Leo: A More Than Series Spin-Off

by McLean, Jay

  He looked at me then, really looked at me. And I could see the pain in his eyes, the torment. “All of this” wasn’t easy on him, either. Three of his sons had been there that night. Logan even witnessed the crime. And Laney… Laney was like a daughter to him, and not once had anyone ever asked if he was okay.

  So, I’d agreed to go.

  For him.

  * * *

  As soon as the old farmhouse comes into view, I realize just how neglected it had been. From the gravel road, I can see the old wooden siding rotting and the multiple layers of paint peeling. The gutters have seen better days, and the posts holding up the front porch are barely doing their job.

  It’ll take me all summer to replace and repair them, and maybe that’s a good thing. Though, I don’t know how I’m supposed to do all this on my own. The house itself looks to be sitting on acres and acres of the same green pastures I’d been passing. Next to it is a giant barn in similar condition to the house. Everything seems to be falling apart.

  When I pull into the driveway, I notice an older man sitting in a rocking chair on the porch. He stands when he sees me and raises his hand in a small wave. He’s exactly how I pictured him: gray hair, gray beard, stooped posture. He’s wearing a red flannel shirt and worn jeans held up by suspenders that stretch as he makes his way down the porch steps.

  Once my truck’s stopped, I hop out and shake his hand. “You must be Leo,” he says, his tone deep, words accented.

  “Yes, sir.”

  His hands are rough, similar to my dad’s, most likely from years of manual labor.

  “I’m John.” He releases my hand and starts up the porch steps. “Thanks for coming.”

  “It’s no problem, sir.” I don’t know how many details Dad gave him about why I’m here, so I add, “I appreciate you letting me stay.”

  He sits back in his rocking chair, pointing to the porch swing. “Sit.”

  “It’s okay,” I assure. “I’ve been sitting for three hours straight.”

  Music plays from inside the house, floating out of an open window. “Lean on Me” by Bill Withers fills my ears, and I’m quick to push away the memories of a girl, a water tower, and the summers I wasted falling for her.

  “Yes, long drive,” he groans, getting to his feet again. “I’ll show you your room.” He leads me into the house, the hint of coffee and old newspaper permeating through the thick, dust-covered air. It’s dark inside, the curtains drawn, and it’s… bland. All the furniture matches—if different shades of tan counts as matching—and nothing is decorating the walls, the floors. To the right of the doorway is a basic kitchen, to the left, the living room. Directly ahead is a short, narrow set of stairs. John holds on to the railing as he slowly climbs each one, his breaths getting louder and heavier with every step. The house is a split-level, so it’s only six stairs instead of the usual twelve. The narrow walkway opens up to a landing with another tan couch and an old box television. He leads me to a room off the landing. “Your room,” he says, turning to me, his bushy beard shifting with his smile. He points to the door beside the bedroom. “Bathroom.” Then he points to a door. “That leads to the attic—the no-go zone.”

  “Got it.” With a nod, I look around the space, my home for the summer. “Where do you sleep?”

  “Below,” he says. “Stairs off the living room.”

  “Right.”

  “Is it okay for you?”

  “Absolutely.” I nod again. “All I need is a bed.”

  “Yes,” he says, pointing a finger at me. “Your apa said you don’t need much.”

  “Apa?”

  “Father.” I make a mental note to look up apa on my phone and translate it, so I know where he’s from. “Anyway,” he huffs. “You settle in, rest, look around if you want. Dinner’s at six thirty.”

  “Oh, you don’t have to feed me,” I rush out. “I can go into town or—”

  “Tomorrow, we start work,” he cuts in. “But tonight, we eat together.”

  I force a smile. “Yes, sir.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Leo

  Ever since Laney came to the house for the first time and beat Lucas in a race, he’d put everything into running track... all so he could impress her. They were ten years old, and he’s loved her from the moment he met her. Or, at least, that’s the story Luke likes to tell.

  Obviously, I haven’t lived his life, so I can’t speak his truths, but—if you ask me, he’s full of shit.

