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Josie
Iremember this kitchen better than the one in the trailer I grew up in. Isn’t that funny? I only left Maple Creek three years ago, but the memories of that cramped, cluttered trailer are already hazy, my whole childhood one big blur of microwave meal packets and the faint strains of the game on my dad’s radio.
Meanwhile, every single day I spent at the Barns lives on in my brain in crisp technicolor. We’re talking surround sound and HD. I remember every last detail.
“So. You here for Harry?”
Everett Bray plunks a mug down on the kitchen table in front of me, and I whisper my thanks before I tug it closer by the glossy green handle. We’re sitting in a single pool of light, the rest of the kitchen cast in shadows.
See, this mug is familiar. There’s the faintest hairline crack on the inside near the base, though you can’t see it now while it’s hidden by peppermint tea—not deep enough to leak, but enough to notice when you wash up.
I remember everything.
“No.” I know Harry’s still at college. He won’t be back to visit for the summer for a week or two yet, and I have zero excuse to be here until then. But I’ve been caught red-handed, so here goes. “I, um. I needed to get away for a while, and I just thought… Maple Creek. I have memories here, Mr Bray.”
That’s true, of course, but it doesn’t explain why he caught me splashing around in the creek. And he must be thinking that too, because Harry’s uncle watches me, arms folded over his broad chest, and he doesn’t sit at the table. He stays standing, boots planted on the tiles, the distance between us a yawning chasm.
The clock ticks on the wall while he thinks. Chews over my fate. A horrible thought slithers down my spine: he wouldn’t call the cops on me for trespassing, would he?
But no: Everett Bray is exactly like I remembered, too. Strong and silent; bearded and gruff. All thick dark hair and faded scars on his knuckles, and those knowing hazel eyes that see right through to my soul.
This man would never call the cops on me. And he won’t let me wriggle out of giving him answers, either.
“So where are you sleeping tonight, Josie?”
There’s no point lying to this man—there never was. He sees me.
I wet my lips, and my voice is hoarse. “My car.”
There’s a choking noise, then it cuts off.
“No.” The word falls between us like an anvil, dropped with so much force I’m surprised it doesn’t crack the kitchen tiles. Harry’s uncle shakes his head, jaw hard. “That’s not happening.”
Not on his property? Or not at all?
“You’ll stay in Harry’s barn,” he continues before I can ask, and finally my shoulders relax an inch. I’m safe. I have a bed for the night.
I mean, I’d rather stay in this building with him—you know, if I were being a picky little princess—but beggars can’t be choosers. Anything is better than a night spent curled on my driver’s seat, and staying in one of Everett Bray’s barns? Out here, just the two of us? Close enough to hear him moving around and getting ready for bed? Come on.
“Thank you,” I whisper, and my throat is thick with relief and shame. By rights, I shouldn’t be this man’s problem at all, and yet here I am. Intruding. Causing trouble. “I’ll be gone before you wake up, I swear. And I don’t have cash right now, but I’ll send money for your trouble once I’ve found another job—”
Everett Bray raises a giant hand.
I fall silent. My eyes are burning.
This is so humiliating. Why the hell did I come here tonight?
“You’re not paying.” Harry’s uncle still looks pretty mad, his strong chest rising and falling. Those hazel eyes glare from beneath thick, dark eyebrows. “And you’re not disappearing tomorrow, Josie. Understood? If you need a job, I’ll help you find one, and until then, you’re staying. You’re safe here,” he adds, frowning down at the tiles like he’s trying to convince himself of that fact.
The breeze rattles the window, the sound echoing through the kitchen. I force myself to swallow past the lump in my throat. Once, twice. Three times.
I’ve never had anywhere I could go before. Never had a safe place to run. And even though this isn’t real—even though I forced this man’s hand, rather than earning his invitation—I can’t help the ache in my chest. The gratitude slowly loosening my limbs.
I’m here.
I’m with Everett Bray, and he’s exactly how I remembered.
And even though I’m bone-tired, I’m home.
