Miles plops down on the dry grass, crossing his arms and trying to think of what else to update Dad about.
“Mom’s probably going to ask if I have a boyfriend,” he says, cocking his head with a frown. “I haven’t had one in years, and I guess it bugs her, but I’m still too young to be worrying about settling down, anyway. Right, Dad? I mean, you and Mom got married pretty young, but I’m sure you agree with me.” Miles scratches his neck. “What else, um. I guess that’s pretty much it. Miss you, Dad.”
He pats the gravestone again when he gets up, willing away the emptiness that claws at his chest. He needs to get ahold of himself and push the loneliness away, especially since he can’t let Mom see it.
When he gets back to his car, Miles glances at the dashboard mirror. His own reflection makes him think of Dad. After Dad passed, he started growing out his hair and usually ties it half-up—like Dad used to. Mom lets him grow it until his shoulders before insisting ona haircut.
He also has Dad’s brown eyes and naturally lean physique. Standing at six feet, Miles also got his height and is a head taller than Mom. She used to say that the only thing he inherited from her was her chattiness.
Everyone used to say that he was Dad’s clone, and that if he wanted to see what he’d look like older, he only had to look at Dad. It’s ironic, considering Dad’s image remains frozen at fifty.
***
The inn hasn’t changed since he last saw it. It’s become worn down over the decades, but it still has a very homey and warm feel to it. The sign above its maroon doors says “Hannah’s Inn”, and vines creep up its four storeys. Right across the inn, separated by the road, is the cozy two-story house Mom lives in—the home he grew up in—in a row of other similar houses.
There’s only one other person in the parking lot—a stranger, presumably a guest. He’s wearing sunglasses and leaning against the side of his car, scrolling through his phone, and there’s a guitar on the roof of his car.
He seems oddly familiar, and Miles stares at him for a good second before grabbing his bag from his car. Maybe he’s a regular? The guy’s cute, though Miles does find it odd that he’s wearing sunglasses and has a ball cap pulled low over his eyes. It seems like an overkill considering it’s late in the afternoon. He swears he knows that jet-black hair and the tattoo of flowers and vines peeking from underneaththe left sleeve of his white shirt. And… damn, those biceps.Those biceps.
As if noticing that someone’s staring, the guy’s attention snaps up. Miles can’t quite see his eyes behind those sunglasses, but it’s clear he’s staring right in Miles’s direction.
Cursing under his breath, Miles turns away.
He pretends to be busy on his phone and starts humming along to the lyrics of “Garden,” the song that’s playing in his ears. In his peripheral vision, he sees the guy grab his guitar.
Miles hums, “I’m glad I found you.”
It’s awkward because the guy has to walk past Miles to get to the inn. Even more awkward is how he slows to a stop right next to Miles.
The guy says something, so Miles takes an earbud out. Now that they’re closer, Miles can see he’s about an inch taller than the guy. It doesn’t make him any less intimidating, though. Miles asks, “What’s that?
“Can you quit that?” the guy says. He shifts the guitar case he’s carrying over his shoulder.
“Quit what?”
“Humming that song.”
Miles blinks. “I… okay?”
What a weird guy, and also… What arudeguy. Miles doesn’t find him all that attractive anymore.
The guy turns away, and that’s when he sees it. His car keys, which he’s holding, hang from a cat keychain. He looks at the guy’s car and recognizes it as the one that had driven off earlier from the gas stationoutside town. The cat bumper sticker is unmistakable.
“Hey, wait!” Miles blurts out before his mind catches up with his mouth. The guy stops in his tracks, turning to stare at him, eyebrows drawn together. “Were you at the gas station, out on the freeway?”
“Huh?”
Okay, he should really drop this. The guy’s frown deepens, but he moves his hand and his keys dangle on that very specific keychain. Miles will definitely not let it go now. Also, he looks very familiar, and it’s eating him up. He can’t put a name to his face.
“I took up two parking spaces. I want to apologi—”
“No idea what you’re talking about.”
He stares at the keychain. Then stares at the guy.
“Excuse me,” the guy says, turning away. He heaves his guitar bag higher on his shoulder, and their very short-lived conversation—if even that—is over as soon as it starts.
What the hell?
