Page 20 of Puck Me Twice Over

“Hey.” Knox jogged back around the side of the house just as the generator whirred to life. It gave a horrendous clank, signaling the semi-end of its retired life, and then kicked into full gear. “Let’s give that a minute and then the lights will be good to go.”

“Uh huh.” I hugged myself tighter. “This is different than I remember.”

“Yeah.” He nudged my shoulder gently with his and grabbed two bags out of the back of his pick up that I hadn't seen there before. “Come on. I bet you remember more than you think.”

“Maybe,” I murmured, trying to tug one of the bags free, but he refused to let go. My nose wrinkled when he handed me the key instead. “This isn’t really helping, you know.”

He switched hands so he held a duffle bag in each. “It helps me.”

“If you say so.” I checked the porch like a crazy person—okay, a not so crazy person, it was dark as all get out—and slid the key into the lock. That worked just fine and the door opened. Zero creaks in sight.

Not a horror movie. Bonus round, I found the light switch and that sucker worked as promised.

“Okay. Get your bearings.” Knox dumped the bags in the wide open foyer.

I stared at the warm, open space that had nothing to do with the cold, desolate house of a moment before and everything to do with memories that overlaid each other the longer I stood in the space beside him.

Knox, leading a party of us through the house after our exams were done.

His mom feeding us all after a bender party and pretending she didn't know a thing while she cleaned up around us, bless. Not a single call was made to a single parent as we all sobered up and helped her.

Being chased by him through these same halls. Our feet ringing on the stairs to the right. His hand closing on my ankle, tugging just enough to let me know he was there but not pulling me down until I was at the top so that he didn’t hurt me.

Then he rolled me over and kissed me until I was boneless and warm beneath him.

I turned full circle where I stood, the years ebbing in my memory until I faced the door again. “I remember sitting outside with you on the swing that used to be there. Sometimes talking. Most often not. I think I was hiding from everyone when it all got too much. Too noisy.”

Too everything.

After the parties and gatherings that summer, I woke up with a headache more often than not and went to bed the same way. Being out here in the dark was one of the few spaces that let me breathe in relative silence.

Being with Knox never stole my brain space or caused pain. And suddenly a part of that survived the carnage of tonight and from years ago needed him to know that.

“I remember.” His hands slid to my hips. He squeezed gently, then turned me around. “Do you know what I remember?”

I shook my head, tripping on my own feet as I faced the internals of the house again. “Family, lots of weekends here with everyone?” I hazarded.

His chin rested on the top of my head. “There were pictures," he said softly. “Portraits. Which ones did you like best?”

This was a game we used to play back then, too. I’d wander about the house on the weekends when his mom and dad weren’t around and it was just the party crew. When everyone else was busy doing something else or still asleep I’d wander about studying the family pictures. There were so many, going back years, generations even. The sepia ones had always been fascinating to me. But one stood out.

“The one in the⁠—”

Fingers pressed gently over my lips. “Go, find it for me. I’ll be… a moment. Tell me what you find.”

It never occurred to me to not do as he asked. I darted away from him, feet flying as they always had in any of our games. What happened earlier today and yesterday….all the years between, it all drifted away. The house filled with chatter and memory and warmth. Photographs and frames flew past, held up in positions I knew well.

Somewhere beyond me, Knox scuffed the bags on the floor. I winced, knowing his mom would hate that. The lock to the front door clicked as I turned that corner, knowing that pictures of his grandfather and his hunting dogs stood proud in the center of the mantel piece over the fire in this room. One more turn, and there would be a full gallery row of portraits of all the women in his family. It was one of my favorites, but it was not the favorite.

And that was what he’d asked me to find.

We both knew what I aimed for: a sepia picture of a dog. No name, no date. Just a long haired dog that sat in front of this house on what I’d always thought was an overcast day over a hundred years ago. It looked like it had a brown or maybe a russet coat. Neither of us knew who owned it and neither did his parents when we’d asked. There were no notations on the back of the photograph when we’d gently opened the back of the large desk frame, so we had no extra knowledge there. But that dog, loyal and happy and steadfast, had always been my favorite.

And it sat in the den.

Which meant I had to go through the portrait gallery—why a cabin had a portrait gallery, I had no idea—and then up a set of stairs at the back of the house that wound to the topmost floor. Because the cabin house wasn't just a two story home. It split into a semi third level that was offset. If you walked one way around the top floor it brought you back to the same set of stairs, but with a tilt. I’d rolled a ball along that corridor to prove it when I was younger, fascinated with the design.

Right now, the fastest way to get there was the best.