Errand. It’s no errand. Dawn insisted days ago that we surprise Trevor with a grand homecoming at their house—his childhood home. She invited everyone who could be familiar to him, hoping to jolt his memory.
Their street is lined with cars on either side of the driveway. Chuck pulls up in front of the garage and turns to Trevor in the front seat. “Does this look familiar?”
“Should it?”
Dawn sighs and leans in to touch Trev’s shoulder. “This is our house. We live here during the summer months when it’s too hot down south. You grew up here, Trevor.”
“Oh.”
Two men approach the car, neither of them familiar.
“Trevor Criss?” one says loudly. “How does it feel to come back from the dead?”
“Reporters,” Chuck says snidely. “I’ll handle this.”
He exits the car, waving his arms around and poking one of them in the chest as he has some very strong words to say to them about privacy and police and trespassing. The two men move to the curb, but continue to fire questions at Trevor when he exits the car. We ignore them and head to the front door.
“We should have anticipated this,” Dawn says, clearly irritated. “It’s been all over the news. I wonder how long they’ve been camped out here.”
“Who knows.” Chuck looks back over his shoulder, glaring at the reporters, then turns his attention to Trevor. “You don’t have to talk to them. Not now, not ever.”
Trevor laughs sadly. “Wouldn’t know what to say if I did.”
“The truth would just set them on a feeding frenzy,” I add.
Chuck nods. “You’re not wrong. We should all keep this amnesia thing to ourselves.”
Dawn eyes the front door. “That may not be easy considering what we’ve done here.”
My shoulders slump. I was against this whole homecoming party idea from the start. How is that easing him back into his life? It’s more like throwing him in the deep end when he doesn’t even know how to swim. And then adding sharks to the water.
“What are you talking about?” Trevor asks.
“Come on. You’ll see.” Chuck unlocks the front door and holds out his arm for us to walk through.
Trevor looks at the street and the several cars lining the road. He shakes his head as if he’s all too aware of what’s coming.
As if by instinct, I reach out and take his hand. It’s something we’ve always done. Even after all these years, we hold hands like a newly minted couple, especially when things seem emotionally charged.
His hand jerks at first, then a burst of air blasts from his lungs. His hand relaxes in mine, and my heart lurches, hope inching its way in. Has he just remembered who I am to him? But the hope is short-lived, because while the tension is no longer there, he’s most certainly not holding my hand. More like he’s allowing me to hold his.
And another arrow pierces my heart.
A few more steps in and we reach the living room. Several dozen people are standing and waiting. Nobody yells ‘surprise.’ Everyone just looks at us and then at each other, all waiting for someone to make the first move. They’ve all been told about Trevor’s condition. I guess nobody knows what to do.
Carter Cruz is the first to approach. He walks right up to Trevor, hand extended. “Trevor. I’m Carter Cruz. I guess you could say we’re best friends. Have been for quite some time.” Carter’s eyes go to Trevor’s casted arm, and he chuckles. “Ah, handshakes are for wimps, get in here man.” He leans in and puts his arms around Trevor, who hesitantly pats him on the back.
I stay by his side as others pile behind and around Trevor, all introducing themselves and hugging him one after the other.
Patrick pats him on the shoulder. “We went through paramedic training together.”
Trevor’s eyes widen. “I was a paramedic?”
“For two years after college. It’s the bug that bit you and started your love of medicine.”
Trevor shakes his head. It has to be all kinds of crazy to hear about your life from virtual strangers.
“Patrick isCaptainKelsey now,” I tell him. “He runs one of the Calloway Creek fire houses.”
