“You don’t think I know that?!” he roars, the veins in his neck bulging. “I wake up every fucking day praying it was all a nightmare, praying that Jorgie and Malcolm are still here. But it never happens. I never wake up! I don’t need you to tell me she is gone. I’m stuck in this fucking nightmare. I live it every fucking day. I know sheisgone!”
His jaw quivers as a flood of moisture forms in his eyes. His chest heaves up and down as he struggles through the same emotions that cripple me every time I think of the loss of Jorgie and my nephew…and Ava.Hawke’s grip on my neck loosens as his eyes dartbetweenmine.
“But you don’t have to live in this nightmare if you don’t want to. Ava can pull you out of it,” Hawke says, his eyes flicking between mine. “But only you can choose if you want her tosaveyou.”
My feet return to the ground when he releases his grip on my neck. “I’d give anything for another day with Jorgie. To have her in my arms. To hold my son. But I don’t have that opportunity.Youdo.”
After picking up the reclining chair he knocked over as if it is weightless, he staggers out of the room without a backwardglance.
Chapter Six
Hugo
My hand dartsdown to the window crank of my car –Jorgie’s baby. Shifting my eyes between the road and the window mechanism, I wind the window up, easing the thick blast of cold air blowing in from outside.It’s colder here than I remember.The crisp wind, chilled with sleet has the tip of my nose turning a shade of red.I didn’t even pack a jacket.Every mile I get closer has my heart rate quickening. Even though it’s been years since I’ve been here, I know the way. It is engrained in me. I took the same route I used when I left. All back roads hidden from prying eyes. The candy apple coloring of my car is now a murky brown thanks to the thick dust lifting off the dirt roads I’vedrivendown.
The tremble pounding my heart extends to my hands when the “Welcome to Rochdale” sign peers over the horizon. I’ve been driving for hours, nearly nine straight. I only pulled over for gas before I continued on my mission, not giving my brain the chance to formulate an objection to my rushed decision I made while hungover and licking my wounds from my tussle withHawke.
Noticing my gas gauge sitting close to empty, I pull into a gas station on the outskirts of the main town district. The quietness that surrounds me when I switch off the ignition and curl out of the driver’s seat is disturbing. When there is too much silence, my mind tends to wander. Ducking back into the cab to grab my wallet, I snatch a baseball cap and pull it down low over my head. While filling up the gas tank, my eyes roam around my surroundings. Five years has passed, and its looks like nothing has changed. The graffiti on the brick wall attached to St. Mary’s church is still where it was, only faded and accentuated with new tags. The half shackle sign dangling out of the front of Gus’s Grease Box is still rusted and askew, and the inquisitive gawks are still present.Nothing’schanged.
I place the gas nozzle back into the pump and amble into the service station, eager to pay for my gas and continue with my trip. It’s late and I’m beyond tired. The beat of my heart kicks up when the glass automatic doors swing open and numerous pairs of eyes turn to me. I lower the sleeves of my shirt, concealing my tattoos that normally conjure nosey gazers. Several pairs of eyes track me as I walk across the space. My long steps have me reaching the counter in four large strides. Even with a cap hanging low on my face and my appearance altered from the effects of age, I know their curious stares aren’t associated with a stranger arriving in the middle of the night. No, they come from recognition. I was born and raised in Rochdale, the beloved quarterback of the high school football team crowned State Champions two years in a row under my leadership. But even if they are too young to remember my glory days, or too old to care, my family are well known members of the community and I'm the spitting image of my father. My eyes, my nose, hell, my entire face is an exact replicaofhis.
“Pump four,” I say, tossing three rolled up twenties onto the counter before spinning on my heels. I always pay with cash. No cards means no chance of beingtracked.
My brisk strides slow when the cashier shouts, “You forgot yourchange.”
I raise my arm into the air. “Keepit.”
I stop frozen in my tracks when the cashier replies, “I can’t do that, Hugo. It’s against therules.”
