In the Echo of this Ghost Town

by CL Walters

  She looks at the front door as if it’s the promised land, sighs again, then turns to face me. “I don’t think so, Griff.”

  Her words provide both insecurity because I can’t figure out what’s wrong with me that she wouldn’t, but also relief. I don’t want it any more than she does. I won’t show her either of these feelings, however, and just give her a nod punctuated by no words. What’s there to say?

  The coffee pot beeps.

  I turn around and retrieve a coffee cup. While I’m pouring the liquid into my mug, I hear the front door open, the screen door squeak, then thud closed.

  Alone again. Always alone.

  Only this time, it’s a relief.

  1

  Being on the roof of the farmhouse, the comfortable early October breeze swirling refreshing air around Cal and I, isn’t bad, even if the work is hard. Over the last week we’ve stripped all the old shingles off, patched the damaged portions, covered, and sealed it. We’re finally adding the new shingles. All the work we’ve done so far amazes me, considering a couple of months ago the house looked like it would topple over. Now it’s painted white. The new windows are framed with shutters painted a fresh black. There are two, new porches that look like band-aids still needing paint. While I’m working in between school, commuting and weekends, we’ve accomplished a lot. Anytime I work with Cal, even if we don’t talk, what’s in me—the doubt, the fear, and the anger—settles. It feels good to do something with my body and my hands that creates rather than leaves me in purgatory.

  It’s been a few weeks since my birthday.

  I haven’t tried to call Bella.

  She hasn’t called me either.

  What happened with her on my birthday has me second guessing myself, though the why doesn’t make sense given my history with Bro Code. My doubts about being with Bella, even if the encounter fits with the code, contrasted with my fear about that kiss with Max, which had nothing to do with Bro Code, are wreaking havoc with what I’ve always thought about relating to someone else. All of it makes me feel insecure about the way I interpret my own thoughts.

  I slam the hammer against another nail to fasten the shingle. Grab another from the box, line it up and nail the next one. Cal’s nail gun thumps. He moves quicker than I do because of it, but I like the satisfaction of hitting the nail, my muscles feeling the motion and the strain. I’m tired, but it’s better than feeling the awful discomfort of insecurity.

  My phone buzzes in my pocket.

  I set the hammer down after finishing the shingle and sit, taking a moment to check it.

  Max: I need you.

  My heart stalls, and the refreshing breeze suddenly feels cold against my skin. I call her, unconcerned that I’m on the roof of the house with her dad. “Hey. You okay?”

  She’s crying. Hard. I glance at Cal over my shoulder as if he knows, afraid he does. Something keeps me from alerting him. Max has called me, not him. I slide around so my back is to him. “What is it?”

  “I. Need. You.” She sobs each word as if each is its own sentence.

  Fear climbs up into my shoulders, which rise to meet my ears, freezing there with the breeze. “What’s going on?”

  She continues to cry and attempts to talk, but it’s incoherent.

  Now I’m terrified. “Are you safe? Shit.” The hand not holding the phone to my ear grabs a fistful of hair.

  Somehow, I’m able to make out a yes.

  “I can be there in a few hours.” Speeding, but I don’t add that. “Do you need me to come there?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m on my way.” I press end on the phone, and I notice that the thump of Cal’s nail gun has stopped.

  “Everything okay?” Cal asks from the opposite end of the roof.

  I glance at him over my shoulder and wag the phone at him. The truth sits on my tongue, then I think about how he’d worry about her. Max didn’t call him; she called me, and I don’t know if it’s something she wants him to know. I swallow as terror squeezes my throat and lie. “My mom. She forgot–” I stop because I can’t think of a lie between Cal’s concerned stare and the echo of Max’s broken sobs still in my ears. “She needs me.”

  “Go.” He nods at the ladder with his head. “It’s your mom.”

  “Thanks.” I shove the guilt down into deep places, but justify it because I know he’d be running if he knew it were Max.

