The shrill ring of my cell phone comes through the car speakers, breaking through the heavy silence. Scott’s name lights up on my dash and my entire body cringes, unprepared to face the consequences of leaving home. Of leaving him.

I tap ignore, and the car is awash in deafening silence again. My heart races and my hands shake as I grip the leather steering wheel. I can’t believe I’m only minutes away from the one place I swore I would never go again.

Maybe it was my father’s suicide that prompted my decision to return to Balsam Grove. Maybe it was the unease that crept in when I thought about a romantic future with Scott. Maybe it was a combination of the two. All I know is I’ve been caught in a riptide for years, fighting, never knowing which way to swim. And now that the wind has died down, I can finally relax and trust in the current.

My grip tightens on the wheel as I turn onto US-64 and follow the main road up the winding mountain. I’ve been driving for over four hours on a mission to haul ass out of Durham, North Carolina. When I left, I hadn’t considered that it would be dark when I finally arrive at my destination. Street lights are scarce through mountain terrain. The only extra light comes from a gas station off the main road that looks like it was plucked straight from the seventies. It’s dimly lit, its walls and windows cluttered with signs, masking the building’s wear. If it weren’t for the neon sign blinking Open in the window, I wouldn’t consider it serviceable.

Is this an indication of what the town has become? Discarded history, abandoned, useless…lost? I force myself to take deep, steady breaths to avoid another panic attack and focus on my drive. There’s no way I’m turning back now.

Nestled within Pisgah National Forest in the Appalachian Mountains of North Carolina, Balsam Grove is lightly populated, maintained more for the passersby than locals. Waterfalls, rivers and creeks, camping sites, and hiking trails make up most of the town. In Balsam Grove, everyone owns land, tourists are a necessity, and everyone knows everyone. At least, everyone thinks they know everyone.

Eight more miles and I’ll be at the cottage in the mountains where I vacationed with my parents every summer growing up. Where my father decided to make his permanent home after my parents separated when I was fifteen. Where I moved two years later, after my mother was killed.

Balsam Grove.

Whenever I think about this place, the memories of my time here rush over me, and in some cases, drown me completely. It’s part of the reason I’ve avoided any thought of the small town for so long. A coping mechanism, my therapist called it, and I accepted it then. But I’ve been fighting the current for too long in an effort to stay still. I lost so much in that town, but there was good there too.

Memories are a fragile thing—how they come and go and distort themselves into something they’re not. How they have the power to light us up or cripple us in a flash. As someone who’s suffered through short-term memory loss—or dissociative fugue, as the doctors labeled it—the memories I lost during and surrounding the three days of my abduction are a curse and a blessing.

I’ve come to realize that what’s lost shouldn’t always be found.

For starters, the three days I was taken and held captive by my own father. My body shakes at the acceptance of this truth that, for years, I couldn’t make sense of. But that’s another gift that came with therapy—the knowledge that insanity cannot be justified. Whether controllable or not, my father’s actions were wrong.

It’s taken countless therapy sessions and the six years since my father’s trial to make peace with the court’s verdict. Not that I’ve come to terms with what happened that dreadful November, nor do I have any wish to remember those three days missing from my memory. No. As far as I’m concerned, those three days are buried six feet under rock and soil with my father, with no hope of returning. I’ve wished them their peace. But that doesn’t erase the rest of my time in Balsam Grove.

What I do remember about the town now, after years of suppression, comes in small, blurry doses.

Rolling terrain that stretched for miles as my feet pounded against the rocky earth. Splashing water from a nearby creek and skipping rocks across the river. My rubber soles slipping as I hopped across a high stack of chopped wood. The happier memories filter in through a sheet of fog, obscuring the rest from view. But they’re still there, fighting to come to the forefront.

I shiver at the memory of Jaxon, at the way I left him standing in that courtroom. His plea still rings between my ears. Come home. It still hurts to think about, especially because he was once my happy place. Being with him made everything feel larger than life as he encouraged me to experience all the things nature had to offer.

No responsibilities. No expectations. Just adventure.

I want to feel that again, the whimsical freedom of my childhood before my world turned upside down. Before I lost everything—including myself.

I’m almost there. Moss-covered spruce trees line every dip and curve of the road as they bow to the howling wind. The radio mentioned a storm brewing in the Atlantic, and by the curtain of clouds that’s quickly shutting the stars out of sight, I know I’m running out of time before the sky unleashes on me.

Relying on my car’s headlights to guide me through the desolate woods, I slow before seeing a sign for Shoal Creek Falls. I drive another half mile down dirt and gravel, and a mailbox with the number 7933 confirms I’m in the right place.

