Today, I will fix the mistakes I made.
The drive takes eight hours, and I pull into the familiar driveway shortly after dinnertime. The sound of the car door shutting echoes through the abandoned valley as I take in the sight of what was once my home.
Everything looks exactly the same. The barn and house are obviously still standing in the same spots, the bare patch of earth between them just as reddish brown and dry as the day I left. Maybe a little smaller, I think as I kick at a loose stone with my toe.
Years of no traffic across this stretch of the yard has enabled patches of grass to grow through, making it appear smaller. Same with the house and barn, each now surrounded by a sea of untamed green.
I turn toward the house, but my feet won’t take me forward. I know what lays beyond the front door, and as much as I have missed it, I have no desire to see it and face the memories yet.
Instead, I withdraw the tattered photograph from my pocket. I flip it around to reread the written message on the back. COME HOME.
Those two words are the reason behind my return to the place I never thought I would see again. Once I have my answers, I will go back to Philadelphia. I will find love again. It will be better than staying here, faced with daily reminders of the life I was supposed to have, but now will never have. It has to be better.
Putting the barn and house, and all the reminders the sight of them bring, behind me, I walk. I have no destination as I let my feet lead me away from the memories I’m not ready to face yet.
It’s not until the riverbank comes into view nearly an hour later that I realize where I have walked.
Did I mean to come here?
I don’t think so, but as I enjoy the view through the trees, I don’t regret it. Not like I thought I would. I keep going along the narrow dirt road, drawn to the tranquil water.
It will always be a beautiful place . . .
Just haunted by memories. There is nothing left for me here but memories.
I round the slight bend in the road and come up short when the property on the edge of the river comes into view. High on the hill, safe from spring flood waters, sits a beautiful two-story house. Dark cedar, with navy blue shutters on large open windows, and the start of what I can already tell will be an expansive deck with an amazing view.
It’s what I wanted. Exactly where he planned to make it happen.
Anger, resentment, and disbelief take their turns at slicing through me. I’m left with nothing but pain. Someone else is starting their life here, in the sacred spot that should have been ours.
Against all reason, I edge closer to the recently lain driveway, eyeing the sturdy new mailbox that stands there. It’s more than simple curiosity. It’s a deep, twisted need to know.
My heart races when I finally spot the name.
SAWYER.
Tears fill my eyes when I dart a pained look at the house. It’s Mitch’s?
I’m not ready for this. Though he’s the reason behind my return to Stone Creek, I’m not ready to face him yet. Nor am I ready to accept that he is living the life his brother and I were supposed to have together. I know it shouldn’t, but his happiness feels like a knife in my chest.
I slowly back away from the mailbox, intending to flee, when movement from the side of the house stops me. I freeze like a spooked deer, and stare at Mitch as he rounds the corner, carrying an armload of boards toward the unfinished deck.
The sight of him—the determinedly set jaw, rigid forearms, and shortly cropped, dark hair visible even from a distance—reminds me of the day our lives crashed together. The day my life really started, the day he and his boards ran me over.
Not Mitch, of course, but . . .
“Ben?”
For the first time in over two years, I say his name. It drifts from my lips as a whisper, but Mitch’s head turns as if the breeze has carried it to him. Impossible, I know, but I no longer care how he knows I’m there. I’m standing clearly in his sights now. Caught, with nowhere to go.
The boards crash to the ground, and I stifle a squeal at the harsh noise. The sound thrusts me back in time.
I’m on the ground as the boards rain down around me. He’s laughing, and I want to crawl under the barn and hide. His hand suddenly appears under my nose, and I look up . . .
With the sun at his back as he studies me now, most of Mitch’s face is shadowed, just as Ben’s had been that day. I’m definitely not ready for this. It’s too painful to look at such a striking similarity of the face I haven’t seen in three years—aside from in my dreams. They’re too much alike. They always were, as brothers, but now, even with the sun in my eyes . . .
