Page 62 of Where Roads Lead

Chapter Seventeen

Will

Sometimes it seemed like people spoke just to hear their own voice.

Elsie came to mind, but she was different. The things she had to say were usually interesting—or at the very least, they were absurd enough to make you think twice about what the hell she was actually saying.

But most people? Specifically in this town—it was like they were trying to fill every moment of the day with mindless chatter just for the sake of it.

It usually wasn’t until I climbed into my truck at the end of the day that I was able to take my first solid breath.

I closed my eyes, leaned my head back against the seat and exhaled, ready to finally go home—

Knock, knock, knock.

“Jesus,” I groaned, resenting the intrusion before I even opened my eyes.

“Will,” Ava’s muffled voice called, forcing my eyes open.

I rolled down the window to hear whatever errand it was that I knew would delay me from going home.

“Can you give me a ride to your parents’ house?” she asked. “I’d walk, but I don’t want to be late for babysitting.”

I exhaled, mentally preparing myself for the ordeal that stopping by my parents’ would turn into, no matter how briefly we intended to stay.

“Fine.” I nodded my head toward the passenger side.

“Fine?” she asked, testing me.

“Yes, Ava. Fine. I’ll drive you.”

“Are you sure?” she asked, a sarcastic edge to her voice. “I wouldn’t want to put you out or anything.”

“Get in the truck.”

“Fine,” she mocked, in what I imagined she thought was an imitation of my tone.

I shook my head and started the ignition.

There goes heading home.

“The kids are here,” I heard my mother holler before the front door was even open.

Knowing her, she’d probably been peeking out the window when she heard the truck pull up, and no doubt watched every step we took up the walkway.

Although we all lived within minutes of each other, every time we showed up at their doorstep, my parents met us with the enthusiasm as if we’d crossed state lines to get there.

It wasn’t like we had dinner every Friday night or anything.

“What, is it Friday?” My dad’s voice was audible at the first crack in the door.

“No, Jack, it’s Wednesday!” she called over her shoulder before turning to beam at us. “What are you guys doing here?”

“Is it Friday?” Dad shouted, and I pictured him sitting in his armchair in the living room, probably watching one of his crime shows.

“No, Jack, it’s Wednesday,” she yelled louder, and I wondered why the hell they were speaking at such a volume when there were only a few steps between the front door and the living room.

“Hi,” Ava said, finally able to get a word in.