A smattering of raindrops pings the roof, quickly morphing into buckets as I turn onto the private drive that leads to my old home. With a quick flash of my high beams, I spot my father’s cottage up ahead, all twelve hundred square feet of dark brown house and fifteen acres of land that I now own.

With a tight grip on the wheel, I park the car in the middle of the drive and begin to gather my things. I left Scott’s with only two suitcases containing clothes, shoes, and one family photo album that didn’t get packed away in storage with the rest of my mom’s things. Just the essentials. Nothing else in the house was mine. Not the pristine furniture, not the pretentious wall décor, not even the fancy tablet he gifted me on my twenty-fourth birthday. It was all getting to be too much.

I take a deep breath and let it out slowly, trying to disperse my rising anxiety. It takes everything in me to not succumb to the emotions that flood my thoughts and cripple me to extinction. Grief, guilt, and confusion terrorize my mind, but I pull strength from the fact that I have no regrets. Only hope.

Hope.

As thick raindrops continue to pummel the roof, I search the passenger seat until I feel the very thing that set everything into motion.

My decision to leave my life in Durham behind didn’t develop over a few days or even a few months. It’s been in the back of my mind for years. But it wasn’t until I received the envelope containing a gifted deed and a key to my father’s cottage in the mountains that I knew I had to make it happen.

A single slip of my father’s old stationary accompanies the deed. Written at the top of the lined sheet, in a scrawl made with shaky hands and utmost care, are words I can hear my father saying as if he’s in the car with me now.

 

Through smoke and fire, reality awaits—ever-changing, yet always present.

 

I run the pad of my thumb over the familiar bold, dark blue print before taking the key from the envelope and shoving it into my pocket. I take another deep breath and switch off the ignition.

Ignoring the missed calls and messages from Scott, I swallow against the thickness in my tired throat and reach into the backseat of my Honda Accord. In my hasty effort to pack, I somehow managed to bury my jacket in the tumbled mess of clothes and shoes without thinking that I might need it when I arrived. One, two, three tugs later, I free the fabric from my suitcase and zip it around me before snatching my handbag and stepping out of the car. My phone’s flashlight shines against the cobblestone path as I dodge the slanted downpour, careful not to snag my loafers on the uneven terrain.

My father hasn’t tended to the cottage in almost seven years. I assumed the worst when it came to the state of his home. Rotted wood. Broken doors. Chipped and faded paint. Weeds to my chin. Maybe even vandalism.

But I was wrong. The cottage looks like it’s been cared for. Sure, it could use some TLC, but it certainly doesn’t appear to have been abandoned. Unlit garden lights line the mud and dirt-caked stone pathway to the front door. The porchlight isn’t on either, which doesn’t surprise me considering it’s been years since anyone has replaced the bulbs. I can fix that tomorrow. The utility companies assured me the power and water would be on by the time I arrived, but something stirs in my gut, telling me I won’t be so lucky.

Wood panels creak beneath my feet as I step onto the covered porch. A set of rocking chairs and a wooden porch swing decorate the front, relenting to the wind as they moan and rattle. As a strong gust engulfs me in the deep, earthy scents of pine and soil, I brace myself for the first memory to come, expecting it to hit hard now that I’m faced directly with my past. Isn’t that how it’s supposed to work? I see, feel, hear, and smell scenes from my past, and the memories come rushing back like a tsunami?

A crack of lightning jolts through the sky, causing me to jump. I yelp, the wind and rain swallowing my voice as my stomach churns with nervous energy. My pulse quickens, a sign of life I welcome like it’s my first breath.

Even though it’s June, it’s a cool night in the mountains. The wind and the fact that I’m soaked in Earth’s cry makes me shiver. Wrapping an arm around my middle, I unlock the cottage door and practically leap inside. My jacket comes off first, my boots second, and then I’m locking the door behind me and patting down the wall to find a light switch.

Aha. Got you.

My fingers find the switch plate settled between a kitchen inlet and the front door, and I flick it on—but darkness remains. Of course. I wiggle and toggle the switch a few more times, just in case. Nothing.

Defeated, I lean back against the door and sigh.

On the other side of the room, rain splatters against the sliding glass that overlooks the back porch. The storm clouds have pulled the curtain on nature’s glow, stealing most of my light.

After kicking off the door with a bout of desperation, I move through every door and shine my phone’s flashlight over every tabletop, taking in my surroundings. I see the bathroom. The office. And a wooden ladder propped at an angle above the kitchen inlet, leading to the loft above.

