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Like most little children, I believed in all sorts of things that didn’t make any logical sense—like Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, and the tooth fairy. Believing I had once lived in Alex’s little house, had once owned that dog, had once known that man didn’t seem odd to me at all. I just could never understand why all those things were taken away from me and why every adult in my life kept telling me it was all a dream or some kind of fantasy I made up and had to forget about.
I’ve tried so hard. I really have. I stopped trying to get my parents and therapist to believe me. I even stopped sketching the memory pictures, as I used to call them.
But I’ve never forgotten.
And now, walking right past the barn is too much of a temptation for me. I can’t stop myself from pushing the door open a few inches and peeking inside. Alex is exactly where I expected him to be—standing in the middle of the barn with his back to the door, surrounded by speckles of floating dust. He’s staring at what looks to be the beginnings of a giant hedgehog.
“You creeping up on me again, little darlin’?” he asks without turning around.
My cheeks heat. I break out into a huge grin. “I’m not creeping, exactly…”
His shoulders shake with laughter.
“Can I come in and see the hedgehog?”
He turns and gives me a nostalgic smile that twelve-year-old me thought was sweet, but sixteen-year-old me thinks is charming.
“You don’t have to ask,” he says.
Stepping inside, I pull the door closed behind me. I gingerly walk around him to look at his current project.
“It’s so cute,” I say. “I love how you used knitting needles for the quills. I didn’t know they came that big.” The needles are at least twelve inches long.
“A sewing store went out of business. They sold me a huge box of them for twenty bucks.”
“Is this a commission piece?”
“No, but one of my collectors is interested in it. He’s thinking about putting it in the middle of his garden.”
“That would be really cool.”
He starts to put his tools away, not giving any clues that he might want me to leave, so I quietly wander over to the corner desk where I used to spend hours painting, drawing, and writing. I’ve always felt safe and peaceful in his studio and in his house. I always knew where he and Cherry would be at each point of the day or night. It might seem repetitive or boring to someone else, but to me, it was comforting. It felt like home.
I’m surprised to see the plastic cup I was drinking from when I was twelve is still in its place. The last painting I was working on is still on the easel. Everything is untouched. Under a veil of dust, memories of me and Alex’s beloved Brianna are enshrined together.
A strange feeling stirs in my chest.
Alex is holding on to every shred of the past. He’s trapped in these memories just as much as these dusty items are.
Closing my eyes, I lightly run my fingertips over the top of the desk. The old warm, tingling sensation immediately returns—traveling down my spine and through my limbs like tiny shock waves. When I was little, I called it the buzzing. I’d forgotten all about it until now.
I steal a glance at Alex. There are so many things I want to ask him. So many things I want to tell him.
Just as I’m about to open my mouth, he asks, “How have you been?”
Lost. Homesick. Heartbroken. Missing things that aren’t mine.
“Good,” I reply.
“You got really tall.”
Laughing, I move away from the art corner and lean against his workbench. “Or maybe you’re just shrinking.”
He flashes me a grin that makes my heart flutter. “Still a little smart-ass, I see.”
I watch him organize his tools for a few minutes while questions jump up in my brain like a jack-in-the-box.
“You never told me about Lily,” I finally say quietly. “I know I was just a little kid, but we used to talk so much. You never mentioned her. I was shocked to find out she lived here.”
He blows out a long breath and rubs the back of his neck. “It’s a long, messed-up story.”
“I have time,” I say. “Unless your girlfriend is coming over?” I arch my brow up at him.
“There wasn’t a girlfriend,” he says.
“I know. You suck at lying.”
He laughs and sits on his old wooden stool. “I suck at a lot of things.”
Leaving that comment alone, I say, “Lily seems really sad.”
“Sad?” he repeats. “Try pissed off. She friggin’ hates me.”
“She doesn’t know you.”
He pulls his eye patch off to shake the dust out of his long hair. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen him without it. The eyelid is pale, and I assume it must be stitched closed. A faint, jagged scar runs from his forehead, over his eyelid, to his cheekbone. I have a strange urge to run my fingertips, then my lips, over it.