  Anyways… running has always been Lucas’s thing. For him, running is a sport—a competition. Or at least it was.

  After almost losing Laney, he seems to have given up on it.

  When it was just Laney and me, she confided that she hated that he no longer ran and that he spent every waking moment of his life taking care of her. I wanted to tell her good. It’s the least he could fucking do. But all I said was, “Sucks.”

  I don’t run for the same reasons he did. I run to escape, to physically and mentally exhaust myself until my body and every living thing inside of it no longer functions, no longer thinks. Thinking creates the memories, the anger, the rage—all caused by the regret.

  I woke up at 4:20, no alarm needed. John didn’t mention what time he wanted us to start work, so I waited until around six, and when there was no sign of life, I slipped on my running gear and stepped out. As soon as I opened the front door, the morning sun blasted through my irises. It took a moment for them to focus, and when they did, the only thing I could see was an ocean of green. Tucking the house key that John had given me during last night’s dinner into my sock, I hit play on my phone, attached by a strap to my arm, and adjust my earbuds. “Sucker For Pain” abuses my eardrums as I step off the porch.

  I start slow, but it doesn’t take long for me to find the rhythm, for my legs to work on muscle memory alone. I don’t keep track of time or distance. I just run. Back home, I’d have to slow at corners or watch for cars or cracks in the sidewalk. Here, there’s nothing but a level road that goes on and on and on. I run until my body caves. And then I stop, turn around, and start again.

  By the time I get back to the house, it’s almost seven thirty. The front door’s already open with soft music playing from an old stereo. The smell of coffee fills the air, fills my lungs, and I look around for John. He’s not anywhere I can see, so I climb the stairs, two at a time, and head straight for the shower.

  I open the door, and my eyes bug out, my pulse halts, and my jaw… my jaw’s on the goddamn floor. The once-naked girl is now wrapping a towel around her, and her mouth is moving, but I can’t make out what she’s saying. Basic instinct tells me to lick the dryness off my lips, and so I do, trying hard not to focus on the girl’s smooth, pale shoulders; her wet, dark hair creating an illusion of oil spilled on untouched sand.

  An open hand flies toward me, and I duck it just in time.

  Light brown eyes, wide and filled with fury, and then her lips… the perfect shade of pink. I zone in on the lips, a hint of familiarity flicking at my brain, like static electricity buzz, buzz, buzzing across every cell, every vein.

  “Get out!” I hear over Lil Wayne shouting in my ears.

  A hand shoves at my shoulder, pushing me back, and then the door slams an inch from my nose.

  For the first time since I opened the door, I blink. Exhale. Try to force air back into my lungs.

  I’m unaware of time passed when the door opens again. I haven’t moved a muscle. The girl’s dressed now and her eyes… those lips…

  Mia.

  I don’t know if I say it out loud, but she shakes her head and reaches up, her hand brushing against my cheek.

  My eyes drift shut.

  All those thoughts, all those memories I’ve spent two fucking years trying to ignore, trying to fight—they hit. All at once. Like a punch to the gut, a match to an inferno.

  Lil Wayne fades, and she says my name.

  I open my eyes.

  She’s holding up my earbud between us, o
ne eyebrow quirked. “Jeez. Stare much?”

  It had always been my choice not to speak up, or speak in general, but right now… I can’t find my voice.

  I can’t even find my damn equilibrium.

  She picks up my hand, drops the earbud in my palm, and then rushes down the stairs. “Papa!”

  I follow.

  Because I can’t not.

  Mia is here.

  John is her papa.

  And how the fuck didn’t I figure that out?

  John appears from somewhere in the living room. “What’s wrong, baba?”

  “You said you had a boy helping with the house…” Her voice has changed, deepened a little. Matured in a way you wouldn’t notice if you spoke to someone often.

  “Yes,” John points to me. “That’s The Boy.” He’s looking at her like, duh, and I’m looking at her like…

  Like I did when I was thirteen years old, through the screen of my sister’s phone as I took the picture… a picture I still hold on to almost four years later.

