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He leaned closer, his gaze boring into my own. I wanted to jump back.
His voice was soft, as though he hoped to confide a secret. “I’m Jeb. Kleber. You remember me, right? Summers on the banks of the Ohio? Boyhood secrets? A love that dare not speak its name?” He raised his eyebrows. A smile made the corners of his eyes crinkle.
My blood turned to ice.
Everything inside dried up, as if all the moisture had been drained out of my system. Dizziness washed over me. I reached out a hand behind me, grasping for something solid, but all that was there was sticky summer air. “No. No, you’re not. That’s not possible.”
He nodded. “Itispossible. In fact, it’s true. I know it’s hard to believe.”
I shook my head, trying to gather some spit so I could swallow. “Go away. You can’t be him. He’s gone. Dead.” Suddenly, I wanted to turn and run back inside, dash up the stairs, and, once alone, sob for the missing boy I’d once loved.
“Notdead. Obviously. Disappeared is the better term.” He eyed me, imploring me, I thought, to be reasonable, to see shades of distinction.
People don’t disappear for more than thirty years with no explanation. Not commonly, anyway. People who disappear for three decades were most likely dead.
Suddenly, I was swept back. In my mind’s eye, I was a thirteen-year-old boy in love for the first time with a fellow white trash boy, living in the foothills of the Appalachians with my single mom.
“Obviously, I’m very much alive.” He shook his head, expression mournful. “It’s a long story.” He looked up at the building, a vintage white-brick courtyard that had been gutted and redone five years ago when Marc and I moved in. “Can you just let me come in, please? I’ll only take a few minutes. I can explain.”
I shook my head and turned toward the front door. I pulled my keys out. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Please. Sammy.”
I had my key in the lock.
“Wait,” he said.
I should have gone in. I should have ignored his one-word request or command and gotten myself back inside. I should have double locked the door behind me. Butshould-haveswere the saddest form of regret there was—and I’ve never been good at them, so I turned back. My hands trembled. I wanted to pinch myself to ensure I was awake. But I knew, deep in my bones, this was no dream.
He wore a pale green and brown Henley and cargo shorts. He reached up and pulled aside the opening of the shirt at his throat. A slender silver chain rested against his smooth skin and on it, a purple amethyst pendant. It caught the sunlight and flashed.
For a moment, the world shimmered and then went dark for just a second, not long enough for me to actually faint, but enough to make me slump against the heavy glass of the vestibule door. I drew in several deep breaths and tried to calm my quaking hands enough to turn the key in the lock and to open the door. I turned back to him.
“You should come in.” And I moved toward the darkness of the cooler vestibule, heading toward the stairs, knowing he’d follow.
He always did.
Chapter 2
1986—Sammy
I
“Why on earth do you want to bringhim, for God’s sakes? That boy’s nothing but poor white trash.” My mom, Trudy Blake, eyed me over the breakfast table on a sun-drenched morning at the start of July. I had a bowl of Apple Jacks in front of me and she had her usual—black coffee and buttered toast. “I thought we talked about how the people you associate with reflect on you, on your choices. You can be better through them.” She bit off a piece of toast and chewed. “You’re only as good as the company you keep.”
I rolled my eyes. “Betterthroughthem, Mom? Seriously? Through what? Osmosis? Jeb is a good guy. Decent. And if he’s poor white trash, then so are we,” I said. “I can’t believe you, my mom, are saying I should choose friends based on some kind of social status. Jeez.” I didn’t dare mention that her two best friends, a woman who called herself Mikey and another called Punkin, both had had brushes with the law. Both women were cool, kind, funny, friendly, but neither was known around St. Clair for their sterling reputations.
“He lives in a trailer.” Trudy slid the plastic milk jug across the table.
I doused my cereal with more milk and took a bite. I chewed, swallowed and said, “So what?” I took a glance around our kitchen, with its cracked linoleum floor, faded faux wood paneling, its Harvest gold appliances, and the faucet that never stopped dripping. “This is hardly a palace.”
Trudy finished up her toast and shoved her plate away. She took up her coffee, blew on it, and took a sip. “Where did you get that smart mouth?” She was smiling.
“Maybe from dear old dad?”
The smile drooped at the corners, transitioning into an angry frown. “Careful,” she warned. “I won’t have my smart ass kid throwing my past up at me.”
The sad truth was that neither of us knew who my dad was. Trudy had gone through a wild, rebellious phase during her teens, mainly as a reaction to her Evangelical Christian parents. Smoking, drinking, a little experimenting with drugs, and many, many men. She’d wound up kicked out when she became pregnant at sixteen, with no idea who to turn to for any kind of support. But, even as a high school dropout with a baby, she’d managed to keep a roof over our heads, feed her baby boy, and stay afloat (barely) financially. My father was a mystery that would most likely never be solved—unless there was some miracle revolving around 23andMe and a fantastic coincidence.