I have to remind myself that it is Mitch approaching me, and not his brother. My head drops to hide the tears that have begun to well in my eyes as he descends the driveway to where I’m frozen in place. I know he’s close when I hear the gravel crunch beneath his feet, but I still cannot lift my eyes.
My head swirls with what I will say. What can I say?
Sorry I ran off without a word, but I couldn’t face you anymore. By the way, why were you looking for me in Philadelphia?
Brown work boots step into my line of sight, stopping two short paces away, and I know the time has come. I drag in a deep breath to prepare myself, and it whooshes out at the sound of his voice.
“Ana?”
With one word, my heart shatters. How have I forgotten how much they sounded alike?
The boots inch closer, and a tanned hand guides my chin up with gentle pressure. I squeeze my eyes shut to gather the strength I need to confront the man with a face so similar to the ghost I’ve been running from for two years. I finally blink them open, and the air rushes out of me like I took a punch to the gut.
His face is no longer shaded. I see him clearly now, but I don’t believe what I’m seeing. I try to shake the cruel hallucination out of my head, but no matter how hard I try, it doesn’t go anywhere.
It reaches out to take my hand. “Ana, I know this is a shock . . .”
“Go,” I whisper to the hallucination. “Go away . . .”
“I’m not going anywhere.” Arms encircle me and pull me against a warm and solid chest. I press my face into its shirt, enabling myself to remember his scent—even if only temporarily. Until the illusion fades.
It always fades.
“I know you’re not real,” I cry.
“It’s me, Ana. I’m real.” His voice quavers, and I fear it means he’ll disappear soon. Because he will disappear again. Because this is nothing but another hallucination. Another dream turned nightmare. Another . . .
“It’s me,” he repeats urgently.
“You have to say his name,” I squeak, “because I can’t.”
His hands cup my face, forcing me to abandon my hiding place in his chest. He’s warm. He’s never been warm before. Never been this real. I look up, frozen under his intense gaze.
“Ben,” he says. “I’m right here, Ana, and I’m—”
My knees buckle, and his face blurs seconds before the blackness rolls in. I want to scream—I don’t want to lose this illusion. I want to stay with it forever, but I can’t. No more than I know I can have him back.
I fall into a soft cocoon. Warm and soft all over as it protects me from the harshness of reality, and I don’t ever want to leave. I grimace against the unwanted sensation of something wet and cold on my forehead as it forces me out of the warmth of the cocoon.
I blink against the light that assaults my barely open eyes. With a groan, I swat at the unwanted cold thing on my forehead. I connect with something warm; I hear something that sounds like “sorry” muttered from above me . . .
It all comes back to me in a rush, and I force my eyes open wide.
The cocoon is gone, replaced by an equally comfortable couch overflowing with pillows. The cold thing is a washcloth. I watch it move away from me with wary eyes. I stare at the hand that holds it in confusion before my gaze inches up a tanned and toned arm, over shoul
ders covered by a white shirt, across a neck and jaw speckled with day-old stubble, and finally into the eyes that knocked me unconscious just moments ago.
What a horrible, cruel joke for Mitch to play on me . . .
I open my mouth to ask him why, when another Mitch rushes through the door with a glass of water in his hand. He glances at the Mitch that is kneeling beside me.
Not Mitch, I realize with a start as I take in the little details. The softer, warmer eyes; the slightly fuller lips; the faint scar above the left eyebrow. Oh, God. If that’s not Mitch beside me, then . . .
“Ana . . .” His familiar voice washes over me. “Stay with us, Ana.”
I bolt upright, nearly knocking two of us out as I push into a seated position on the couch. The room spins, and I cradle my face in my hands as I collect my bearings. The glass of water appears under my chin, and I greedily accept it with shaky hands.
“Ana, I’ll explain everything. It’s a long story, and I’ll tell you all of it soon. I promise.” A hand brushes through my hair, pulling my gaze up from my lap and into the chocolate eyes I fell in love with.