I circle the room like a shark, inspecting the furniture, touching the walls, and inhaling a burgundy blanket that’s hanging over a couch. But familiarity fails to stir within me. I feel nothing.

I’m still numb.

I’m still broken.

I’m still empty.

And it’s all so goddamn suffocating.

Disappointment settles in my gut like an immovable anchor. This moment is yet another reminder of why expectations are something I try to steer clear of. I didn’t realize how badly I wanted to feel something until now. But nothing sparks that wick in the dark corner of my mind. I’m afraid it may be lost forever.

My right hand falls to the edge of the kitchen counter as pressure builds in my chest and throat. No tears come. They rarely do. Instead, I’m distracted by the whistle of the wind and the whoosh of the trees as I peer out to the rain-battered balcony. I focus on the sounds as I breathe deeply through the darkness, allowing the panic to dissolve naturally. It usually does once I’m able to accept what’s going on with my mind and body, though it’s easier when I understand what triggered an attack. Tonight it’s the storm and any loud or sudden noise that comes with it.

After another deep breath, I feel some of the tension fall away from my body. I turn to the ladder and test the first couple steps before climbing to the top. My father’s bed rests there, still dressed in the neutral tones he wore best. The dim glow of the mostly obscured stars shines in through a floor-to-ceiling window behind the bed. I still rely on my phone’s flashlight to navigate the top floor.

Inside the bathroom in the corner of the room, beside a small closet sans door or curtain, I flip the switch, and in an instant, my dream of a warm shower is shattered. I sigh. If there’s water, it will be cold, but that won’t stop me from washing this grime off after driving for hours.

The shower knob squeaks in resistance, and after a few croaky moans, the head releases several strong spurts before a powerful stream of water splatters against the tile floor. I step into the tub, gasping at the shock of the cold pelting my body. My lungs work hard while I adjust to the temperature, my body quickly coming alive beneath its spell.

Without soap or shampoo, I do my best to wash away the stress of the day, making a mental note of all the things I’ll need to pick up in town tomorrow. I can’t imagine needing much. Without social obligations filling my calendar or a job to dress up for, there’s no one here to impress. I can focus on me.

Freezing cold, I step out of the shower and fumble around in the dark bathroom cabinet, relieved to find a clean towel. After drying off, I change into a loose, faded red The Walking Dead tank top and leggings. Fitting, I suppose. The similarities between my favorite fictional apocalyptic universe and this graveyard of a town are not lost on me.

As the wind continues to whistle and howl, throwing trees left then right, snapping branches and leaves and tossing them who-knows-where, I grab a blanket from the bedroom closet to avoid having to crawl into bed with old, unfamiliar sheets. Another item to add to my shopping list.

A calm begins to settle around me while my mind and heart react with a flutter. What am I doing here? What was I thinking? I had a good life. I was moving on.

And just like that, the doubt creeps in. Doubt I managed to suppress on my drive simply by distracting myself with a goal of getting here.

I could be at home with Scott. Going to the movies. Spending the evening at a nice restaurant with his coworkers in Raleigh.

I let my mind drift back to nights with Scott, us showering in separate showers, meeting in the hall to kiss goodnight, and then padding off to separate rooms to sleep. We’d been friends for so long, I couldn’t seem to get comfortable with the idea of anything more. So, while I felt Scott’s need for me rise, my need for him didn’t. Perhaps our relationship was doomed to stay in the friendship zone forever.

It didn’t help our situation that I’d been in love before. That full, deep, soul-crushing love. I understand how something so powerful, so real, can consume someone. What it’s like to be abuzz with passion and allow all inhibitions to fall away, no matter the consequence.

That’s how things were with Jaxon. It was all dark corners and stolen kisses. Hidden waterfalls and abandoned cottages. Our need increasing with each touch, each kiss. I didn’t feel that love with Scott, and I knew it would never be fair to hold him to some type of fairytale standard based on a forbidden love that ended so cruelly.

I had to face it. With Scott, there are no sparks, no burning from within or pooling in my belly. He’s simply my best friend. Someone to talk to, to laugh with. He’s safety. And unlike with Jaxon, when I laugh with Scott, I don’t laugh from my gut. My words don’t flow in an endless string. It isn’t all Scott’s fault, though. And the numbing effect of my anxiety meds doesn’t help, either.

Shit. My meds.

I rip the sheets off me and jerk to a sitting position. In one leap I reach my handbag. I unzip it and toss the contents left and right. They should be here, but I can’t find them.

