I may not have it all figured out, but I have a roadmap forward. And I'll try my hardest to fit all the important pieces in there—my family, my studies, and Micah.
Micah, August 25th
Icancel the threesome with Mia and Mike on Tuesday morning via text between my Econometrics II and Long-Term Sustainability classes. It’s not my proudest moment, but I don’t have the strength for a personal conversation. Mike answers immediately, telling me he understands, given everything that has happened during the last two weeks, obviously attributing my decision to the assault on Olli.
I debate clearing that up, but ultimately decide against it. Mike is a nice guy, but I’m not ready yet to open up to anyone outside of my immediate circle.
Mia’s answer takes longer and is a lot more cryptic, considering the whole thing was her idea to begin with.
I’m actually relieved
The message follows me through the rest of the day, making me think I missed a comprehensible part of Mia’s summer.
Those thoughts are still there when I step out of the Nook that evening for some fresh air.
Our porch has seen better days. One of the planks has started to bow slightly, making my stomach flutter as it gives way under my weight. In addition, the railing on the right side leans a few degrees off vertical. I’ve been meaning to fix that ever since coming back from the Woodrow farm. The whole place could use a fresh coat of paint, too. But right now, bathing in the warm amber glow of the evening light, it feels comfortably lived-in rather than shabby.
I’m sitting on the top step with a cup of coffee that’s gone cold two hours ago when the door opens behind me. I don’t have to turn around to check. I already know who it is. Brandon Woodrow moves the same way as his son—calm and without hurry.
The soft plank creaks under his weight, and he stops, testing it a few times with his foot, probably already forming a plan in his mind about fixing it. He doesn’t comment on it, though, just lowers himself onto the step beside me with a low grunt, his forearms resting on his knees.
For a while, neither of us speaks, our eyes resting on a faraway spot on the horizon while the sun slowly retreats, the gentle chirp of crickets growing louder around us, mixing with the low murmurs coming from inside the house. Kelly and Linden have taken over the kitchen for the evening, Linden telling her about his classes and work at the pound, letting go of the secrets he kept so long, word by word.
“How are you holding up, boy?” Brandon finally asks, his eyes still fixed on the street.
I turn the cup in my hands, the cool material gliding smoothly against my skin.
“I’m okay,” I start, then stop when the two words already taste like a lie on my tongue.
“I think I’ll be okay,” I rephrase carefully. “Right now, I’m just tired.”
Brandon hums, his arm reaching out to wrap around my shoulders, squeezing lightly. “That’s okay. You’re allowed to be tired.”
A lump forms in my throat, big and unmoving, allowing me only a nod as I drop my gaze to the cup in my hands, investigating the black liquid with sudden interest.
“Your roommate,” Brandon says, “the one who got hurt.”
“Olli?”
“Yeah, that one. Were you close?”
I consider this for a moment, my mind going back to the fight we had the week before the party about that stupid fucking AC. It seems so petty now, so…trivial. I wish I could take back half the things I said to him and ask a few questions instead. I wish I had followed him that night of the party and not let myself be sent away. All in all, I wish many things had gone differently. Still, we’ve shared rooms and walls for a year now, and the house is undeniably empty without Olli around, even when we all try our best not to let each other feel it—Vince’s jokes too over the top, Marisol’s laughs too loud, Nicko calling every night just to be quiet on the other end of the line.
“I think we could’ve been close—if we had been more honest, maybe,” I finally answer.
Brandon is quiet again, allowing me to sit with my answer, giving my quiet regret room, just squeezing my shoulder again. A car rolls slowly past the house, and somewhere down the block, a dog is barking.
“And you and Linden? Where do you stand now?” he asks.
For the first time since he came out here, I turn to look at Brandon. He’s focused on a small bird hopping up and down the sidewalk, his features relaxed. His jaw is the same as Linden’s,just settled a little differently. Harder somehow—from difficult seasons and years of keeping words unsaid.
“I thought he told you?” I hedge, gnawing on my lower lip when he chuckles softly.
“Oh, he did. But I’d like to hear it from you,” he points out, turning his head slightly, his eyes catching mine. “What are your plans going forward?”
I take a deep breath, my thumb tracing the rim of the cup as I sort through my thoughts. “We…well. We’re still figuring things out one day at a time, I guess. I mean…I love him. I want to be with him. But right now I don’t have much to give him. By the time I graduate, Linden will still have a year left in Bonham before he can apply to vet school.” I carefully place the cup onto the step next to me, rubbing my sweaty palms together.
“I thought I’d enter the draft, try to get picked up by a team. I don’t have a big legacy or media attention to boost me, but I’m a hard worker and I…I think I could make it work, establish myself over a few seasons, build some financial ground by the time Linden’s done.”
