“Ellis you need to go. Just leave me alone, please.”
There’s an even balance of pissed off and pleading in her tone that makes me comply, even though everything in my body is telling me to ignore her. If her voice wasn’t enough of a clue that she meant it, the death glare she’s pinning me with drives the point home. I take my hand from the top of her car door and stand helplessly as Harlow moves around to climb in. We no doubt have an audience, since me calling after her as I chased her out of Mr. Adkins’ house wasn’t what you’d call inconspicuous. Frustration is clawing at my skin with searing white hot talons; I’m so angry with myself for kissing her that I want to shout and scream and kick the shit out of something—anything—so very badly I might just combust. The car door begins to close, and I lurch forward catching the handle to stop it.
“We still need to talk. It doesn’t need to be today, but I have to see you again,” I rush. “I’ll meet you anywhere you like, just name a time and a place, Harlow.”
I should be embarrassed about the level of desperation that’s pouring out of me, but for her, I’m not above begging. I’ll drop to my knees if I have to.
Her shoulders sag as she shifts, sitting deeper in her seat. Her hand makes a slapping noise as it falls from the door handle before gripping the Mercedes steering wheel with enough force to pull it off and throw at me. The muscles in her slender forearms strain and stretch as she pushes her head back into her seat so hard it’s like she’s trying to disappear into it. It’s blatantly evident that I’m stressing her out.
“Fine.” Her nostrils are flared and her answer is curt, making me second-guess if I heard her correctly.
“Fine?” I echo, wondering if she’ll correct me. I feel like I won that argument way too quickly, and she’s lulling me into a false sense of victory.
“Get in. I’m heading to my mom’s; you can say your piece and then we’re done.”
“Your mom’s?”
“Yes, Ellis, my mom’s. Are you getting in or not?”
“Can we not go someplace else? Anywhere else?” I ask in a croaky voice. She lets out a small huff as she shakes her head at me and pulls the door closed.
Fuck.
“Wait! I’m coming,” I yell as I run around the front of her car and pull open the passenger door. I throw myself into the seat and land with a thud before she can change her mind and drive away without me.
Of all the places in this town to go and talk she chooses the one that I have nightmares about on a regular basis. The Stevens house used to be my favorite place on earth—that was, until it became the setting for the demise of our relationship. My parents moved from next-door six months after I was sent to prison. My mom couldn’t handle the risk of facing Dianne every day. She moved back to Montana as soon as her divorce to my dad came through. He didn’t want to live next door to where his wife had ended their marriage, and his son had ended another man’s life. He bought an apartment near his office and lived there for a couple of years before meeting Miranda and moving in with her. They married the following year. I’ve only met her twice.
Harlow puts the car in drive and peels out of the Adkins’ driveway, spraying her shiny red Mercedes with gravel and dirt. I quickly buckle my seatbelt and push my hands through my hair, wondering how I got myself into this situation. I really should have planned this out better.
“Harlow, I really want to talk with you, but I don’t think it’s a good idea to do it in front of your mom. It’s not fair of me to just show up; it’ll upset her.”
Her head whips around to face me so fast I’m genuinely surprised she hasn’t broken her neck. “You don’t want to upset her?” she laughs without any humor and then stares blankly at me for a beat before sliding her eyes back to the road. “So, it’s fine to ambush me out of the blue, but you don’t want to do it to my mom?” she seethes.
Her knuckles whiten as she twists them around the steering wheel and I sigh. She has every right to be angry; my comment was thoughtless, but it doesn’t make it any less true. The last thing I need is to confront Dianne Stevens like this. I’m a mess and she deserves answers, just as Harlow does, but I don’t think I’m strong enough to face them both in one night. We pull up to a stop sign, and I whisper yet another apology.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t come here to upset you, I just…”
“My mom’s not at the house,” she interrupts. I turn in my seat to look at her and God she’s still as beautiful as ever—even after crying. I close my eyes for a second and exhale. “Where—”
“She’s in Cleveland visiting Jared and the boys,” she interrupts again. “It’s Cooper’s first birthday tomorrow.”
I’m assuming Cooper is Jared’s son. I swallow realizing that I know nothing about any of their lives anymore. I used to be a part of them, but now I’m just the monster who robbed them of their father. Harlow senses that I have no clue who Cooper is, and she almost looks as though she’s about to explain when the car behind us beeps. I want to turn and flip them the bird, but I suppress the urge. Her mouth clamps shut, and her eyes narrow as she scrunches her brows. She shakes away whatever she was going to say and pulls back out into traffic, headlining to the place I used to call home.
Her keys hit the bowl hard enough to chip it as she tosses them in and makes her way down the hallway. Maybe I’m just hyper-aware of my surroundings but the sound echoes through the house like a bomb tearing through it. I’m rooted to the spot while she mindlessly toes her sneakers off in the dark, unaware that I’m no longer following behind her. Everything feels familiar but different. I can’t bring myself to step any further inside. It seems all wrong. I take a deep breath, attempting to coax myself out of the sorry state I’ve plummeted to since climbing into her car. But it only makes everything a million times worse: a waft of furniture polish and lemon air freshener pulls me back in time. I’d forgotten what home smelled like.
“You coming in?” I hear before she flicks the lights on and I’m on my ass before I know what’s happened. Not figuratively. Literally.
“Ellis! Hell, are you alright?” Harlow asks hurrying over to where I’m sitting on their faded doormat that reads, “Home Sweet Home” in a faded black script.