The automatic doors open and close, unable to sense if I'm coming or going.They aren’t the only ones confused.Exhaling a large puff of air, I spin on my heels. The walk back to the counter is painstakingly long. I raise my chin high enough to peer at the cashier, but low enough my face isn’t fully exposed. A grin carves on my mouth when the petite frame of Mary Walker pops into my peripheral vision. Her glistening cornflower blue eyes stare into mine, her excitement building with every stepItake.
“Hey,” she says with a broad grin, fiddling on the hem of her floral skirt. “I knew itwasyou.”
Mary was in Ava and Jorgie’s grade at school. Since she was born ten weeks premature, she has always been a tiny little thing, looking much younger than her real age. Her older brother Mitchell was a good friend of mine in high school. We lost contact when his life took a ride down a very steep hill at the same time mine hit abrickwall.
“How are you going, Mary?” I ask, accepting the crumpled up notes she is holding out and shoving them into the pocket of myjeans.
The smile on her face broadens, both shocked and happy that Irememberher.
“Good,” she replies quietly. “If you are in town long, come on over to the house one day, Mitchy would love toseeyou.”
I nod. “I will. I’ll try and get there laterthisweek.”
She smiles even bigger. With a dip of my chin, I bid farewell to Mary before walking out of the service station, not missing the extra sets of eyes I gained from my brief exchangewithher.
I slide into my car and crank the ignition. As I pull onto the road, I roll the window back down, needing the crispness in the air to calm the mad beat of my heart. One more mile is all I have left to travel. The town is quiet, not surprising since it is late on Christmas day. My eyes scan my surroundings as I pull down a familiar street. The same wrought iron lights line the edge of the cracked concrete sidewalks, clapboard houses in a range of pastel colors and rolling lush green frontyards.
Nothing’schanged.
I release my heavy compression on the accelerator, slowly creeping my car closer to my childhood home. When I come to a stop in front of the two story house, I’m not surprised when I spot a light flicking in the back right-hand corner of the property. No doubt, my mom still packing away the dishes from the Marshall Christmas party she hosts every year. I wonder what her reaction is going to be when I stroll back into her life? Will she greet me like she did the morning I turned up for family brunch? Or will she be angry for the wayIleft?
“There is only one way to find out,” I mumble tonoone.
I pull into the driveway and park behind my mom’s station wagon.I can’t believe she still drives that old thing. My hand trembles as I open the car door and step out onto the concrete driveway. The smell of pumpkin pie and mashed potatoes filter in the air as I briskly stride down the side of the house. My steps are fast and uninhibited, ensuring I don’t give myself the opportunity to back down on my quest. I’ve daydreamed about this day for years, but I never thought it would come to fruition. I grip the handle of the screen door, willing for the memories of the last time I exited these doors to slip my mind. Sucking in a lung-filling gulp of air, I pull open the door. The old wood gives out a slight creak, but I barely hear it over the Christmas music playing on a radio in the middle of the kitchencounter.
As I pace into the kitchen, my eyes drift around the room.Nothing’s changed.It is exactly the same. My mom’s hair, although a little grayer than I remember around the temples, is pulled back in a bun. She has a pair of pink gloves on her hands as she works her way through a pile of dirty dishes stacked at her side. Her hips swing, bobbing side to side as she sways to “Jingle Bell Rock” by Bobby Helms drifting from the speaker on the island counter. Half-eaten pies and containers of food are stacked on the countertops. No doubt the fridge is too crammed to fit in all the goodies she bakes everyChristmas.
Pacing in closer to my mom, I open my mouth, preparing to speak. My words entomb in my throat when the swinging door between the kitchen and the dining room swings open and Ava glides inside. My heart freezes along with my feet.My god, she is even more beautiful than I remembered.Her hair is a crazy mess of ringlet curls sitting a few inches past her shoulders, her face is fresh and unmarked, like she hasn’t aged a day in five years, and her body is captivating. Her lush tits are only just hidden by a dusty pink cashmere sweater, the hem sitting on her curvy rounded hips. Her stomach is smooth and flat, and although I can’t see her legs that are covered by a pair of black jeans, I'm sure they are just as stellar as the rest of her. She is captivatingly beautiful and has me wanting to drop to myknees.
