CHAR
What am I even doing?The question plays on repeat each morning when I wake up to the sound of nothing but my own heartbeat. It’s been days since I left, and somehow the silence feels louder than it ever did before. The days are so long and lonely. Getting away was supposed to quiet the chokehold of fear that had me in its clutches in Sycamore Mountain. But I’m even more confused than ever.
How did everything fall apart so fast? One minute, I was wrapped in the arms of a strong, gorgeous man, feeling safe and sated. The next, I was running.
I’m always running.
Sure, he’d betrayed me by digging into things he shouldn’t, but it’s getting harder and harder to fault him. Every encounter has been respectful. No touch without consent. And the minute I wanted space, he gave me just that.
Why had the past reared its ugly head? Was it the wedding that tipped someone off? I keep going over it in my head like there’s some secret clue buried in the details. I only used cash. No social media. No paper trail. I didn’t go anywhere crowded. Unless Buc-ee’s counts as high profile now. I almost laugh at that.
I think about what Margaret said. Her voice has been looping in my head for days, gentle but relentless.“You can’t live your life running from people who care about you, Char. That road you’re on, it’s long and it’s very lonely.”
Still, I shared everything with Ellie. Then Betty. They know. And instead of running for cover and worrying about their own safety, they were only concernedfor me.
This does something to me. Maybe it’s guilt. Or perhaps it’s gratitude. Regardless, that little town of Sycamore Mountain is starting to feel like home. And I’m missing them more each day. And no matter how much I tell myself I’m better off keeping my distance, every time I close my eyes…
I see him.
Dave
I gripthe steering wheel a little tighter, headlights slicing through the dark stretch of highway that cuts through the Carolinas. The road hums beneath my tires, the kind of sound that fills the silence just enough to keep me from screaming into it.Fuck.There are so many things I’d do differently.
“Lonely Road” by mgk & Jelly Roll fills the cab of my truck. The words are smacking me in the face, the lyrics hitting way too close to home.
It’s been a ghost town without her. The house that once felt like my sanctuary. The place I built to escape everything and everyone now feels like a big, empty tomb. Every creak, every echo in those vaulted ceilings reminds me she’s not there. The smell of her sweet scent still lingers faintly on the pillow, taunting me. But the thought of it being washed away is almost worse.
Will this home ever be the same?Probably not. Not anytime soon anyway.
It’s funny. I’d learned quickly not to bring anyone here who’d question my wealth, my mother’s situation, my relationship with my father… then I go and do the very thing I was trying to protect myself from. I invade her privacy.
What the fuck was I thinking?
Maybe she’s right? Can I blame it on a hero complex? I knewsomething was off and immediately flew into protective mode. But it’s more than that, and I know it.
I glance at the empty passenger seat. For half a second, I swear I see her. That beautiful carefree way about her the night I brought her home. Dressed in that oversized cable knit fisherman’s sweater, all bundled up against the chill of the mountain air. Then the illusion fades, and it’s just me again.
As Jelly Roll sings about using alcohol to fill that void, I let out a cynical chuckle knowing I tried to do the same to no avail. And god, I tried. A few too many bourbons by the fire. A few too many nights staring at my cell phone, willing it to light up. Or to just risk it and call her. I have to admit, knowing her number is stored in my contacts is a little more temptation than I can probably handle. But I’m trying to walk away like a man.
A pathetic, love-struck man.
Even my tricked-out log cabin bachelor pad isn’t the same now. And every time I enter my damn game room, I think of her. Well, and Christian Grey.
Yeah, I watched it.
The song continues, pulling me back out of my trance momentarily as they sing of how they probably could’ve saved their relationships, but instead, let them crash. Because they don’t trust anyone to love them back. A stone feels like it’s burrowing into the pit of my stomach.
That line runs through my head on repeat. It could’ve been written about my own life. I chuckle darkly under my breath and shift in the driver’s seat, rolling my shoulders against the tension that’s been riding me for weeks. Maybe the sins of my father are still causing me to do things that will push people away. Hell, it wouldn’t be the first time. I’ve become a pro. But this one simply hurts more.
Yeah, I’m on this road now. Driving north. Feeling so damnalone.
By the timeI pull into my mother’s driveway in New Jersey, it’s well past midnight. The porch light is still on. It always is. Even when she forgets half the groceries she goes for, even when she barely eats. Some things she just never forgets.
Thankfully, she sleeps like a rock on the anti-depressives she’s on, and she knows I’m on the way. She doesn’t have anxiety as much as no emotion at all. I’m honestly not sure which is worse.
The next morning, I’m in her kitchen, carrying in grocery bags. It’s muscle memory. The same routine we’ve had for years. I unpack the items, and she puts them away without a word. As if on autopilot.
I’m cracking eggs into a bowl when suddenly she reaches out, her hand warm on my arm. “What’s wrong?” Even drowning in her own depression, my mother can still read me like a book.
