Beck moved to Emerley after Logan left so she only knew as much as I had shared about him. Unflattering names may have been used occasionally.
I had deleted all my own accounts about a year after we broke up, unable to handle the constant Snapchat memories popping up reminding me of him.
She confirmed that his accounts are visible but have been inactive for years. Not one single post since he left. The last thing he posted was a selfie of the two of us grinning like lunatics at the same cabin I now own. It’s off centre and blurry but it’s unapologetically us. That was the first and only time I have looked him up.
This afternoon when I stopped in at Maggie’s to grab lunch, I overheard people gossiping about who bought the house. Wild theories are being thrown around. People are divided on whether it’s a single mom with four kids or an elderly man who’s recently lost his wife.
If the Indian low rider motorcycle parked in the driveway is any indicator, I would say neither of those theories is correct. But we will know soon enough. The nosey citizens of Emerley will put their best detectives on the case for sure. No doubt Brian Marshal will take the lead.
Or maybe they will appoint me since I am the one currently stalking the neighbourhood. What the fuck is wrong with me? Why does it matter who bought the house? It’s not like I was planning on buying it. Can you imagine, how fucked up would that be?
Turning up the volume on the radio, I let the music replace my thoughts as I drive out of the neighbourhood with the knowledge, I’ll probably repeat this trip again tomorrow.
Chapter Thirteen
31 years old
I have been back home for exactly ten days. As I look around, I am pleased with the progress I have made in that short amount of time. Beyond minor repairs, the tenants have left the house in good shape. I have organized the garage and gave the place a thorough cleaning. A fresh coat of light grey paint in the kitchen and entryway really brightens up the space. I have plans to do some small renovations once I get more settled.
I knew I wouldn’t feel completely at ease here until I was surrounded by my furniture, books, and art supplies. Moving into the primary bedroom has been a bit strange, but it would have been even weirder to reclaim my childhood room. It works well as an office.
I completely gutted Jackson’s old bedroom, ripping out the carpet replacing it with hardwood and painted it a denim blue. There’s no trace left of him here at all and that suits me just fine. I wish I could say I feel different, but I washed my hands of himyears ago with no regret. I don’t expect having guests, but it’s always good to have a spare bedroom.
Morgan, my black lab, has adjusted to the recent changes with ease. He has been by my side since I adopted him from a rescue shelter a couple of years ago. How anyone could give up this wonderful boy I will never know. I’m excited about the fenced-in backyard for him—I’m sure he’ll love having his own space instead of dealing with the dog park. I still need to rake and clean it up more before the garden gnomes completely take over.
Apparently, the students who have been living here expanded my mother’s collection. Rumor has it that every new student came with one like it was a requirement to get a key to the house. It’s fucking weird if you ask me, but I feel like I should keep them. There is probably dark, creepy lore attached to them, and I’ll be cursed forever if I throw them away.
I haven’t strayed too far from the house yet. I stocked up on supplies, including groceries, out of town so I could have a moment to settle in. I’m sure the locals are going to frown about that. I can already hear them grumbling aboutthose city people who come to vacation but don’t support local businesses.They seem to forget that Emerley thrives on tourism and summer residents. They spend plenty of money here. I promise I will start buying local, but just not yet.
The last thing I need is to run into someone like Brian at the grocery store. I don’t want to see anyone and have to answer questions about my family or what I’ve been up to. I’m not interested in being the centre of their gossip.
I wanted to come back years ago, but the timing was wrong. Then, two things happened simultaneously. My mom finally decided to sell the house and the opportunity to rent a chair at Inkfluence, a popular tattoo studio in town, came up. It was a sign that it was time to come home.
Fortunately, I had saved enough money to put a sizable down payment on the house. Those few years in university helped me learn to analyze and predict the market so I made good investments; at least my education wasn’t a complete loss.
The house has been sitting empty since the last of the students moved out in the spring. I was able to give notice for my apartment and close the sale quickly.
I sent my portfolio online to the studio and had a Zoom call with the owner, Banks. The job was mine if I wanted it. It’s an excellent opportunity; Banks is a legend in the tattooing industry. He has been inking people since the early 90’s and chose to semi retire here of all places. Clients regularly request him to design and tat them. He is selective on what pieces he chooses to dedicate his time to these days. It will be a privilege to work with such a talented artist.
There is one other chair being rented by a woman named Beck. I have seen her work on the shop’s website, she’s exceptionally talented. She specializes in intricate fine line designs.
I will officially meet them both in person on Monday when I start work.
With a new job lined up and a place to live, I packed up my small apartment and Morgan, then drove two hours north to the place I used to call home.
I’ve just grabbed a beer and I’m heading to the living room to watch TV when I hear two quick knocks rap on the kitchen door. Then it opens. Peeking my head back around the corner, I see my friend Riot.
“Hey man,” he says as he unties his work boots and kicks them off beside the door.
“Tough day?” I ask. His hair is falling out of his low ponytail, and he looks like he rolled around in dirt.
“You have no idea. This new place I bought is going to kill me or bankrupt me.”
Riot flips houses for a living. He buys one cheap, renovates it and sells it for profit. He has a small crew of guys who work for him, and he subcontracts out to other local trades. It’s simultaneously a good gig and a giant headache.
Leaning my hip up against the island I watch him wash and dry his hands before going to the fridge and grabbing his own beer.
After he takes a generous swallow, I ask him, “What’s going on?”
