48-Zach
Night seeps into my bones as I take in the view from Steve’s back porch.
The brisk air puffs my breaths white, but the sky is so clear I can’t look away. Stars are brighter out here in the country, refined. Thin clouds fade to silver at the edges from the half-moon. Crickets chirp from the tall grass, the same familiar song they’ve sung since I was a kid.
Steve steps out, and my heart skips a beat as I take him in again.
His hair’s grayer than auburn, that signature red he shared with Nicole fading like an old photograph.
It’s thinning, the way it does when life works you over.
His skin’s sinking in places, creasing deeper than I remember, lines etched from sun, grief, and worry.
He’s still fit from years of construction, with broad shoulders, strong arms and hands. But he’s bigger around the middle than he used to be, his belly hanging over a worn leather belt he’s had since before Nicole and I were born.
“Ya know, he’s good for you,” Steve says, honey-brown gaze fixed on the Englishman beyond the screen, who’s got his knees on the bench, hunched over the opened old parlor grand as he digs around the soundboard.
“Oh, please.” I suck in another drag before I flick my cigarette over the deck’s edge, rolling my eyes so hard it hurts. “You met the man eight hours ago.”
“Nine. And besides, time don’t mean squat.
It’s the truth. I’ve been watching you with him.
He makes you happy.” Steve catches my next eye roll and snickers, putting his calloused hands up before grasping the wooden ledge.
“I don’t blame you. He’s tall, handsome, and British, that’s about as exotic as it gets around here, huh? ”
His flannel, the same tacky yellow one he’s worn for decades, is holey, fraying at the elbows. I used to tease him about it; now it makes me clammy. My chuckle cracks, folding like origami as it turns into a sob.
Steve’s the only constant I have left.
The last piece of home that didn’t disappear, die, or drift away. Witnessing him change scares me. It’s been less than a year since I saw him last, but it’s like time’s been sprinting by while I was distracted. Like I blinked and he aged ten years without me here to witness it.
I’m mourning the man he used to be, and the woman I was the last time I stood on this porch.
“Oh, honey,” he murmurs, lugging me into a bone-crushing hug. His familiar cedar and musk cologne wraps around me like a memory.
“I can’t.”
“I’m telling you,” he says, cupping my face so he can look at me. “Nicole wouldn’t want you spending your life like this.”
I swallow hard, watching him in the moonlight, the glow catching on the silver in his hair.
“I’ve let you try to figure things out,” he continues, wiping my chafed cheeks dry. “But Nicole would’ve wanted you to forgive. Forgive yourself. Forgive that poor kid, Matthew. Move on. Start living again. Stay sober. Write another book. I never did get to know how that shadow man ended up.”
I let out a watery laugh. The cheap fantasy romance I wrote freshman year of college feels like a lifetime ago.
“Are you saying we should take the deal?” The words taste treacherous as betrayal cuts through me.
“Bobby’s right; whether we do or not, she’s not coming back. Now, I miss her, too. That little girl was my whole heart and—”
He stops, a single sob lurching his body as he hangs his head to compose himself.
“I don’t want to keep watching you lose yourself. You hear me? You could do a lot with that kind of money. Build a full life. Sell that damned house; save me from cutting grass and shoveling snow every winter. You can’t move on as long as you keep a piece of yourself locked up here.”
With a dirty fingernail, he taps my chest, right above my heart.
“You’re thirty-two, for Chip’s sake, I hadn’t even met Mary until I was two years older.
Time is irrelevant, sweetie. You can love someone for a day, a decade, or from your first breath to your last, and it’ll never be enough.
That’s the secret. One love doesn’t replace another.
We aren’t little boxes with limited space.
It’s our soul that holds love, and that thing’s infinite. Trust me, we’ve got plenty of room.”
I throw my arms around his shoulders, basking in the only part of my past life I have left.
A knock rings on the glass, followed by Kit sliding the door open, peering at Steve through the tiny screen holes. “I hope I’m not interrupting, but I couldn’t help but, ah, finger the piano a bit. It’s gorgeous, but quite out of tune.”
“That old thing is Mary’s. She was a teacher, so she kept up with all the bits. After she passed, Zach’s the only one who used it.” Steve strokes his beard, glancing between us with a dreary smile. “It hasn’t been touched in a few years.”
Guilt chills me deeper than the October freeze. The last time it was played was when Nicole and I visited the fall before she died, and even then it sounded rough.
“You seem to have everything I need to fix it,” Kit says. “It’s really no trouble.”
