It’s like a ghost town at hours like this. I could scream into the night and a flurry of lights would flicker on. I don’t, because I want the loneliness seeping into my bones. I want the sound of the cicadas, the winds whipping around me. An American flag thrashes around in the center of town, the sound violent and off-putting.

I take my shoes off when I meet the grass of the square. My pink toes are the color of the mood I wish to be in, but that’s not going to happen. The day has been long and draining.

Earlier, before lunch, my father and I walked around the courtyard at the home. My father’s hand was on my forearm. I could feel my sister’s eyes burning into us. She wanted so much for him to have a good day. For him to call her by her name, not our mother’s name. Not his sister’s name. Not his own mother’s name.

I didn’t mind. He could call me what he wanted to, as long as he was smiling. I couldn't take the wailing again. I couldn’t take his sad eyes. I needed his wisdom. His advice. I found my old notebook this morning, before we left for the home. It was filled with his small stories on life. His beautiful life, so well lived.

No one should ever be put in the shadows. I had run my fingers over his words, words I scribbled so long ago.

I thought of those words as my father held onto me this afternoon. We turned around at the edge of the grass, made our way back to my sister. She was frowning, her forehead creased. I shook my head at her, pulled the index finger of my free hand up to my mouth, drawing a smile there. She rewarded me with a fake smile that was more scary than comforting.

My sister is a sponge. She feeds off the emotions of others. I try to think happy thoughts. To even my breathing and look for the good in this day. I tried that today, hoping my father could feel it.

The good news was that my father was walking around. He wasn’t talking much, and his cough has lessened, they say. The color of his skin wasn’t as gray. There was a pink in his cheeks. The Kansas heat would do that to anyone. I was sweating in places I’d rather not be.

Love has consequences. Familiar, romantic, friendly, it all shoots you down, burns you, when the time is right. When you’re soft and supple, belly up. I hadn’t even been home. I took a nap on the couch in my father’s room, sleeping when he slept, feeling the drain of the summer sun just as he had. When he woke up I found my sister gone. I stayed with him through dinner, grabbing a crossword puzzle on the small table next to the couch and working on it.

“What’s stumping you, Severin?” my father had asked, pulling my eyes from the little boy in front of me. Tears threatened to fall from my eyes at the sound of my name from his mouth, but I stayed strong. I walked to his bed and we worked on the puzzle together until he fell asleep. I took to the couch in his room and slept a little, too.

When it was time to leave I walked straight from the nursing home to this spot.

My neck aches, and my head is pounding. Sleeping on the couch in my father’s room did a number on me. My cross-body purse bounces on my hip as I pick up speed. My hands fumble with the outer flap, reaching for my headphones. I plug them into my phone and pull up my favorite playlist. Classic country songs. They sound different. Clearer, and not as romantic as the records my father played when we did the dishes after Sunday night dinners, but the lyrics are still there, lulling me.

I pick a spot in the grass near the gazebo, check for anthills, squinting my eyes in the night, and take a seat. My bare shoulder hits the cool grass, and my eyes fall closed. I stay like that, familiar songs quieting my aching heart, for a while. A half hour goes by, forty minutes, I’m unsure. I could never do this in New York, or LA. But here, I feel safe, even as my word falls into ruin.

I feel a warm hand on my ankle and whip up, smashing my forehead into the mouth of a man much too close to me. He cusses and I slam both of my palms to my face, ears ringing, eyes spitting salt already.

“I’m sorry! I shouldn’t have done that!” Bryan falls back onto his ass from his crouching position.

“What are you doing?” I pull my hands from my face, rip my earphones out.

“I don’t know. I saw you lying there, and I wanted to talk to you…”

“So you grabbed my ankle? That’s shit people do before they assault someone.” My face is painted in anger and I aim it at him.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you…”

“I know you’ve lived in Mayberry your whole life, where nothing bad ever happens, but don’t ever do that. That’s weird AF.”

“Did you just say AF?” He laughs, rubbing his forehead.

“Yes,” I reply, unamused.

“That’s weird.” He smiles, and it causes my lip to turn up, but my heart is still beating out of my chest. I cross my legs at the ankles and eye him. He’s so close, smelling of a fresh shower and the faint hint of sawdust. It’s like he can't wash it off.

“Why do you want to talk to me? I haven’t heard from you in two days. Ready to hear what I have to say about that? I’m sure it’ll be loads of fun.”

“I imagine that would be a swell time, but no. Let’s save it.” He crawls over me, and I lean back, giving in without a fight. We swell and touch. His tongue is on my collarbone, pulling my top down. He traces circles there until I am warm and wet, until I am breathless. I push on his chest suddenly, startling him.

“Are you trying to get arrested?”

“Kissing you would get me arrested?”

