“You’re a loner.”
“That makes me sound like I wore a cape in high school.”
“You did.”
“It was a hoodie.” We’ve had this conversation before.
“Tomato, potato.”
“That’s not the saying.” We’ve hadthisconversation before, too.
“You just like being alone,” he clarifies, and the way he says it makes his disapproval clear. He’s always had a problem with the way I’ve avoided Larkspur, Montana since Mom’s death. Every chance he gets, he’s invited me home. There’s always been an underlying tension each time I’ve had to work a holiday or I’ve told him I don’t have enough downtime between contracts. He knows my excuses are bullshit, and I know he knows they are, but he’s never fully called me out for it.
He just makes remarks like this one.
“Well, I was trying to be nice.”
“Mmm.” The noise he makes is enough to set my teeth on edge, raise my hackles. But I can’t really argue with him. He’s right, I should come home more. But every time I have—the very few times in the last fourteen years—I’ve felt like the mountains were moving in closer and closer, threatening to bury me beneath them. Like the weight of Mom’s absence, the memories of hereverywhere, might suffocate me.
“Will you be home for Thanksgiving this year?”
That word—home—haunts me. Larkspur hasn’t felt like home in a long time. Nowhere has, really.
“Um,” I say, turning up the winding road to the cabin. There are others around each turn, but the one I’m renting is at the very top, the last driveway that dead ends before the trees stretch out behind it. “I don’t think I can. My contract ends right before then and I’ll be headed to my next assignment.”
“Right.” The single word is as pointed as a knife.
“Hey, listen. I’m pulling up to the house, so I’ve got to go. Give Clara a hug from me and tell Kate she’s a saint for putting up with you.”
“I will,” he says, and I don’t miss how resigned he sounds. I know my avoidance disappoints him. I know it would have wrecked my mom. But I can’t help it.
“Bye, Jack. Love you.”
“Bye, Ev.”
Love. Even that word feels too heavy to say, too risky to give when it can so easily be taken away.
Imessedup.Bigtime.
My head ispounding. Even the lamplight feels like daggers in my skull. Beside me, my phone vibrates with a string of incoming texts, and I sigh as I swipe them open, squinting against the bright light of the screen.
It’s in my book club group chat with Wren and our friends Finley, Nora, and Alicia. I was supposed to be heading to Alicia’s house for book club right now—the first one I would have managed to attend in three months—but I had to bail at the last second because of the return of my splitting headache.
Alicia:Pop some Tylenol and get your ass over here. I’ve got margs. If you get drunk, you won’t remember that your head hurts.
Wren:Do you need anything? I can come take care of you.
Finley:Aw man. We will miss you! I’ll drink your margarita in solidarity.
Nora:I’ll have three.
I text back that I don't need anything and that I already took more Tylenol than the bottle recommended before tossing my phone face down on the worn leather sofa. Just looking at the screen feels like there are needles being shoved behind my eyeballs.
I’ve just tucked a faux fur blanket around my legs and pulled a throw pillow over my head to block out the light when I hear thebeep, beep, beepof a code being typed into the lock on the front door. Part of me hopes it’s Jack and another part hopes it’s a serial killer here to put me out of my misery.
The door opens, and someone walks in before stopping just over the threshold. It’s quiet for a long moment, and then, “Stevie?”
So it is Jack. Damn. I think the serial killer would have been better than letting my new roommate find me face down on the couch.