  “You didn’t tell me it was—” Mia starts, and then looks over at me. I don’t know what she sees, but the anger in her voice seems to fade, just a tad. “Is he staying here?” she asks her grandpa, though she’s still looking at me. “At the house?”

  “Yes,” John answers, and it’s clear he has no idea who Mia and I are to each other... or were... once upon a time. “You okay, baba?”

  Mia nods, her throat bobbing with her swallow. “Yeah.” She shakes her head, droplets falling from her hair onto the wooden floor. “I’m fine.”

  She’s fine.

  I, on the other hand, am not.

  Strong fingers grasp at my shoulders, bringing me back to the moment. To reality. “Okay,” John almost shouts. “Shower first, then we work.”

  It takes an incredible amount of effort to peel my eyes away from Mia and face her grandpa. “Yes, sir.”

  But I don’t move. The room does, though. The walls—they slowly move in on me, closer and closer, and the air shifts, thicker and thicker.

  “Okay… so go,” John urges. And so I do. It’s just one foot in front of the other. I’d been doing it all damn morning, and none of those steps had felt as heavy as the few I take to go up the stairs. In a daze, I go to my room and grab a change of clothes, and when I come back out, Mia’s hand is on the door of the no-go zone, her body half turned to me. “I didn’t know you’d be here.” There’s no inflection in her tone. No anger. No joy. But I see it in her eyes—in the stillness of her stare. It’s the same way she looked at me the last time I saw her.

  At least this time, there are no tears.

  My mouth opens, closes, and the only thing I can think to say is the same thing I said only minutes ago. “Sorry.”

  And then I get in the bathroom, close the door behind me. Lock it. I grip onto the sink, my shoulders hunched, my chest rising and falling with each forced breath.

  Mia is here.

  And here is her home.

  And I’ve never been more terrified in my life.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Leo

  My mind is a racetrack, my thoughts the cars, around and around and around. I try to focus on the task at hand—at the blurred numbers stamped onto the measuring tape right in front of my eyes. A bead of sweat streaks down my temple, across my jaw, and I wipe it away with my shoulder. “So?” John calls, sitting on the rocking chair on the porch. He has a pencil in one hand, a small notepad in the other, waiting for me to call out the measurements.

  Technically, I don’t have a problem reading numbers. It’s letters that fuck me over, but right now—I can’t make sense of anything.

  “You hungry?” John asks, and I shake my head. “You hot?” Another head shake. “You need a break?”

  “I’m okay, sir.”

  I’m fully aware that he’s looking at me. I’m also aware of how he’s looking at me. He’s probably questioning my ability to perform basic tasks and wondering why the hell, out of all his boys, my dad decided to send me. I occasionally catch my dad looking at me the same way when I work on his crew. He never says anything. He’s used to my “issues.”

  This isn’t like those times, though. I’m not “checked out.” In fact, I’m over-sensitized. I can still feel Mia’s touch, her eyes on mine, the smell of her shampoo, or whatever the hell it was that had her smelling so damn good. To be honest, I’m reliving her standing in front of me. Naked. And I can’t seem to get the image out of my head.

  If John knew I was thinking about his granddaughter the way I am, he’d probably kick my ass out, and he’d have every right.

  At fifteen, I sat next to Mia on that water tower, and, yeah, I had similar thoughts. But they didn’t go as far as what I’d just witnessed. I used to imagine what it would be like to kiss her, hold her hand, maybe even touch her in certain ways, certain places. But now? It’s been two years, and I’ve had more experience with the physical shit. Add all that to the fact that all of those “experiences” were my way of trying to emotionally connect with someone the way I did with Mia and fuck. I’m screwed, and I have no idea how to unscrew myself.

  It’s only been three hours since she locked herself away in what I assume is her room, and I have the entire summer left. I don’t know how the hell I’m going to make it.

  “Maybe some water?” John asks, pulling my thoughts away from his naked granddaughter.