“Fucking out in the open will get you arrested.” I hop up and walk the short distance to the gazebo steps. I take them two at a time. He follows me, walks to me, but I hold up my arm. “Why the radio silence? Regret it? Tell me what you're feeling. Why does it have to be such a goddamn mystery all the time? You're not Jordan Catalano."

He laughs, pulls his hand to his neck. "The dude was super quiet and not that smart. Sounds just like me.” He arches an eyebrow at me, a smirk playing on his full lips.

"Shut the fuck up, you watched that?" I lean against a railing, keeping my distance. I do not trust myself.

"Yeah. Au...I didn't pick it."

I don't hate her name. I don't hate her. The right for hatred is not one I can own, but I play the part. "OH. I like a show that Aurora likes? Pardon me. I need to go scrub my brain." I laugh, it sounds strange, for show. I want to pretend I am not the enemy.

"Dramatic. You're so dramatic."

"Why weren't you in the town square today? Celebrating the queen in all her glory?" Today was the Burlingame Dairy Fest. This town loves their Saturday Festivals. Aurora’s family owns the largest dairy farm in the county, just outside of town. The townsfolk gather to celebrate, scurrying in like ants from the various farms surround the city limits. There is music, food, an enthusiastic local band. That’s what I remember anyway. I didn’t go today. I didn’t want to see her, so soon, after screwing her husband. Ben asked me to go, but I refused. I was still avoiding the lunch date he had asked me on. Okay, maybe it wasn’t a date he was suggesting, but it still felt weird.

"The town loves Aurora,” Bryan says. “So, in turn, they don't like me all that much." He shrugs his shoulders. It's a habit I dislike. So non-committal, so defeatist.

"Doesn't seem fair that only one of you gets custody of the town. And I doubt that's completely true. You're the town realtor, right? That’s what you do when you’re not fixing up the school?” Ben and I had been texting. I had let him catch me up on a lot of things.

"I'm one of them. I'm not the only option."

"Yeah, but they know you. The people here love you, too."

“I don’t know. My mother is sort of dealing with the office stuff now, for me. We are both hoping they'll forget things, the movie and all that.” He stares at me, and I stare back, unmoving and unapologetic. “Enough that I won't be missing opportunities. I just gotta lay low for a while. It's all about patience, right?" He shrugs his shoulders, again, and I try not to roll my eyes.

"Is some of my sunny optimism rubbing off on you?" My optimism is for show, half performance, half habit. At least right now it is. There was a time in my life when it was real. But the summer sun cannot make me sunny on the outside.

"I think a lot of you is rubbing off on me. I always thought you would be a good influence on my life. It's part of the reason I was so drawn to you back then. I liked the thought of doing something I was scared of."

I roll my eyes, cross my legs, and go down to the gazebo floor. I stare at his shoes, transfixed. "You say you were scared of me. And I wish I believed it."

"Do you want me to show you?"

"How? If I touch you will you tremble?" I look up into his eyes, a dare. I want him to touch me again. I want to know the night down by the water wasn't a dream, some bullshit I wrote in my head.

"I always do. I just never show my cards." His jaw is set, hands in his pockets. He looks ten years younger, and I feel like a kid again. The most beautiful boy in the world is standing in front of me, and I can have him, if I want. The preacher’s son isn’t innocent. I know that now, more than ever.

"I don't believe you. Sorry, Jack."

His head is going back and forth, and he begins to pace. “You've been hangin' 'round my brother?”

I blush, feeling caught. "Why do you say that?" I do not deny it, even though it is untrue. We have only texted.

"He always did that as a kid. He gave everyone a million nicknames. So when he was talking about one of his friends, I would get frustrated with him. I never knew who he was talking about."

"I've given him shit about it." But I like it.

“That will just make him want to do it more.”

“You don't have to tell me.” I watch him lower himself to the floor, too, crawl toward me.

“Do you like him?” he asks.

I lean back, and he crawls over me, his beautiful body is flush against my own. I feel his legs against my own, his arms caging me. "What are you asking me?” He’s being jealous, foolish, and I have never seen this side of him. I wrap my legs around him once, and here we are.

“I think you know.”

“I just want to hang out tonight. To have fun with you. Let's not ruin it.”

“God. Everything has changed, huh? We switched.” He untangles, sits down in front of me, close enough to reach out. So he does.

I try not to shiver at the feel of his fingertips, grazing my knees. “How? We fucked, then you ignored me. Sounds right. You take, then run. You leave me with a million wants.” I stare at the gazebo ceiling, close my eyes, and focus on his hands.

“I was scared,” he says, hushed.

“Maybe that's not so bad though, right? Don't I deserve it? To be the one in control?” I let him push my knees apart.

“To be chased?” His hands are insistent, so I let go. I let him kiss the inside of my thighs, where I am nothing but sweat and frustration. “Yes. Yes, you do deserve it. But I hope it isn't a game.”

“Everything is a game,” I say, letting go.