“Fine. But I will be waiting on that plane at exactly 12:01 AM ten days from now.”
“Deal,” Andre says.
“I hate you,” I say, dropping my bag on the floor.
“You can do this, Jax.”
“Maybe, but I definitely don’t want to.”
“You have to have some happy memories in that place. Find them,” Andre suggests. “Or don’t, but if that’s the case, then figure out how to use the memories and the pain to write music again.”
“I’ll try,” I concede before saying goodbye and ending the call.
Alone with my thoughts once again, I turn in a slow circle, trying to remember something other than the fights with my father. The man who might be gone but whose bitterness lingers here, looming over me like the big man he was in life.
Opening the fridge to grab a beer, I realize someone on my team must’ve coordinated to have groceries delivered for me. The basics are in here, plus a twelve-pack of my favorite beer. Trying not to think of who in town might know that I’m around—and if they’re able to keep a secret or not—I pop open the can of beer and make my way out to the backyard and my favorite feature of the house: a firepit with two concrete benches.
The memories of spending time out here with friends, strumming my guitar while they roasted marshmallows and talked, are happier ones. Playing chubby bunny with Izzy, proving once and for all that I could fit more marshmallows in my mouth than she could.
My stomach turns at the memories of Izzy, and I force myself to think of other things.
I take a seat on one of the benches, propping my feet on the lip of the unlit firepit. It’d be better if it were night. When the stars are so bright it feels like the heavens have come down to earth to shine for you. The nighttime activities in the city may be better, but there’s nothing like the night itself in the middle of nowhere—just silence and the stars.
Sipping my beer, I stay outside, but as soon as that last drop hits my tongue, I know I need to go back in, make some dinner, and get settled. I’m looking forward to the challenge of cooking for myself. I love having a personal chef who leaves meals for me even when he’s not around, but there’s something invigorating about having to do the mundane things for myself again, at least for a few days.
After I make myself a salad and a slightly overcooked steak, I wander around the house, pushing open doors to find that, just like in the kitchen and living room, very little has changed.
Upstairs holds two bedrooms and a guest room, so I save it for last, but finally, when there is nowhere else for me to explore, I head up the steps, dread pooling in my stomach. My dad’s is the first room at the top. A room I’m not sure I can face. I reach for the doorknob, pausing just as my hand makes contact.
I don’t want to go in.
Why face it tonight anyway? I have nine more days.
I can open the door tomorrow.
Or even the next day.
Moving on, I push into my old room and stop. It’s exactly the same.
If it weren’t dust-free, I’d assume no one had set foot here in fifteen years. Not a single thing is out of place, from my guitar chords poster on the wall to the football sitting on the nightstand.
Next to my bed, there’s a framed photo of Izzy and me playingGuitarStarin the basement of the Harpers’. It’s the one I packed and unpacked over and over again, not knowing how I could possibly leave that snapshot of pure happiness behind, not sure I deserved to take it with me.
I flip the picture down on its face—I didn’t deserve her friendship then, and I sure as hell don’t deserve her happiness now.
Chapter five
Jaxon
Ican’teatalonein my father’s house another night. The silence is so loud it’s jarring my bones.
Unsure who else I can talk to in this town, I call Carter, and after getting a lecture about being here for almost a week without telling him—and with no security, might I add—I’m able to goad him into having drinks with me at the bar in town.
Passing by my father’s door, I stop, reaching two fingers out to touch the handle. It’s my new ritual, touching the doorknob each time I go by but never having the courage to push the door open.
I throw on a pair of sunglasses and a hat as I leave, knowing I could blow my incognito stay here in Wild Bluffs, but I only have to last three more days until Andre said he’d book me a flight home.
Feeling like I’m a poorly trained spy in a comedy movie, I slink into The Cattlemens Steakhouse and find a spot in a booth in the back. The lights don’t quite reach me here, so I can sit in the shadows without having to worry about being spotted by a fan.