My hand reaches out to press against his chest, and I hear the sharp intake of his breath. I feel his heart pounding through the thin material of his shirt, and I want to cry all over again.
I mourned his death. I cried countless nights over his loss. Every night, I prayed for a miracle, only to be disappointed every morning when I woke up without him.
My hand fists his shirt. “You’re . . .”
“Ben. Yes. I’m here.”
“Alive?”
“Yes.”
“All . . .” My voice cracks, and I try again. “All this time?”
He nods solemnly. “Yes. I’ll explain—”
“You”—my head whips toward Mitch, where he stands in the doorway—“you came to Philadelphia to tell me?”
“Not him,” Ben answers. “I went there, looking for you.”
A year ago? My hand flies to my mouth to catch a sob. He looked for me. He left the photograph. He stood in my apartment after I left it.
He’s been here all this time . . .
My body shakes with quickly escalating emotion. I have endured over two years of grief . . . all for nothing. I left Stone Creek . . . for no reason. If only I stayed . . .
That thought sucks the air out of me, leaving me lightheaded and unable to breathe. Ben guides my chin down . . . down . . . down until my forehead touches my knees. I peek up at the sound of footsteps, and watch as the real Mitch’s shoes disappear from the room.
“Steady,” Ben coaches. “Slow and steady. Breathe in . . . and out.”
Moments pass as I struggle to catch my breath. A current of hot heat shoots through me like lightning, but I feel cold. So cold. Involuntary shivers attack me, forcing Ben to drape a warm blanket over my shoulders.
When the worst of it is over, I finally lean back. Unable to meet his worried gaze directly, I halfheartedly take in the perfectly crafted living room in which we are sitting. Beautifully painted, with matching furniture and curtains, it’s everything I once hoped for.
“You did it,” I mutter quietly.
Ben hesitates a moment before asking, “Did what?”
“The house.” Finally, I look up into his eyes. “It’s beautiful.”
His teeth come down on his lip—a new nervous tick he never had before. “I’ve had nothing but time to get it right.”
I suck in a shaky breath as I sit back in my seat. “You’ve done—”
The sound of a car speeding up the driveway cuts me off. Ben hears it a second later and jumps to his feet. His eyes dart to the clock on the wall before his head lowers with a shake.
“Ana.” He shifts to block my view of the window as a white car skids to an abrupt stop outside. “Stay here. Please. Don’t move.” A car door slams shut, and Ben takes two steps toward the door before stopping to look at me pleadingly one more time. “Please. I’ll be right back.”
He doesn’t wait for me to agree, or disagree, before he rushes to open the front door. His broad frame blocks my view of his visitor as he steps outside, but I can still hear their voices. His, and one that is definitely feminine. As they drift farther from the house, I stand and walk to the window.
I brace myself against the freshly painted white trim when I see the face behind the other voice. Tracy Ryder. Her voice rises in hysteria as Ben directs her away from the house, and toward the car.
“It’s true! Oh, God. It’s true . . .”
I can’t hear Ben’s response. I can only watch his back tense and straighten as he faces Tracy.
“What is she doing here?” Tracy demands.
Ben’s arms reach out, as if pleading with her to stay calm.
“I don’t need to give you shit, Ben! This is my house, too!”
Ben’s voice rises, but I still can’t make out what he’s saying to her. Whatever it is only upsets her more. She jabs her finger at the house while muttering something only loud enough for Ben to hear.
A few more inaudible words are exchanged between them. I watch as Tracy’s rigid posture collapses until she resembles a beaten ragdoll. With tears in her eyes, she opens the car door and slides into the driver’s seat.
My eyes are trained on Ben’s back as he watches the car turn around and rocket down the driveway, spraying gravel in its wake. When he turns toward the house, I step away from the window and make the short walk to the front door. It opens effortlessly, and quietly, under my hand. Ben’s head lifts, and he finds me standing there as I stare after the cloud of dust left behind by Tracy’s car.
“I think I should go,” I hear myself saying.
