Walking into the house alone isn’t out of the norm. Jake stayed at school most weeknights when he was taking classes, and now that he is—was—in his residency, the drive to the teaching hospital was just too far to take on a daily basis. But this time, when I stick my key into the deadbolt, the weight of the world crashes down on me.
Jake will never walk through these doors again. I’ll never wake up in the middle of the night to a call from him, telling me he loves me or filling me in on the nightshift drama at the hospital. Some nights I’d be too dead asleep to hear the phone ring, the curse of a sound sleeper, I suppose, and would wake up to a wonderful message. I’d call him on my way into The Book Bag and leave him a message to listen to as well when he got done with his rotation in the ER.
I’ll never see his name on my phone again.
I’ll never hear his voice again.
Feel his arms around me.
Get annoyed with him for putting plastic in the garbage instead of the recycling.
I step into the house and a wave of grief washes over me, pulling me under the surface. I’m caught in the undertow and there’s no way out. And right now, I don’t want a way out. I’m drowning, but once the water fills my lungs, everything will end.
I make it to the couch and fall, curling up into a little ball. I bring my knees to my chest, pressing against my heart. It hurts so much I can feel it in my bones. I cry and cry and cry until there are no more tears left to fall.
And then I cry some more.
“Sierra?”
“Mom,” I choke out, looking up. The house is too dark, and my eyes are too swollen to see, but I know her voice. She comes to the couch and sits next to me. Doesn’t turn on a light. Doesn’t tell me things will be okay. She just holds me and lets me cry. She cries too, both over the loss and over my heartache. She stays with me until I fall asleep, and is there when the early light of the morning filters through the windows. My dreams of Jake kissing me escape me, leaving me naked and cold in harsh reality.
My heart, mended in my sleep by dreams that will never come true, rips in two again. The break is so deep it vibrates through my entire being, bringing pain to my whole body. My head throbs. My throat is sore and thick from crying. My eyes burn. My stomach is sick. Yet nothing is as bad as the heartache. The pain intensifies, and I feel like I’m dead too, yet they forgot to bury me.
Yesterday, my world ended. I lost Jake yesterday. Yesterday. And waking up, remembering it all, it’s like I lost him all over again.
It’s going to be like this every day for the rest of my life.
* * *
My sister grips my hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze as she opens the door to my little brick house. I’ve been staying with my parents the last week, just trying to survive. I feel like I’ve failed, yet here I am, still breathing. Heart still beating. My body is betraying me. I want it to give out and let the quiet peace of death surround me, taking me into the dark where I can be with Jake again.
But I’m still here.
“The cats are fine,” Samantha tells me, opening the door. “I came by every day to feed them and I scooped their box a few times too. You had a load of laundry in your washer that got a bit stinky from sitting there, so I rewashed it and put it in the dryer. And I loaded your dishwasher.”
I nod and for the first time am thankful for my older sister’s no-nonsense personality. Today is Jake’s funeral, and she’s come to the house with me to pick out clothes. Sam closes the door behind me, and my cats come running. I drop down and run my hand over a pretty calico cat who’s purring and pressing her head against me. Tinkerbell, a gray and black tabby, meows and twists around my arm.
“Hey, girls,” I whisper, voice shaking. Everything is the same. The house looks like it did that night. Smells the same. But it’s so very different. This house is no longer a home.
“Do you want me to pick something out for you?” Sam offers.
“I don’t care.”
“Okay. I’ll bring options.”
Dolly, the calico cat, nips at me as she demands more attention. I had her before I met Jake. He wasn’t much of an animal person, but he tolerated the cats for my sake. And it was him who brought home Tinkerbell, and the memory of him coming in the door with a little wet ball of fur makes me choke up. He found her shivering in a puddle along the driveway to our house, no doubt separated from its mother and littermates from the large barn behind my parents’ mansion.
“Do you want me to do your makeup?” Sam asks, voice coming from the bedroom.
“I don’t care,” I repeat. It’s been one of the few things I’m able to say. Because I don’t care. Clothes…makeup…what to eat for dinner…I don’t care. It’s all so trivial.
Both cats are meowing now, and I know they want treats. Using the coffee table to pull myself up, I shuffle into the kitchen to get them. I toss them on the floor, watching the cats playfully chase after them. Going on autopilot, I wash out their water bowl, refill their dry food, and open a can of cat food to split between the two. Then I go into my bedroom, eyes going to the bed that Jake and I shared.
He’ll never be in it again.
I’ll never wake up to his arms around me.
He’ll never complain about me sticking my cold feet under his legs to warm them up.
The bed is made, and I want to get mad at Sam for messing it up. She should have left it how it was, though it’s not like Jake woke up that morning. He hadn’t been home in over a week, going on a long stretch at the teaching hospital we joked he was temporarily married to.
I don’t remember what he was wearing the last time I saw him. I had the day off and was still in bed, half asleep, when he left. He kissed me goodbye and said he’d call later, which he always did. Two days went by just like normal, and then…tears are back in my eyes, and it’s a wonder I’m not dehydrated from crying so much.
