat up. The old metal bed frame creaked beneath me, the sound too loud in the quiet room.
My feet hung off the side, still just barely able to touch the floor.
A lot about me had changed—my height wasn’t one of them.
I let out a slight laugh, closed my eyes, and took a deep breath. The smell of breakfast drifted in, and for a moment, it eased my thoughts.
I stood and stretched, my body aching from hours of sitting and sifting through Shay’s past.
The reminder of what I came here to do tugged at me again. I tried to push it out of my mind, but it remained—quiet and constant.
I walked to the door and paused.
I can do this.
I opened the door and made my way down the stairs.
The past of my childhood came rushing back as I turned the corner and heard my mom singing along to an old tune on the radio.
I stood there and watched her.
She might have been older now, but she could still put on a good show.
She was standing by the stove, flipping pancakes and checking on the bacon as she belted out the lyrics like she was on stage.
She turned to grab something from the fridge—and that’s when she saw me.
Letting out a surprised laugh and a playful gasp—Oh, you caught me! — she lowered her makeshift microphone.
“Still think Sonny would pick me over Cher?” she said with a grin.
I couldn’t help but laugh. “He’d be a fool if he didn’t.”
“Oh, hush,” she said, swatting playfully at the air. “You hungry?”
I really wasn’t. The thought of eating actually made my already-turning stomach ache a little more.
But I didn’t want her to worry.
I walked over to the coffee pot and poured myself a cup. I blew across the surface to cool it down and, after a quick sip, replied,
“Sure. I can’t pass up your pancakes.”
She glanced at me just as I was taking another sip. I gave her a grin, trying to keep the mood light.
“Your coffee, however…” I said with a teasing tone, “let’s just say—it’s no Neal’s.”
She shot me a look, but the corner of her mouth lifted, anyway.
“You can thank your dad for that. He gets a bit heavy-handed with the grounds, if you ask me.”
The mood shifted—subtly, but enough. More for me than for her.
My relationship with him was still… strained, at best.
“Where is he?” I asked.
She stayed focused on the pancakes as she answered.
“He made plans to go fishing with—”
She let out a sudden yelp and with a hint of her southern drawl. “God bless it, I burned that one.”
She laughed again, brushing it off and clearly forgetting what we were talking about as she changed the subject.
“Anyway, what do you plan to do today?”
Suddenly weight of what the day required of me settled like a rock on my chest.
“I have to do a bit more research before I can start writing,” I said. “I’ll probably head back to the Ledger and see what I can find.”
She nodded, like she understood.
She fixed us both a plate—fed me like she knew I wouldn’t eat again for the rest of the day.
She always knew how I got once I started working on a piece.
We sat and chatted over coffee, the kind of easy conversation that drifts without urgency.
Eventually, the conversation faded into a quiet lull.
She stood to clear the table.
I took it as the perfect opportunity to head upstairs and get dressed.
But before I reached the doorway, I paused.
Then I turned back, walked over to where she was standing by the sink, and kissed her cheek.
“Thanks, Mom,” I said softly, my voice low but full of meaning.
A calm settled between us—peaceful, unspoken.
She tried not to get choked up, but still managed a quiet, “Of course.”
…
I made my way upstairs, a quiet peace still resting in my smile. I got dressed slowly, still turning things over in my mind. The calm from earlier hadn’t fully faded, but it was starting to give way to something else.
I had come here to write a feel-good hometown fluff piece—a warm little story to remind readers what small-town life was supposed to look like—Familiar, Safe.
But Shay wasn’t just lakeside sunsets and pancake breakfasts.
It was secrets and silence.
Shadows that hid—not just in places, but in people
I could still write the article they wanted.
I would.
But I was also going to write the story that needed to be told.
Even if it made people uncomfortable.
Even if it meant looking at Shay—and at myself—in a way I hadn’t dared to before.
I turned toward the mirror.
The same one I’d looked into countless times.
My breath slowed, each inhale steadier than the last, as I braced myself to revisit the past once again.
He was part of the reason I couldn’t stop writing. Part of the reason I couldn’t walk away.
I closed my eyes—and there he was.
Painted vividly across my memory.