Page 115 of Within These County Lines

“You should’ve been at the prom pictures.” The words become harder to read as I fight back my own tears. “I was upset I didn’t have a date and took out my anger on you. I’m sorry we fought. But now I realize you were all I needed.”

She breaks. Her body convulses as she slides from the chair to the floor. I drop the note and lunge for her, catching her in my arms. We melt onto the floor, tight within each other’s embrace.

“Where is he?” she wails, her voice breaking into fragments that shatter my ear. “When can he come home to me?”

“I don’t know,” I whisper. “I don’t know.”

I look up.

Xander stands in the living room, still as stone, watching us with wide, unblinking eyes like the nearby figurines. His tender face fit to be alongside the angels. My heart splinters for him as if the glass cabinet bursts and sends shards in every direction.

His lips part. He mouths two words. Thank you.

His smile is faint, like a flower blooming on winter’s darkest day.

What if this is the future I’ve been searching for, and I’m not meant to leave town? Time has stopped to hold me here, showing me that I have purpose in Penango.

Xander and I aren’t trapped in place but connected.

Maybe this past year’s impatience was a lesson. If I chase after my future, I’ll sprint past the people cheering me on. But if I pause, if I turn and see them, really see them, I’ll find where I’m meant to run toward.

And the finish line isn’t somewhere else.

It’s their arms.

47

On the last day of work, Whitley quietly counts a stack of dollar bills at our desk. Her fingers flip through the worn edges while I gather the last remnants of my summer job, like orientation handouts and random doodle pads, and toss them into the recycling bin, clearing my desk for the next temporary worker to take my place.

Victor knocks on our cubicle wall.

“Good morning, Stetson,” he says, too chipper for my liking. “Whitley.”

“Morning,” I reply, my tone flat. A scowl sets deep into my face. He never answered my messages about the recommendation letter.

Whitley doesn’t even bother to look up.

“Last day, right?” he asks.

“It is.” I rub my hands along my thighs.

“It went fast.” He grins.

Not fast enough, I want to say.

“How many inspections do you got left?” he asks.

“None. I just promised Kim and Sheryl at Rainbow Valley Swim Club that someone would help them prepare for next year.” I pop in my earbuds, making it very clear I’m not in the mood for small talk.

“See? All that worrying you did at the start of summer, and everything there turned out okay. No one died.” He chuckles. “I guess it’s not as legendary as they make it out to be.”

A bitter taste rises in my throat. No one died there, sure. But two people were never seen again after swimming in their pool. If he only knew what really happened this summer at Rainbow Valley Swim Club. We are the opposite of okay.

I spin my chair away from him, hoping he’ll get the hint, when my eyes land on the last piece of paper left on my desk. It’s his coffee-stained map that was about as useful this summer as my truck without gas.

“Do you want this back?” I ask, extending the document to him. “I’m cleaning up.”

He scrolls through his phone. “Want what?” he asks. His attention doesn’t leave the screen.