  When I’m in the car, I call her again. It goes to voicemail. “Fuck. Max. Do I need to call 9-1-1? I’m leaving now. Call me back.” I plug the spider phone into the jack.

  A text comes through: Safe

  I drive. Town disappears behind me, and the stretch of country road, farms, livestock, lay out for me as I head toward Max’s college. My heart’s racing on the road next to me, apprehensive about what I’m driving toward, my imagination making up the worst-case scenarios. When I finally reach the edge of the town a little over two hours later, I check the address she texted me, and map it on my phone.

  I call her. When she answers, though her voice doesn’t sound like her, I say, “I’m almost there.”

  She tells me where to park and says she’ll meet me.

  I follow her directions, and by the time I park the car, Max is walking from the building, no jacket, her arms crossed tightly over a blue tie-dye shirt, as if she’s holding herself together. The breeze whips her hair, and she’s looking down at her feet. When she looks up at me, her eyes are red from crying.

  My gut tightens with concern. This isn’t the Max I’ve come to know. She smiles. She laughs. She cajoles and teases. Even if the last time I saw her with my own eyes—because Facetime is different—she was pissed at me. Her jaw set with hurt because I hadn’t kissed her back, and I’m suddenly wondering why I didn’t. I have the fleeting thought that I wished I’d been with Max on my birthday instead of Bella, but that’s a stupid thought. I don’t want to talk to Bella anymore, and I always want to talk to Max.

  And now, Max looks undone.

  I step around the door to meet her and when she reaches me, she collapses against my chest. I wrap my arms around her and press my nose into her hair. “What is it? What happened?” She smells good.

  “I didn’t know who else to call,” she mumbles into my sweatshirt, her voice muffled.

  I hug her tighter, so she knows I won’t let her go. “I’ll always be there for you, Max.” It feels good to have her there, to see she’s physically okay, but it doesn’t ease my worry.

  “Thanks for coming.”

  “What happened? I’m kind of freaking out.”

  She steps back. “Let’s go inside. It’s cold.”

  I take my sweatshirt off and hand it to her. “Here. Put this on.”

  She gives me a partial smile that doesn’t reach her eyes and slips the black hoodie over her head. “You came straight from work?” She glances at my dirty clothes.

  I follow her from the parking lot toward the dormitory. “Yes. We were working on the roof.” I smooth the front of my t-shirt as if it will help. It doesn’t. I probably stink.

  “Does he know you’re here?” The fear strains the edges of her eyes, confirming my suspicion that she didn’t want her dad to know.

  “I told him I was helping my mom.”

  She glances at me over her shoulder, the tension in her body relaxing a bit more. “Thank you.”

  I follow her through a maze of hallways and stairwells to her dorm room. Inside, the space looks like Max, well, half of it anyway. Efficient and clean but something feminine about it. She’s got those fairy lights strung around her bed which is made with the pinkish bedding we picked out before she left. Her desk is clean but for the stack of textbooks on its surface. She’s hung the rock posters, some of which I got her.

  “What happened?” I repeat, the fear coiled up around me like a tight rope.

  She walks past me and climbs onto her bed, then pats the top with her hand, inviting me to join her. She waits until I’m settled, my back against the wall.
She’s facing me at the head of the bed, her pillow pulled into her lap. “My mom.”

  I’m confused. “What about her?”

  “I don’t know where to even start.”

  “Try at the beginning.”

  She gives me a look with a tiny smile. “I walked out of class and there she was. I mean, I know I haven’t seen her since I was five, but it was like no time had passed. She called my name and then said stuff about my dad. I didn’t know what to do. What to think.”

  I sit forward. “Wait. What? She’s here?”

  Max nods. “In town.”

  “Why? What does she want?”

  “She said she’s been trying to find me. She said my dad kept me from her.”

  “Whoa. Like kidnapped?”

  She looks like she might cry, which makes me nervous, then nods. “Not those exact words.” She covers her face with her hands.

