Running Scared (Letters From Morgantown Book 1)

by Tracie Puckett

  The nightmares flooded back—every time I was alone— when the night fell dark . . . Always. Every time.

  “Pull up a seat, talk to me,” Theo said, nodding over to the small table at the back of the kitchen. I took the nearest chair and he sat across from me. “How’re you holding up?”

  I shrugged, because why offer him an answer? It’s not like he would say or do anything to make it better.

  I’d checked out. There was no way to escape my fears and insecurities. The thoughts were always there, and I was always seconds away from breaking down. It took every ounce of strength I had not to give into my pain.

  “It’s okay if you’re hurting,” Theo said, reading me again.

  “Good thing, I guess.”

  “What happened to your family was tragic,” he said. I looked away from him, determined not to let him see the tears welling up in my eyes. “You don’t have to hold it in, you know? I don’t know why you do—maybe because you think you have to, or maybe because you think it makes you stronger.”

  Or maybe because there was nothing anyone could say or do. The one person I loved most in the world was gone. No one could comfort me. No one understood. I was alone, and it was up to me to figure my own way through this.

  No one can help you now.

  “Crying is not a sign of weakness,” he said, trying to catch my stare, but I refused to look him in the eye. I couldn’t let him see the tear that’d fallen down my cheek. “Sydney, do you hear me?”

  “Yeah, Theo, I hear you. I’m allowed to hurt. I’m allowed to cry. I just can’t tell people why I’m hurt or why I cry. Is that right?”

  He sighed. “Lies are necessary when the truth is too dangerous,” he said. “There’s nothing I can say that’s going to make this easier for you. But if I can try? Give it time.”

  “Time,” I scoffed. I was tired of hearing that time was the solution to mending my broken heart. I’d heard it all before, mostly from Gary over the last week and a half: in time we’d have new arrangements. In time everything would change. In time my wounds would heal.

  “It’s true,” he promised. “In time, you’ll adjust; it’ll become natural. Open yourself up to time, love, and good food.” He smiled. “With those three things in your corner, there’s no pain you can’t heal. And since we haven’t had enough time, and love is hard to come by, why don’t we start with some food?”

  I shrugged again.

  He wasn’t offended by my lack of warmth, and it surprised me that he kept trying to appease me, despite the fact that I hadn’t given him an inch.

  There was something about Theo that suggested sincerity, but I had my reservations about trusting anyone who could so easily walk away from me—especially when they knew exactly what kind of struggle I faced every moment of the day.

  “What do you like, Little Bird?” Theo asked. “What’s your breakfast of choice?”

  “Anything. Whatever you’ve got.”

  “No,” he shook his finger at me. “Tell me what you want.”

  “I’ll eat about anything, really,” I said, annoyed. “Eggs.”

  “Eggs, it is.”

  “Sunny-side up?” I asked. “Rosa would always . . . ”

  I caught myself trailing off. She was off limits. She was one of the many things I wasn’t allowed to talk about.

  But how could I pretend she didn’t exist? She was as much a part of my life as my father was. Mom died when I was only one, leaving Dad and me to take on the world together. When Rosa came into our lives, our family felt whole again. I’d always looked at her as a mother, even though she was never romantically involved with my dad. Rosa came along as hired help, answering a want ad for a nanny position when I was only two. Little did Dad know, when he hired her all those years ago, he was giving me so much more than a nanny. And when I lost him, I lost her, too. I lost my whole family.

  “I’m sorry,” Theo said, his eyes softening. “I can’t let you . . . you can’t talk about her.”

  “I know.” I swallowed hard, trying to repress it, but the memory was stronger than my will. Every morning I woke up to the same breakfast: Rosa’s scrambled eggs. And I ate them without complaint. “I prefer them sunny-side up.”

  Theo smiled.

  I didn’t know how he could do that, stand there smiling at me while I was expected to erase the memories of my life before Morgantown. Seventeen perfect, happy years, right down the drain. He could never understand how hard it was for me to mourn a loss, especially when I had to carry on with my life like that loss hadn’t happened. He was oblivious.

  “What else?”

  “What else?” I asked

  “What more do you like?”

  “Oh.” I sat straighter in my chair. I tucked my legs up beneath me and thought about all the mornings back home—all the diners, all the cafes, all the times I’d shared a breakfast with Dad and Rosa. With thoughts of my family flooding back, my resentment for Theo in that moment washed away and settled in the back of my mind.

  “Pancakes and waffles, home fries and hash browns,” I started. “Fruit—strawberries, blueberries, bananas, apples, you name it. Syrup’s good, no such thing as too much syrup. I could eat biscuits and gravy every day of my life and not get sick of it.”

  “Is there anything you don’t eat?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “You very well may be my favorite person in the world.”

  Theo jumped to his feet and rushed back to the counter. After unpacking the groceries, he fired up the stove and set to work.

  Fifteen minutes later and two bites into a stack of apple cinnamon pancakes—only one of three plates he’d delivered to my table—I looked up at Theo and watched as he cleaned his station.

  “Thank you,” I said. “It’s delicious.”