Steve’s brows raise. “That’s quite a skill you have there. No yeah, you go right on ahead, then.”
I wash dishes while Steve and Yensil fall into easy conversation as Kit tunes the piano. Sleeves pushed up, my hands wrist-deep in warm water, I stand at the double sink. Steve’s homemade meatloaf lingers in the kitchen. It was dense, peppery, and glazed with ketchup; just how I remember.
Little pings and pangs sound from the living room as Kit adjusts the piano’s pins.
Each one feels like it’s asking permission to return.
A few tentative notes ring out like Kit’s testing the keys, the minor chord progression filling the room before it settles.
I rinse the last plate, emptying out the basins as a delicate melody drifts beside me.
With a slow crescendo the melody grows, blooming like the first buds of spring.
As if it’s been asleep for years, the music coaxes the house, stirring it awake once again.
The kitchen brightens, and down the hall, the shadows shrink.
When we first walked in, the corridor felt tight.
Now, it looks less like a tunnel and more like a path.
Closed doors don’t loom, and the tile isn’t as cold under my feet.
Towel in hand, I step into the living room.
Steve’s leaning back in his old recliner, lids half closed, listening.
In the corner, half-shadowed by the doorway, Yensil is perched on the edge of a dining chair he dragged in from the kitchen.
Kit’s at the piano completely lost in the music, unbound hair hanging across his bowed forehead.
His long fingers move in a furious, fluid dance, impossibly fast yet gentle.
“Is that new?” I ask softly, and the notes stop.
“Ah, no.” He blinks as if waking from a trance, folding his hands neatly in his lap. “Just mucking about.”
“That was beautiful,” Steve says through a yawn, his shoulders popping as he stretches in his seat. “Nice to hear music in this house again.” He turns his attention to Yensil. “You play?”
The poor man startles like he’s been caught doing something illegal. “Ah—no, sir,” he says, voice low.
Steve nods approvingly before settling back into the lounger. Yensil gives a stiff, grateful smile, then resumes pretending he’s invisible.
Standing from the piano, Kit lifts the bench lid and pulls out a familiar stack of beginner books.
The covers are creased, their corners bent from years of being dog-eared.
Steve used to pick one up whenever he found them at thrift stores or garage sales.
‘Never hurts to have extras,’ he’d say, even though Nicole already had more than I’d ever use.
Kit picks up a green, level three beginner book and flips through the yellowing pages.
Setting the book on the stand, Kit’s gaze pings to it, then me.
The first notes of Beethoven’s Für Elise fill the room.
I walk toward the piano, the bench creaking when I sit between him and a ghost of the version of myself I buried.
Watching me, he transitions to a decrescendo as I study the notes. Marking the middle C, I put my hands into position. I start slow and clumsy, but my fingers remember. Kit adjusts his hands to a harmony, and as I miss a note, he covers it, hesitating to allow me to set the pace.
Kit glances at me, a surprised smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. As we finish the final notes, Steve nods toward us, smirking lazily.
“You should perform at the festival.”
“What festival?” Kit asks, shooting me a snide sneer that screams ‘why didn’t you mention this?’
“It’s not until next summer.” I shrug, sticking my tongue out at him, and he crinkles his big nose like a child.
“Annual charity event. No politics, no religion, just arts,” Steve says, pushing the footrest down as he sits up in his recliner.
“All the money goes to the locals. Parks, arts programs, music, painting, theatre. Keeps the kids creating. We get some big names. Well, big ten years ago.” He chuckles, waving over to Kit.
“I guess you’re about a decade too soon, Son. ”
I snort. “Nicole always joked about getting onstage and playing the best rendition of Twinkle Twinkle Arcadia’s ever seen.”
Steve holds his belly, tossing his head back, face as red as a tomato. “She’d plunk out that damn song with this fierce concentration, tongue poking out between her teeth.”
His face falls, rumbling chuckles silenced as he peers down at his socks. “She had a real talent, but after her mom died, she lost interest. Said it made her wrists stiff, and that it’d interfere with her future hand modeling career—which, at six years old, she was dead serious about.”
Kit raises a brow at me. “Really?”
I wipe the tears from my cheeks. “Yeah, I mean she did all kinds of modeling, but she came out to LA signed specifically for her hands.”
“Thought it was strange, too,” Steve says, yawning, “but hey, it’s better than the nudes.”
I glance at the stove clock. “Oh, it’s almost ten. We should get going and let you sleep.”
“I’m fine,” Steve mumbles through another yawn, this one long and over-extended.