  “But–” I reach and grasp her hands, pulling them away from her face, forcing her to look at me. Her tear-filled eyes break my heart. “Tell me.”

  “I know she had a problem, but that doesn’t mean she’s lying. What if what she said is true?” She stops, her chin quivering. “I just got so upset and confused.”

  “Not that it matters now, but your dad had custody of you, right?”

  She nods. “But what if she’s right? What if that’s why we were always moving because he didn’t want her to find us?”

  I grimace. I can imagine it, thinking about my mom saying she’d do anything for me and Phoenix. “Maybe it wasn’t about keeping you from her, but instead protecting you? I’m sure your dad has a good explanation if you let him explain.”

  She scoots down, lays back, stretching out her legs so they are draped over mine, and stares up at the ceiling. “I don’t know how to ask him. I’m afraid to hurt him or make him think I’m accusing him of something. I just know he’ll be on his way here when he finds out.”

  “But you’ve got your rules,” I remind her.

  She raises her head to look at me.

  “Why don’t you just start with what you just told me?”

  Her head falls back to the bed. “What if I don’t like what he has to say?”

  “But you love him. Trust. Talk. Share. Accept. Forgive, remember?”

  “You were listening,” she says. I can hear the smile in her voice.

  My face heats, but it’s incognito since she’s staring up at the ceiling.

  “My mom invited me to meet with her to talk.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I ran away.”

  I look down at her legs. She’s warm, and I resist resting my hands on her knees, keeping them parked on the bed next to my hips. “I essentially told my dad to ‘go to hell’ when he showed up.”

  “How come?”

  I glance at her. She hasn’t moved, the fabric of my black sweatshirt stretching over her torso, her honey hair draped over her shoulders. I look away. There’s an awareness of her low in my gut that I wasn’t expecting. “I just got so angry.” I pluck a stray thread from the black fabric of her tight pants wrapped around her thigh. “He didn’t write to me. Not once. And then there he was asking me to go to breakfast. Do you think I should have listened to what my dad had to say when he showed up?” Then, because I can’t keep my hands to myself, I rest my arms over her legs, toying with the thread in my fingers.

  “I don’t know. Maybe he wants the chance to apologize?”

  “What if there’s more to the story with your mom?”

  She sighs and sits up. Her legs move across mine as she maneuvers herself upright. “You’re right.”

  I grin at her. “What was that?”

  She smiles. “Don’t get used to it.”

  “Oh. I will.”

  She scoots until she’s leaning against the wall next to me, our shoulders touching, then leans her head against me. “Thanks for being here, Griffin.”

  I suppress the connection I’m feeling to her and focus on the thread still in my hands. “Not SK or some other name?”

  Her head moves against my shoulder. “No. Not today. Just Griffin, the hero.” She takes my hand in hers and threads our fingers.

  My chest tightens as I reject her words. My heart skips around looking for a place to land. I study our hands threaded together, unable to look at her, and say, “I’ll always be here for you, Max.”

  As I say it, I think about Bella who I’ve avoided. I don’t feel I would do the same for her, and yet I slept with her. This awareness bothers me, and I’m pretty sure that if Max knew, she wouldn’t be calling me a hero. I know I’m not. Yet, everything inside of me wishes that it were true so that I could prove Max’s opinion right.

  She goes quiet, her thumb moving over my skin.

  I try to ignore the warm message the movement sends the rest of my body and attempt to focus on something else besides the feel of her skin moving over mine.

  Eventually she breaks the silence, “I feel bad you drove all this way. It seems sort of small, now.”

  “I’m not.” And even though it could be a lie, it isn’t. “And I don’t think it’s small.”

  She sits up and scoots off the bed. “I’m supposed to go to a study session—which I wouldn’t have made anyway—but since you’re here, maybe we could go eat?” She looks through her backpack, then wags her phone at me when she finds it.

  “What about your mom?”