  “Ah, thanks, Little Bird,” he said. “It’s Chris’s favorite. That’s the first dish I made for him when I started here. He was a little tike back then.” He smiled, reflecting on the memory. “Can’t believe it’s been fifteen years . . . the best fifteen years of my life.”

  The door pushed open, and Chris entered the kitchen, disheveled and groggy. Dressed in a pair of red flannel pajama bottoms and a white cotton t-shirt, he’d clearly rolled out of bed and trekked his way to the kitchen without much thought or concern for his appearance. His dark hair was an unkempt mess, and he rubbed his eyes to adjust to the morning light.

  “Ah, food,” he said, taking the pancakes Theo set aside for him. He sat down across from me at the small table, and it wasn’t until he’d taken two bites that his gaze trailed up to me. “How’d you sleep?”

  “Lousy,” I admitted, and he perked up. “The room is perfect. I just . . . I slept too long yesterday. It made for a long night.”

  “Oh.” His shoulders relaxed as he turned back to his food. “Any plans for the day?”

  “I think I’ll stay in, hang around Theo.” Where I was safe. Protected. Looked after.

  “Unfortunately, I’m not here today,” Theo said, turning back from the sink full of dishes. “This was a quick swing by. In and out. I have food truck duties today. I’m working the town square, but you’re welcome to join me if that sounds like something you’d—”

  “I don’t wanna go to town,” I said, no more convinced today than I was yesterday that leaving was a good idea. “You’re leaving again?”

  “I have to, Little Bird,” he said. “I have my lunch gig in town. Come with me. I’m happy to have you.”

  “No,” I said, dropping my head. Why had I even let the thought cross my mind that Theo would stick around? “It’s okay.” I turned to Chris. “Are you staying?”

  “Yeah, I’ll be here.”

  Then I would stay, too. Not that staying with Chris was a bad solution. I was far more comfortable with him, anyway.

  “I’m going to stay busy, though, painting the dining room,” Chris said. “It’s the last one on the list. You still up for helping out?”

  “Yeah,” I nodded. “If
you’re offering?”

  “I’m offering,” he said, seeming to run through a list of tasks in his head. “I could use an extra pair of hands today.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  “Great. It’ll be an adventure.”

  There was something behind his smile that hinted he had a lot more than painting in mind for our day.

  I hoped I hadn’t gotten myself into something I was going to regret.

  Chapter Seven

  “Have you suddenly taken a stand against color?” I asked, staring at the creamy liquid in the can.

  There was nothing to it; it was the same white paint he’d covered the foyer and common room walls with. The dining room was last on the list, and by the end of the day, the dark maroon walls would be a thing of the past.

  “I don’t have a problem with color,” Chris said.

  “But white?”

  “For your information, this is a classic color choice. It’s called Snow White,” he said, his voice thick with sarcasm. “It makes a statement; and it’s far different than White Ice, Dove, or even Eggshell.”

  “You’re serious?”

  “Oh, of course,” he said, but I couldn’t gauge by his tone whether he was joking or not.

  “Isn’t white just white?” I asked.

  He laughed. “Try getting that argument by Danielle.” He knelt to stir the liquid. “She carried swatches around for weeks before she finally landed on a final decision.”

  I shook my head, careful not to scoff. I wasn’t at all surprised to learn that Danielle had gotten the final say, considering she seemed to enjoy handing out orders. Still, the mention of her name left a bitter taste in my mouth. It was unsettling to think that Chris would give her opinion so much weight, unless there was a reason he felt he had to.

  “Is she your girlfriend?” I asked.

  “Danielle?”

  “Yeah.”

  “No, God, no.” He shook his head. “She works here, and she has a lot of opinions about the way things should go. I choose my battles. If something as simple as choosing a paint color will keep her off my back for a while, I’m not going to fight her.”

  “Oh.” I tried to ignore the strange wave of solace I felt at his response. No, God, no. “So how long have you had the B&B closed down?”

  “A week and a half now,” he said. “We planned for two weeks to paint the bedrooms upstairs, tackle the main level, and make a few minor renovations. Now we’re left to start the holiday decorations before guests start flocking into town for the annual Christmas celebration. With the Carlsons coming in, we’re booked solid on Friday night.”

  “That’s soon.”

  “I have some time before I start feeling the pressure.”

  “You have until tomorrow,” I reminded him, remembering Danielle’s curt I’ll be back on Wednesday. “I’m pretty sure you should feel the pressure now.”

  “Perfect time to change the subject.” He smiled as he spread his drop cloths across the dining room. He turned a look over his shoulder. “What’s your favorite part of Christmas?”

  “The decorations,” I said, content with removing our focus from Danielle. “I always liked the preholiday stuff the most—picking out the tree, bringing it home, decorating it.”

  I sank down into the couch, looking over the back to watch Chris in the room behind me. He buzzed around the room. I let my mind drift back to Christmases past.

  “Rosa was in charge of the food, making cookies while Dad fussed with the tree,” I said. “I was on standby, waiting with a box of lights and ornaments, ready to give the tree a festive makeover.” I turned and gazed out the window at the snow. “Dad never waited until Christmas Eve to set the presents out; he liked having the gifts on display as early as possible.”