The clothes I wore that day are still on the floor, hastily strewn about. The yellow skirt, blue tank top, and a red headband, stand out against the dark hardwood floor, reminding me how fast things can change. I got dressed that morning in an outfit that vaguely resembled Snow White, and went to work like my life would continue to coast along like normal.
“What about this?” Sam holds up a black dress. “Oh, never mind, those are skulls. I thought it was just a design.” She frowns and puts it back, then thumbs through my clothes again. I make a move to the closet, about to tell her that I own exactly one appropriate dress, and the last time I wore it was for a job interview two years ago. I have what most call an ‘interesting’ fashion sense, but the way I see it, everyone else is way too boring. Clothes can be a way to express yourself, just as much as tattoos and makeup.
Then I see Jake’s side of the closet, with his clothes organized by color and type. It hits me hard, and it takes every last ounce of strength I have in me not to come undone. My sister looks at me, tears in her own eyes, and grabs the skull dress and a black sweater, and rushes over, wrapping her arms around me.
We cry together, and in that moment, I’ve never felt closer to my sister. She’s five years older than me and my polar opposite. She got her degree in agriculture, married a nice guy with a head for business and a background in farming, and popped out her first kid exactly ten months after their wedding. They’re set to take over the family farm, carrying on the Belmont traditions and doing exactly what they should.
I’m not good at following the path. I’ve been an outside-the-lines kind of person my whole life, which isn’t always easy in a small town, one whose rumor mill is bigger than the actual mill.
There were times when I was the only one marching to the beat of my own drum, and the loneliness got to me in moments of weakness. And then I found someone who loved me despite that, someone who supported my decision to follow my own dreams and not just go through the motions and become a farmer’s wife.
“I’ll help you get dressed.” Sam goes into the bathroom and returns with a brush. She combs through m
y long brunette hair before braiding it and then lays out my clothes. The black sweater is a slightly different shade of black than the dress, which would normally drive me crazy, but seeing them together makes me feel nothing at all.
I run my fingers over Jake’s pillow and then get dressed. Everything begins to feel surreal and time escapes me. Sam fills a black clutch full of tissues and takes my hand. We step outside into the bright sunlight and walk down the old stone path from my little porch to the gravel driveway, where the rest of our family is waiting in my dad’s black Escalade.
My brother Scott, who I only see on special occasions since he got an engineering job in Orlando a few years ago, welcomes me in a tight hug. I sit in the back of the SUV with him, and once we get going, he pulls out a silver flask and offers it to me.
I blink my tear-soaked eyes and take it from him, taking a big gulp. And then another. And another, until he takes it away from me. My body shudders in a sob and he puts his arm around me. I rest my head on his shoulder, trying to disassociate from everything for the hour-and-a-half-long drive it’s going to take to get to the cemetery.
I’ve been told that the grief will come in waves, and over time, the crash on the shore lessens. I’ll still feel the spray of the ocean, but it won’t feel like a constant battle to stay on land and not be washed out to sea. The only problem is, the waves haven’t started yet. I’m still in the middle of the sea with no land in sight, desperately treading water. My heart feels like it’s about to give out, that it can’t beat another beat because of the pain. So I stop. I become still. I welcome the cold darkness that wraps me up and pulls me below the surface.
And then I open my eyes and I’m above the surface again and have to go through the whole thing over and over again.
Dying, every single day.
Chapter 2
Chase
Present day…
I bring the beer to my lips, take a swig, and look at my father. It’s been years since I’ve seen him, and even longer since I’ve been back to Summer Hill. My father’s wife—the one he cheated on and the affair resulted in me—isn’t too keen on the sight of me. I’m forever the Jon Snow of the family, since looking at me reminds her of her husband’s infidelity and all. I can’t blame her for that since I am the product of dear old Dad getting lonely on business trips.
My half-brother, Josh, claps his hand on my back. “It’s good to see you again, Chase. I just wish it was under different circumstances.”
I nod. “Yeah. It has been a while.”
“It’s been too long. Are you staying this time? For a few days at least, right?”
“Uh, maybe,” I start, trying to think of a polite way to say ‘hell fucking no,’ though really, I have no reason to rush out of here and get back to my life in New Jersey. Josh takes a step back and helps his pregnant wife to her feet. She winces, putting her hand on her back, and slowly comes over. They’re good people, who have gone out of their way to include me as family.
Josh and I share a slight resemblance, one we get from our father. Hazel eyes, wavy brown hair. Tall and muscular. But that’s where the similarities end. I look back at our father, noting how we got those characteristics from him, and realize how fucking old Dad looks.
It probably has something to do with the fact that he’s dead.
After years of drinking, his liver finally shut down and he spent his final days on home hospice care. The wake just ended, and just the family is here to say our final goodbyes before his body is cremated.
Moving to the casket, I take another sip of beer and hold up the bottle, silently toasting my father. A weird sense of guilt creeps over me. I don’t feel sad. I don’t have a longing in my heart for the man who sired me and left me without a second look back. I got cards and money over the years every Christmas and birthday, and a few visits mixed in there, but he was really just a stranger.