  He’s still looking at me as if I’m incompetent, and I really need to make more of an effort. “Yeah, that might help,” I mumble, retracting the measuring tape just as a beat-up truck pulls into the driveway. The sun glares off the windows, so I can’t see who’s inside, but the obnoxious honking pisses me off. A moment later, a guy steps out, his dirty-blond hair hidden beneath a cap pulled low on his brow. He cups his hand around his mouth and looks up at the peak of the house. “Mia Mac!”

  The reaction is immediate. First a squeal, then thunderous footsteps, and then the screen door flies open, rebounding off John’s rocking chair. Mia doesn’t even notice her grandpa as she runs down the porch steps toward the open arms of Obnoxious Horn Honker. She practically jumps on him, and he’s too late to catch her. Weak. They both land on the dirt, he on his back and Mia straddling his torso.

  Jealousy burns a hole in my chest, and I should look away. I know I should. But I can’t.

  “Jesus, Mia,” the guy laughs out. “Happy to see me much?”

  She has both hands pressed against his cheeks. “I could kiss your entire face.”

  He grimaces, tries pushing her off of him. “Please don’t.”

  Mia raises a fist. “I could punch your entire face.”

  The guy chuckles, his grin wide. “Please don’t do that either.”

  John’s standing next to me now, a low rumble of laughter making his shoulders bounce. “Baba, let the boy go.”

  “Yeah, baba,” mocks the guy, his hands on Mia’s shoulders as he shoves her to the side. She rolls off of him and onto her back, and she’s smiling, laughing in a way I’d never seen. Never heard. The guy gets to his feet and offers her his hand. And when she looks up at him, her hair curtaining her face, I see a version of her that I’d only been privy to a few times.

  She once told me that I brought out a side of her that no one else does, but she lied. This Mia, this confident, carefree girl currently dusting the dirt off her clothes, existed prior. And the guy picking leaves out of her hair brought it out of her way before I came along.

  “It’s good to see you, Holden,” John says, his arms crossed as he watches them.

  Mia looks up at him as if realizing for the first time that they have an audience, and that audience includes me. Her cheeks redden as Holden makes his way over to us. He shakes hands with John and says, “What’s good, Papa John?”

  “Everything is good now,” John responds. “I’ve missed seeing you two together. How’s your anya?”

  Holden glances at me quickly and disregards me just as fast. “Mom’s good. She mis
ses you, though.”

  “What about me?” Mia calls from behind him. She jumps on his back, and this time, he catches her. Legs wrapped around Holden’s waist, his arms locked beneath her knees, she leans forward so she can look at him. “Does she miss me?”

  “Doubt it.” Holden chuckles. “She never even mentions you.”

  “Liar,” Mia retorts, and she can’t stop smiling at him.

  “This is Leo,” John tells Holden, and suddenly, I’m standing taller, sizing him up.

  “Hey, man,” he says, nodding in greeting. “I’d shake your hand, but…” He adjusts Mia’s legs, lifting her higher on his back. His grin falters, his eyes widening slightly. “Wait. Leo?” His gaze shifts between John and me. “As in Leo Pre—” Mia covers his mouth with one hand, the other on his forehead, pulling his head back.

  “We’re gonna go, Papa,” she says, teeth gritted.

  Holden curses beneath her palm, and she lets go of him the same time he releases her. They walk over to his truck, where he opens the driver’s side door, and Mia gets inside, slides over to the passenger seat. It’s a move so swift and effortless; it’s as if they’ve done it a thousand times before. Holden turns to us, says to John, “You’ll let me know when you’re making your goulash, right?”

  “Anytime you want, son.” John chuckles. “You bring her back in one piece, okay?”

  “Always, sir.” Holden fixes his gaze on me. “Later, Preston.”

  I watch the truck back out, then enter the road, the laughter from a lifetime of friendship fading as they drive away. It feels as if the earth is shifting. As if the ground beneath me has separated from the rest, and I’m floating, floating, gone.

  I wonder if Mia ever felt this way the summers she stayed with us. And I wonder what all she’s told that Holden guy about me. I just hope that whatever it is, she remembers us the same way I do.

  That at some point, she saw the good in me.

  And the good outweighed the bad.