I look around and notice the pictures hanging where they always were. Except now instead of Harlow and the twins’ faces grinning back at me, there are pictures of Dianne holding a little girl and an even smaller boy I don’t recognize. There are pictures of Jared and a woman I’m assuming is his wife. There’s a photo of Jake and two little boys holding hands. Then I see a family portrait. The twins flank Harlow and Dianne, and the children are all in front, perched on their mother’s knees. It looks off until I realize why. It’s missing Mike.
“I think I’m gonna throw up,” I murmur, scrambling to my feet and retreating out onto the porch.
“You want me to get you a glass of water?” Harlow asks as I dry heave over the side of her fence.
I lift a thumb up to signal please without having to turn around. My stomach continues to roll, but I think I’m okay after a minute. That is, until I lift my gaze from the flowerbeds and it collides with my old bedroom window. That sets off a whole new wave of nausea, and I empty what little is left in my stomach as Harlow’s bare feet stop in line with my own.
I grab the glass she pushes in front of me and take a gulp before straightening my stance. She doesn’t look at me. She doesn’t attempt to rub my back or ply me with any comforting words, and I’m grateful for the silence. It’s the first time this evening it isn’t awkward as hell. I take another sip of my water, studying my old bedroom window. I spent roughly half my adolescence peering through it hoping to catch a glimpse of my girl.
I must let out a huff because it cues Harlow.
“The family that lives there now have a son called Max,” she offers. “That was his room until he left for college last year.” She’s pointing out toward my old room, and I nod not knowing where she’s going with this. “I was here with my mom the day they moved in and was collecting something from my room. Probably a book or something, I don’t remember. I got that feeling you get when you know someone’s watching you. You understand me?” she asks, finally turning to catch my eye. I nod, and a small smile pulls at the corner of her mouth, but it looks sad.
“Anyway, I looked up and froze. I couldn’t move a muscle. Max was standing in your old window, looking straight into my room. He must have been around nine or ten years old. I was stunned because here was this kid that looked just like you did—gold hair, angelic face, the works. He waved at me, and I thought I was having some sort of breakdown. This kid was your complete double. I rushed over to my window and pulled the curtains closed and didn’t leave my room for the whole day. My mom had come to find me when I hadn’t returned downstairs after maybe an hour, and I was laid out on my bed shaking and crying.”
I place my glass down at my feet and take a step forward. The look on her face as she remembers this makes my chest hurt, and I want so badly to pull her into my arms. I lift my hand slowly toward the one she has resting on the fence, and she senses my intention to touch her and pulls it back.
It’s only one small movement, but she may as well have stabbed me for how much it hurts.
“I thought I was losing my mind, Ellis. My mom had to walk over and introduce herself to the new neighbors to confirm that they did actually have a little boy, because I was convinced it was the ten-year-old version of you I was seeing. That was seven months after you’d gone. My mom put me in therapy a week later. Not because I couldn’t handle the grief of losing my dad, Ellis,” her voice strains, breaking my heart a little more, “but because I couldn’t handle losing you.”
I don’t register that I’m about to cry until it’s too late. Her face becomes a blur, and I have to blink to bring it back into focus. What can I ever say to her to make things right? There’s nothing in this world that can erase what I’ve put her through, and we both know it.
I pinch the bridge of my nose, leaning forward slightly and taking a shaky breath. “I don’t know what to say to you,” I admit, not making eye contact.
“Why did you reject my visitation requests?” she asks guardedly.
I think back to the first time I received one. I was sitting in that goddamn blue cell on a paper-thin mattress, staring at the little piece of card handed to me by the warden. I remember wondering why in hell she’d want to see me. I was responsible for tearing her family to shreds. My cellmate Ryan was laid on his bunk humming out of tune as he leered over an old, faded, dirty magazine. I looked around at my surroundings, and they were awful. Chipped paint, cold concrete floors, a dented stainless steel toilet and a basin in the corner of the room with no privacy. My face was full of scruff; I’d lost a few pounds from not being able to stomach the shitty food, and I was terrified. The last thing I wanted was for her to see me like that. I couldn’t even look at myself in the mirror. I denied the visitation request because I was too ashamed to look her in the eye—kind of like how I feel right now.
I keep my eyes trained on the middle distance, trying to avoid her as I admit my cowardice out loud. It’s not as cathartic as I’d hoped. She doesn’t say anything for a long while; instead, she rests her arms on the fence rail and mirrors my posture, staring out into the darkness.
“I can understand that you’d be scared in that situation,” she says with a lilt of empathy in her quiet voice. “But, you owed me a chance to speak with you. I lost everything within the space of a few weeks, and you just cut me off. I deserved closure at least.”
“I know that, Harlow. Jesus, do I know that. But I didn’t have a clue what was happening. One minute you were being admitted into the hospital, and the next I was being hauled into the back of a cruiser and charged with…”
The words die on my lips. I’ve had plenty of time to repeat them over and over in my head, but somehow speaking them aloud to her feels like an impossible feat.
“Killing my dad,” she finishes.
I flinch at the words falling from her mouth. They flow out like poison, thick and deadly, suffocating me with their truth and slaying me with their curtness.
A set of headlights breaks the tension as a car pulls into my old drive. The crunch of gravel drowns out the cicadas, and Harlow stands back from the rail, smoothing down her dress.
“Evening,” the tall silhouette of a stranger shouts, exiting his car and waving over to us.
“Evening,” Harlow hollers back before turning to me. “Let’s carry this discussion inside.” It’s more of an order than a request. She walks into the house not waiting for a response, not looking to see if I follow, not exposing the wounds I know we’ve just ripped open.