I shake my head. “Time for bed. Besides, I’ve already got a room across the river.”
He nods, though a frown tugs at his mouth. Steve’s offered more than once to let me stay in one of the spare bedrooms, but he never pushes. I’m grateful. Being here tonight is enough. Staying would’ve been too much.
Some doors I’m not ready to open. A part of me still feels unwelcome, like staying at your friend’s house with them out of town.
Or in my case, out of orbit.
As Steve stands, he claps a hand on Yensil’s shoulder on his way to the hallway. “Nice to meet you, big guy. Don’t let them keep you up all night.”
After Steve gives them a twenty-five-minute Midwestern goodbye, complete with back pats, weather commentary, and three separate “drive safe now” warnings, Kit and I finally get to the car, a comfortable silence settling between us as Yensil trails us down the dark road.
The weight of the night still clings to me, but Kit’s presence steadies the edges.
“Steve’s a wonderful man,” Kit says as we turn onto the bridge, the blue lights softening his features as they reflect across his face.
The Mississippi glides beneath us, pearl-white shimmering across the water. By the time we reach the hotel, the parking lot is packed for the night. I groan, spotting the open spaces in the farthest corner. Kit, ever the gentleman, carries both our bags.
Against my protest for Yensil to get a room, he’s decided to sleep in his car again.
I resented him for being here like a fly who seems to buzz in at the worst moments, but seeing the lengths he goes to in order to give Kit as much of a ‘normal’ life outside of work as possible makes me feel for the giant.
Inside, I approach the front desk. It’s comically skinny, barely wider than a bookshelf, and it comes up to my shoulders. The woman behind it looks tiny, perched on a high stool, clicking around on a computer.
“Hi,” I say, reading the name tag, “Sarah. I have a reservation for Zach Blake.”
It’s nearly midnight; everything’s half asleep. A vending machine hums in the corner, and chlorine drifts in from a pool just behind the fogged glass door. There’s stale coffee sitting on a warmer behind the desk, probably burnt and bitter.
“Ah yes, king suite.”
“Um, no.” I rock on my heels, purse sliding off my slumped shoulder. “I called earlier and switched it to two queens. They said that was fine.”
She clicks around again, gold-striped talons tapping the keys. “Oh, yes. Unfortunately, there was a last-minute booking, and since you already had the king room, the queen went to the other customer.”
“I’m sorry, what?” My jaw drops as my blood pressure spikes.
“Well,” she says brightly, gesturing vaguely toward the empty lobby, “if we’d given you the two queens, the king would’ve sat empty. The other guest didn’t want a king. They wanted two queens.”
“So did I.”
“Yes, but you already reserved the king. This way, no rooms are empty.”
I stare at her. The chlorine stench intensifies like it’s personally offended on my behalf. “I could try to find another hotel.”
“Oh, that’s probably not going to happen,” she chirps. “There’s a huge hockey tournament in town.”
I click my tongue. Minnesotans and their freaking hockey. “Look, I’m not trying to argue. I just want to—”
“Excuse me, hello,” Kit says, stepping forward, slipping into an exaggerated posh accent that he knows will turn heads around here.
Moving like he’s onstage, his shoulders roll back as he lifts his chin. He leans one elbow on the skinny desk, casual and confident, like he’s been charming hotel clerks his whole life. Sarah’s steely blue irises snap to him like magnets.
“Um, hi,” she says, chubby cheeks flushing pink.
“By any chance do you have a cot of some sort available?”
“Yes, we do.” She blinks between us, clearly assuming we’re a couple. Now that she’s decided we’re not, her gaze zeroes in on him like she’s trying to fuck with her eyes.
“Splendid.” He beams broad enough to wobble my knees. “If we could get that as soon as possible, Sarah, I would really appreciate it.”
“I’ll have housekeeping send one to your room right now.”
She types something else, scans the plastic card, and hands it to Kit without ever peeling her dreamy gaze from him.
“You’re a doll.” Kit winks as he plucks it from between her fingers.
“Thank you,” I say pointedly, snatching the white key from Kit’s hand.
Too busy ogling the Brit, she doesn’t hear me. I elbow Kit in the ribs, smirking when he keels over with a muffled grunt.
“Come on, Romeo,” I say, heading down the narrow hallway.
“Ah, fair Juliet, be not her maid since she is envious,” he quotes dramatically, sweeping an arm as if we’re entering a ballroom instead of a dingy corridor lined with ice machines.
I can’t help but smile, and for the first time all day, it’s easy.