  She texts someone. “Not today. Tomorrow”

  “But–”

  She shakes her head. “No. You’re here. She can wait. She’s waited thirteen years. I can’t deal with calling her until I have some food. I’ll be too hangry.”

  This makes me smile.

  “See. Let’s go eat.”

  “Then you’ll call her?”

  She nods and holds out her hands to help me from the bed.

  I stand and reach out and brush a lock of her hair from her cheek, tucking the strand behind her ear. My tingling fingers snap me back into my guarded body. I pull my hand away, swipe it over my pants, and swallow the reaction sparking through me.

  She reaches up and does something to wrap her hair into a knot, then secures it with a band from her wrist.

  I clear my throat and look away, too aware of the way she moves, and nod. “Okay. Let me take you somewhere to eat.”

  2

  Max chooses a pizza place on Main Street with dark wood, red lamp accents offering low-key ambiance. The walls are covered with photos of strangers, framed newspaper prints, and other paraphernalia, meaningful to whoever owns it. There are TVs set up in corners around which people are seated, talking loudly about the sporting event being televised. I follow Max to the counter where we discuss pizza choices and compromise on something with everything. I pay. Max is annoyed about it, saying it was supposed to be her treat. I figure I haven’t been a gentleman about much in my life, but I could start with this.

  “I feel like I owe you,” she says, slipping into a high-backed booth in a corner away from the TVs.

  “That’s dumb,” I tell her and set down the pitcher of soda on the table before taking the seat across from her.

  “Wow. Thanks, Griffin. You just called me dumb.” Her face screws up.

  “No. Not you. That you’d feel like you owe me. There’s a difference.”

  She tilts her head and her eyes narrow. “Why is that dumb?”

  “Because what are friends for?” As the words fall from my mouth, it makes me think of Tanner, Josh, and Danny, and the glaring awareness of how I haven’t been that friend for them. I’d expected them to be there for me. I’d thought our friendship was about being together, about what we did together and how we supported one another to get laid, but not just for the sake of being a friend. I hadn’t ever driven nearly three hours for them. Sure, circumstances were different because I had a car now and a job, but if I’m honest with myself, I’ve done a lot of taking. My cheeks heat with embarrassment, remembering a day a few months ago when Tanner had ask
ed to spend time with Matthews, and I’d crashed it. A dick move. That had been dumb.

  I grab the pitcher to pour the drinks into our empty cups. I need to do something busy to keep my mind off the truth of how little I really know about friendship. When I set it down, I look at Max and realize that what I’ve told her is true. For her, I would do whatever it took to be there for her. Driving for several hours is nothing. Buying dinner feels like something small to see her smile again. Taking care of the relationship with her—because having her in my life is more important than not having her there—makes me wish I’d been a better friend to Tanner, Josh, and Danny. Maybe I can’t fix what happened with them, but I can do the right thing to keep Max as my friend.

  “So, tell me about your dad.” She draws one of the full glasses toward her and wraps her hands around it.

  “We’re not here because of my dad,” I say, then take a sip of the sweet soda.

  “Right. But let’s talk about it anyway.”

  “Can we not?”

  She shakes her head. “Friends Rule number 2. I want to hear about it.”

  “For you? Or because you’re trying to make me work through something?”

  She smiles, and takes a sip of her soda, then giggles after she’s swallowed it. “For me. Yes. It’s all about me.”

  I know she’s lying, but relent by saying, “It’s different than with your mom.”

  “How do you figure?”

  “Because your mom left. My dad, though–” I stop. Thinking about him hurts, which then ignites the fire of anger. “He’s a selfish prick.”

  “Why? Because he went to prison?”

  I look up at her. I see her, pretty Max who’s watching me with those aware eyes, but I don’t really see her. Instead, I just see someone asking me to dive into the feelings I’ve shut away. “Yea. And he was fucking around on my mom.”

  Her eyebrows rise up over her eyes with surprise.

  “He has another family. Married to my mom, but had another woman tucked away and shares a kid with her—a girl. She’s a couple years younger than me.”