* * *
“I meant it when I said you should stay a while,” Josh tells me, wiping down the counter. I lean back on the barstool and pick up my whiskey, ice clinking on the glass. “Melissa and I could really use the help. It’s tough enough working with one kid at home. Adding twins into the mix is going to make things…interesting.”
I finish the whiskey and nod. “I don’t know. I don’t want to impose.”
“You won’t be. I actually do have to hire someone soon, before the babies are born. You’d save me from interviewing people.”
I run my finger around the rim of the glass and shake my head. “How do you know I’d be any good at the job?”
Josh laughs. “Can you pour drinks? Take orders to the kitchen? I know you bartended before at swankier places than this. Most of our drink orders are beer and straight whiskey. It’s not that complicated.”
The kindness Josh always gives is welcome but unsettling. I’m not used to it, and I’m sure as shit not used to family doing favors for each other. Hell, my own mother started charging me rent the day I turned sixteen and could legally get a job.
I look around the bar. It’s seven o’clock on a Wednesday night, and it’s starting to fill with regulars. Located on the outskirts of Summer Hill, The Mill House is home to both locals and those coming from the neighboring towns and gets a fair deal of customers coming off the highway.
It’s definitely not as busy as the bars I worked along the boardwalk back home, but it’s busy enough to maintain a steady cash flow and give me something to do.
“There’s an apartment above the bar,” Josh starts. “It’s been empty since Melissa and I got married. She didn’t want to live above the bar.” He chuckles. “It’s yours if you take the job.”
“I can’t—”
“Yeah, you can.” Josh tosses the dishcloth into the sink and comes over, still on the opposite side of the bar, and grabs the bottle of whiskey. He pours more in my glass and then some for himself. “I don’t think I ever told you this,” he starts and downs his shot of whiskey. “When I was a kid, I begged Mom and Dad for a baby brother. And then when I found out I actually had one, I was elated. But it didn’t turn out the way I hoped, and I’ve always regretted that.”
I divert my eyes to the bar top, studying the many nicks and scratches in the wood. Total honesty and baring my emotions isn’t something I’m used to either.
“Dad was an asshole, I know,” Josh goes on. “But now that he’s gone, I feel we need to take what remains of this family and hold it together. Stay. Dakota is excited her uncle is finally here. She wants to get to know you.”
“Right. I suppose I could stay for a while.”
“Consider this a fresh start. I know you could use one.”
I meet Josh’s eyes again, wondering how the hell he knows that. And then I remember the last time I was arrested, someone paid my bail but I never knew who.
“That was you?”
Josh gives a half-smile and turns, washing out his glass. “I can’t let my little brother rot in jail, now, can I?”
“I’ll pay you back. I have the cash.”
He shakes his head. “No way. You can, however, work it off.”
I finish off the rest of the whiskey, smiling as I shake my head. “When do I start?”
* * *
I’ve always led a transient style of life, moving from place to place, never fully settling down. I’d go where the work took me, which usually required traveling anyway. It’s not that I never wanted to settle down, I did, but I never found a place that felt like home.
Some nights, after a long day full of chasing, running, and usually a side of breaking and entering, I’d lay alone in whatever motel bed I was staying in for the time being and think of life. Of the big picture. I’d wonder what it would be like to have visions of the future on the horizon, to get by on hopes and dreams, and not on a day-to-day basis.
I could easily convince myself that wasn’t true, that I went after the high-dollar jobs for the payout in the end, along with the thrill and the danger of course, but if I thought about it, th
ere was nothing I was saving for. Hell, I blew through a decent amount of the cash I got paid. I lived for the moment, not wanting to accept the fact that there was a growing pit inside of me, one filled with darkness, resonating with the pain of never fitting in or feeling like I belong.
Sweat rolls down my brow, and I wipe it away with the back of my hand. I take the last box down to the parking lot and head back up to the apartment above the bar. It’s been four years since anyone has lived in here, and while that doesn’t sound long, in theory, the place has its fair share of issues.
Starting with the non-working air conditioner. The morning after I agreed to stay, I flew to the place I was staying in New Jersey and drove back here, Mustang loaded with everything I own, minus the furniture. Not having a home of my own has resulted in a minimalist lifestyle, and I’ve always had the attitude that things are just things and can be replaced. But my car is my most prized possession. It was the first thing I bought when I got my first-ever large payout, and I’ve put in a lot of the under-the-hood work myself. The thing is badass if I do say so myself.
Not having a garage is killing me, and I just arrived back at The Mill House. There is an old barn behind the bar, but it’s full of junk. I plan to clear it out so my car can have shelter, but I’ll get to that later. I’ve been clearing crap out of the apartment all morning, moving my own few things, and have a big order from Amazon coming tomorrow.
I go back up the rickety stairs and into the apartment, and stop in the entrance. The building used to be a mill house back in the day, hence the name of the bar. It’s been a few things over the years before it became the bar my brother bought, but the history has remained despite the many renovations.
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