Ben sags. “Ana, no. It’s not . . .”
Not what it seems? He can’t even say the words, because that will be a lie. We both know it.
“It’s going to get dark soon,” I offer. “I need to get back.”
He shakes his head at the wooden deck beneath his feet “Back . . . as in . . .”
“To the farm,” I answer. “I have some stuff I need to take care of.”
Things I have put off for two years. Things I never would have bothered with if he hadn’t brought me back here.
Ben eyes the sky, and the quickly approaching dusk. “You walked here?”
I follow his gaze to the setting sun on the horizon, but don’t answer his question directly. Truth is, I have no idea how I ended up here. But I should be able to find my way back. “I should go before it gets dark.”
“You won’t make it back in time,” he tells me. “I’ll drive you.”
“No, that’s—”
“Ana, I’ll drive you home.”
My eyes snap to his. “It’s not home. Not anymore.”
“Right.” He stuffs his hands in his jean pockets with a sheepish nod. “I’ll drive you anyway. We have a lot to talk about.”
I’m not exactly in a “let’s talk about everything that happened over the past two years” kind of mindset, but I agree, because I know he’s right about one thing: I won’t make it back to the farm before dark.
I suspect he notices I’m not ready to talk about everything yet, because the drive there is quiet. The unspoken words between us weigh down on my shoulders, eliciting a surge of fresh tears that tickle my eyelashes. I blink them back quickly, unwilling to let them go now, in the truck, with Ben.
I fear that once I start, it will be an eternity before they stop.
He’s alive . . .
I left . . .
Tracy Ryder . . . Tracy Ryder . . .
Tracy Ryder!
Why her? Of all people, why did it have to be her?
“Ana . . .” I jump at the sound of his voice, and realize that we’re stopped in front of the dark farm house. “We’re here.”
The sun is gone, creating an illusion of shadows around me. Shadows I used to know, but now cower from. I stare at the door that opens into the kitchen as I try to get up the nerve to go inside.
“Do you .
. . even have electricity, or . . .” Ben struggles to get out.
“I stopped by the electric company earlier,” I answer. “It’s supposed to be turned on.”
Ben’s eyes rake over the house with skepticism. “Do you want me to . . . I can make sure . . . everything is in working order for you,” he offers.
“That would be great.” I nod and offer a small smile, but I still don’t move to get out of the truck. In an attempt to stall, I run my hands over the crisp dashboard. “Is this new?”
“It’s a company truck, so they paid for it, but yeah, it’s new.”
“Who are you working for?”
“B&R Construction.”
Just like he planned to do when he came back—just not exactly at the time he planned to come back. I shut my mind down when I start to wonder what happened. He said it’s a long story, and I want to know it. But not yet. Not tonight.
My gaze drifts through the windshield, toward the barn. The roof he repaired is nothing but a dark shadow surrounded by shadows. My thoughts drift to the distant sunny days when our problems were nothing but speed bumps on the road to real turmoil. Days when we sat in a completely different truck, fantasizing about the future we had no way of knowing would never happen.
“What happened to Old Red?”
“She died on me about six months ago,” Ben answers with a grimace.
Even the damn truck we created so many memories in is gone. The tears spring up again, and I feel trapped in the traitorous new, unfamiliar truck. Suddenly, I need to get out.
My hand fumbles to find the handle, and I push the door open with a huff. In my haste, I nearly fall out. By the time I regain my footing, Ben is rounding the front of the truck.
“You alright?”
“Yeah. I need to go,” I answer weakly.
I’m running again. I know it, and I’m pretty sure he knows it, too.
He nods despite the unease that lines his face. “At least let me make sure everything’s working in the house.”
I wordlessly dig the house key out of my pocket, and shuffle toward the door. Despite my urgency to get out of his truck a moment ago, I’m in no hurry to go inside. Perhaps because I know once he finishes checking the house over, he’ll have no reason to stay. I’m not sure I’m ready to let him out of my sight yet.
What Comes Next Page 27