I didn’t pack them. No, I refuse to believe that. I wouldn’t forget my pills. I’ve been taking them every single day for over six years. Even if they weren’t on my list, I would have grabbed them and stuffed them into my bag without even thinking. Maybe I tossed them in one of my suitcases. I look out at the rain, knowing there’s no way I’ll be venturing back out there tonight.

My mind backtracks to earlier today when I stopped in the bathroom for my toothbrush and that damn telemarketer called, rerouting me from my mission. My heart sinks, knowing I completely forgot to check the medicine cabinet for my newly refilled bottle. I search my handbag again, checking the tiny crevices and secret pockets, hoping to be surprised.

Nothing.

For heaven’s sake, what is wrong with me? I’ll have a panic attack just thinking about having a panic attack. There’s no pharmacy in town, either, which means I’ll have to drive halfway to Asheville if I can even get my doctor to fill me a new order.

Groaning, I crawl back into bed, blood pumping from my adrenaline-fueled search. A light glows brightly on the nightstand, and I turn my attention to my phone, sitting unplugged with a low battery warning illuminating the screen. Great. It will die any minute. Pulling it to me, I scroll through the messages one final time before shutting it off in hopes of reserving some battery life in case of an emergency.

I am in the middle of the woods. What once felt like home now feels strange. I want to sleep, but every creak and groan is amplified in the midst of the storm, promising little chance of rest.

With a slight pillow adjustment, my eyes find the window behind me, and I stare blankly into the night. Checking my phone again was a mistake. Scott’s name continues to be the blinding force in my thoughts. Leaving him. Coming here. Hurting him. I don’t even have a good reason why.

I smile sadly, imagining the epic tantrum he would throw if he were here to witness this disaster of a night. He’s always been more of the five-star accommodation type. Pressed suits, weekly dry cleaning, and vacations consisting of spa days and fancy restaurants. Never once has he even entertained the idea of a camping trip. It’s like he’s devoted the rest of his life to rebelling against the place that almost took my life.

Balsam Grove is the last place Scott will ever look for me, and I made sure to leave no trail behind. Our bank accounts and cell phones aren’t connected. I’ve never been on social media. I left him information to continue paying my share of the bills. And I quit my job at the law firm after my father’s death, so there weren’t any loose ends to tie up there.

Two years ago, I subtly mentioned visiting Balsam Grove. I was curious. Naturally. But Scott put a firm foot down and refused. I didn’t push the subject. He’d known my father for the length of our friendship. He’d witnessed the change in my father’s behavior from normal, fun-loving guy to paranoid schizophrenic. Scott was in that courtroom with me when my father was convicted after pleading not guilty by reason of insanity. And he remained my friend after my father was sentenced to the mental health facility for ten years, minimum.

Beyond all that, Scott would feel isolated in a place like this. Bored. Restless. He’s been talking about moving to Raleigh for years. A bigger town. Taller buildings. Better nightlife. He’s tired of the commute. Maybe now that I’ve left Durham, he’ll make it happen. Working in the corporate world gives him financial and social rewards he never had growing up. As an accountant for a well-known hotel chain, he loves the thrill of deadlines, after-work happy hours, corporate parties, and travel. But his hustle and bustle is my boredom. His networking is my hell. And his planning is my anxiety.

I sigh. How I wish my heart was something I could manipulate, to feel for Scott what he feels for me. How I wish my deepest desires weren’t chasing after fallen memories, so I could be free to love again. Is it possible? To love again after losing the love of my life? I was seventeen, for Christ’s sake. Certainly there’s got to be someone else out there for me. Preferably someone who isn’t tangled in my past. Because clearly, Scott wasn’t the problem. He never was. It was me and my obsession with the boy I once knew and loved with all my heart. And if I’m being honest with myself, that’s why I had to leave Scott.

While I’ve never intentionally compared my feelings for Scott to those I had for Jaxon, it was inevitable. Thoughts of Jaxon come as easy as breathing, even now, years later. I can’t even think of what I would do or say if I saw him again. But I’ve already convinced myself that he won’t be here. There’s no chance in hell he would have stayed. Jaxon had other dreams, and once I wasn’t around to hold him back, he would have pursued them.

The same feelings I’ve had for years begin to churn inside me. Emptiness. Numbness. Desperation for something more. Here, there, my reality is the same.

But being here is step one. I don’t know why my father left me the keys to the cottage, or what I’ll do now that I’m here. All I know is that out of all the decisions I could have possibly made, this was the one that felt the most right.

The rest is up to the wind.