I close my files—and my eyes—quickly, not having realized how much time had passed while I was leafing through past fictions like photographs that I only remember because of the image captured at a specific moment in time.
Voice raspy, I say, “Just let me grab my coat.”
The drive to my childhood home is anything but quiet with Fletch cranking the local holiday music radio station and singing along—yes, a grown man of hockey stature—to “Joy to the World” at the top of his voice during the chorus.
I direct him along familiar streets that look smaller than I remember, even though I’ve been back here countless times since moving away—first to college in Iowa, then to New York City because that’s where I thought writers go. Or where the paved streets try to eat them up. After that, I’ve kind of become a nomad, primarily staying in rentals in the West for inspiration and research.
When we pull up to the old Victorian with its peeling paint and overgrown yard, I feel a twinge of embarrassment.
“It needs work,” I say apologetically.
Fletch just nods. “Has character, though. Good bones, as they say in the trades.”
“Are you familiar with renovations?”
“My dad regularly watches the HLTV network.”
I almost chuckle.
I use my key to unlock the front door, pushing against it when it sticks. Inside, dust motes dance in the weak sunlight streaming through grimy windows. It should be poetic, but it’s just plain sad. In fact, even when this house was in its prime, it was relatively drab.
The furniture is mostly gone—sold when Mom moved to Golden Years Village—but the house still holds echoes of my childhood. The stepstool I used when I wasn’t yet tall enough to wash my dishes. The scuff on the hallway wall from the time I tried to bring my bike inside because it was raining—the garage was locked and I was home alone. Seemed like a reasonable solution. My parents were not pleased. However, so many of my memories are from outside these walls. I practically lived in the town library, escaping into adventures on the page.
“What are we looking for?” Fletch asks, standing in the entryway as if waiting for a formal invitation to come inside.
“I have some books in my old room. And some stuff from the desk.”
I lead him upstairs, uncomfortably aware of his presence behind me, so close, the kindling inside flames.
My bedroom is small and bare, the walls still the same gray they’ve been since I was born. I gather what I need quickly, eager to leave this time capsule of adolescent loneliness.
“What’s down there?” Fletch points to a door at the end of the hall.
“Attic access. Nothing interesting.”
“And the basement?”
I hesitate. “Just storage. Dad’s old workshop.”
“You did mention the Christmas decorations.”
“Actually,youmentioned those, but sure.” I shrug, trying to appear nonchalant but hoping he’d forgotten about that.
We descend the creaky stairs to the basement, where my father spent most of his free time. His workbench still stands against the far wall, tools organized on a pegboard.
Fletch runs his fingers over the scarred wood surface with interest. “Your dad was a carpenter?”
“An engineer, but woodworking was his hobby.” Paying attention to me, not so much.
“You can tell he took pride in his work.”
“He did everything methodically—that was his life philosophy.”
Fletch runs his hand along the edge of the bench and unbidden curiosity about his hobbies flashes through my mind. Why would I care what Fletch does in his spare time?
“When I wrote my first story in third grade, bound with tape and the back of a cereal box that I colored in for the cover, he didn’t read it, but he did build me a bookshelf.”
I’m not sure why I’m sharing this, but Fletch listens intently. “Your first bestseller?”
