Nevada

My footsteps echo against wood-trimmed walls and stale dust fills my lungs.

All these years sitting empty and void of life has done a number on this house… which is why I got it for a steal. The sellers were asking two mil and the house had been on the market for eight years. I offered them less than a third of that—all cash, twenty-four-hour close—and they accepted within the hour.

Maybe that should’ve been my first red flag.

Nobody wants this house.

Nobody wants to be tied to Lambs Grove and its devastated past. This once-robust, picturesque little city went from thriving to eyesore before anyone could do a damn thing to stop it.

Passing the dining hall with its two-story ceiling and candelabra chandeliers and marble fireplace, I imagine my girls giggling, Lennon twirling in her favorite purple dress as her sister watches, wide-eyed. Moving toward the back of the house, toward the slider going out to the pool, I imagine wet footprints, the scent of chlorine, and warm, sunbaked towels. Upstairs, I designate the girls’ respective bedrooms, side by side and across from mine.

I want us all to be together, always.

This is way too much house for the three of us, but Lambs Grove’s real estate listings were slim pickings and this was the only one equipped with a security system and eight-foot brick fence around the perimeter, surrounded by mature trees.

Heading into the master suite, I make a note on my phone about picking up a few outlet covers, a caulking gun, and some nails and a hammer. Most of the issues in this house are cosmetic or minor. A good, thorough cleaning and a few minor repairs and we should be able to officially call this place home.

The floor-to-ceiling window on the south side of the master bedroom overlooks the pool, which is filled with leaves and twigs and fast food wrappers that have gone airborne and landed in the back yard.

It isn’t pretty yet, but it will be. Just needs a little TLC.

There’s something about being in Lambs Grove that makes those old, buried memories come back harder, more vibrant. Some nights, I lie in bed, my mind flooded with random things—moments mostly—things that in retrospect seem completely trivial and insignificant. The smell of my old truck, like leather air freshener and country road dust. The weight of my favorite jacket and how the sleeves were a half inch too short. Pulling my brother out of a ditch one year when he thought doing donuts in his rear-wheel drive Firebird after an ice storm was a smart move.

And then I remember her.

The one I’ve spent a decade forgetting.

My memories with her are the strongest, and I can’t turn them off. We must have driven every side street in this town, every highway at least a hundred times. The Muskrat Café, Conrad Park, the Hilltop drive-in, Lambs Grove High … she’s all of those places and then some.

This town is haunted by a past I’d do anything to disremember.

I’m not sure if she’s still here or if she’s long gone—I’ve kept myself intentionally out of the loop all these years—but none of it matters because I still feel her here and it’s all the same.

Whether she’s around or not, the ghost of what we once had still lingers.

It wasn’t until this morning that I remembered driving past the Conrad mansion with her one aimless afternoon a lifetime ago. We pulled over, seeing if we could scale the brick fences out back enough to see into the back yard. When we were done, I promised her I’d buy her this house someday, that we’d fill it with babies and throw parties and live out the rest of our days in this palatial estate fit for a king and queen.

I’d forgotten all about that.

But back then we made all kinds of promises to each other, and none of them ended up meaning a damn fucking thing.

Still feels like yesterday that her father was offering to pay my way through community college and slide me into an upper management position at his factory. James Devereaux only ever wanted his daughter to have everything her heart desired, and if that meant keeping me around and giving me a way to provide for her, he was happy to do it.

Only she wouldn’t allow it.

The day I got my full-ride scholarship in the mail, she told me I had to go, that she couldn’t live with herself if she robbed me of a bright future. But as far as I was concerned, she was my future. I may have been a basketball prodigy, but basketball wasn’t my everything.

She was.