Is this how it’s felt to him this whole time?
“Jo?” she repeats, coming up behind me.
I startle at her proximity, stepping away from the door.
She closes it. “You’re bringing the rain in.”
I shiver in the mudroom, listening to the rain from my clothes trap against worn linoleum.
“You’ll catch your cold if you don’t change into something dry.”
Her face looks calm despite everything that’s happened. But it’s in the space of what she doesn’t say that I feel it—anxiety, concern.
She doesn’t ask about Ash. Doesn’t ask why he was holding me or where we went.
The silence settles heavier than any words could.
Grandma dries her hands in her apron like an old habit. Her face tightens. “Called your mom recently? Maybe it’s time for you to… consider heading back.”
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, surveying the disheveled house, signs of the government men in every corner. “I… I…” I breathe through my mouth, trying not to break. “I don’t know what it was about my research that they came for.”
Behind me, a voice rumbles. Grandpa. “That’s not your fault, Jo.” He says it like he knows something.
I turn around, sniffling and rubbing my nose with the corner of a wet sleeve.
“Listen to your grandmother. Take a hot shower. Then, change into something dry. We need to talk.”
Grandma bustles around the kitchen,straightening and reorganizing things out of place. She murmurs under her breath as she works, little words of annoyance that I can’t decipher.
“Miranda, darling. Quit fussing over that stuff. Come here. Have a seat,” Grandpa scolds, shifting in his chair.
“First, coffee. Would you like some, Jo?”
This late in the day, no. But I can’t imagine I’ll be sleeping much tonight.
“Yes, please.”
Grandma nods, satisfied.
Grandpa stares at the tablecloth, face storming.
My fingers ghost over my lips once. I can still feel the heat of him there.
When we each have a steaming stoneware mug in front of us and the cold crock of fresh cream, he begins, “They went through the family photos. Took more than I care to think about.”
His work-hardened hands wrap around the mug, eyes staring into the brown swirl. Then, his eyebrows lift. “Do you know why?”
“Ash,” I whisper. “Nineteen sixty-six.”
He frowns. “Nineteen sixty-six. Seventy-six. Eighty-six... All made sense at the time. Maybe not in retrospect.”
I lick my lips, still tasting him. I feel him, too. Though with each passing minute, my chest goes colder, more hollow. And an ache sits at the base of my skull, climbing toward my temples.
“Never thought he’d look at my granddaughter like that, though.” The chair creaks as he sits back. Face hard, fingers tapping on the tabletop.
Grandma clears her throat. “Now, Martin, that’s none of our business?—”
“Really?” He eyes her for a long moment, then turns his gaze on me. Unreadable. “Knew this wasn’t a good idea. Jo coming here. Looking at those rocks. Could only lead to one thing. Trouble.”