  “Temptation at its finest,” Chris said, looking to me, as if soaking up every word I’d offered in a weak moment of reminiscence.

  I jerked my eyes away from him, hoping he wouldn’t read into anything that hinted at the life I’d left behind. I couldn’t daydream about Rosa or Dad, not out loud. Not in front of Chris.

  “It would take a strong will to keep from opening presents when they’re paraded under your nose,” he said, drawing me back to the conversation. “I’d peek. Did you peek?”

  “I did,” I admitted. “I opened most of them weeks before Christmas. I have little patience when presents are on the line. What about you?” I asked, eager to throw the focus elsewhere. “What’s your favorite part?”

  “Christmas Eve night,” he said. “Nothing compares.”

  “Yeah?”

  “It’s dark, and cold, and the house gets quiet,” he said, letting go of a sigh. “The kitchen smells like the remnants of a feast and sugar cookies, and you walk through the common room and the tree’s all lit up. And you stop. You pause to stare at it, feeling that childhood magic it represents.

  “You know what I’m talking about? The thought of leaving cookies and milk on the table, and curling up in bed to listen for reindeer, knowing that there’ll be gifts under the tree when you wake up.” He paused for a minute, shaking his head. “The memories of what Christmas Eve used to be, I guess.”

  Silence settled between us again as we drew ourselves back to the happier times in our lives. I drifted away in a daydream, going back home—shopping for gifts with Carrie while we gossiped about boys. This year, we would’ve even gone to the mall to find dresses for the winter formal. And then at the end of any given December day, I could always count on returning home to Rosa’s freshly baked cookies while the fireplace roared and Christmas music scratched on vinyl in the background. I closed my eyes as I distinctively heard my father singing “Silver Bells.”

  “I love that song,” Chris said, and it was only then that I realized I was humming along with the memory.

  My cheeks flushed. “Sorry.”

  “Hey, listen, I have to drive out of town later today to pick up a tree,” Chris said, popping the lid off the first paint can.

  I had a vague idea where he was going with this, because I’d suspected he’d planned more for the day than painting one room. When he eased into his next few words with an air of caution, I was praying he wouldn’t ask me to tag along.

  “You wouldn’t want to join me, would you?” he asked.

  “You mean . . . leave?”

  “Sure,” he said. “We’ll have the first coat on the walls by noon, and since we still need a tree, I thought we could pick one up while this dries.”

  I shook my head. The confinement of the B&B walls was my only surefire bet for staying out of harm’s way.

  “Thanks, but—”

  “I could use your help,” he said. “Too many options and I start to get overwhelmed. I’m not exactly the decisive type. Besides, you said it yourself: the preholiday stuff is where it’s at. You like picking out trees, remember?”

  “I did say that, didn’t I?” Why had I told him that?

  “I wouldn’t dare ask you to brave Morgantown yet,” he said. “I’m sure everyone knows you’ve arrived by now, but we can let that news marinate for a while. Desden’s only an hour drive in the opposite direction. If you don’t mind a small road trip?”

  He was trying, hinting that we would be far enough away for anyone to care. No one would bother us. No one would notice. We’d be two normal people, out for the afternoon, picking up a tree for Christmas. That seemed like the safer option, though I couldn’t know for sure. I didn’t know anything about Morgantown, only what I’d picked up from the others. And what I’d come to understand was that Gary had left me in a small town, full of people eager to meet newcomers.

  “It’s a nice offer, thank you, but I don’t have a coat,” I said, looking down to one of the two outfits I owned. It wasn’t the best excuse to avoid going out, but it was still a reasonable one. With as cold as it’d gotten this winter, it wouldn’t have been smart to journey outside for any length of time without warm clothing.

  “I’m sure I have something
that’ll fit,” he said, still watching me with an eager grin. “What do you say? You wanna come?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I wouldn’t leave your side for a second,” he promised, as if he knew my reluctance was born of fear.

  It wasn’t the best idea to leave; I’d settled on that last night. Staying put, right where we were . . . it was safer than the alternative. But I’d been trapped inside a pair of walls for the last twelve days, and to some extent, it’d become self-imposed isolation. I wasn’t a prisoner; I had the option of leaving, of walking freely anywhere I wanted to go. Liberties to do the normal things again. I didn’t like hiding away. It’s not as though I wanted to feel trapped. It felt like the only option.

  But now Chris was offering another choice—leaving, going far enough away that we wouldn’t be recognized, and doing something I actually enjoyed doing for a change. And he would be there, to watch out for me. I wouldn’t have to be alone. I wouldn’t leave your side for a second.

  If he left me alone here, sitting inside, I would break again. Crumble. I’d feel myself tearing apart, falling victim to those same familiar taunts that haunted me. I couldn’t bear the thought of spending my day trapped inside my mind.

  At least, out of the house and with someone else at my side, I could count on a distraction. And any kind of diversion from the last few weeks would be a welcome change of pace.

  I wanted to go. I just had to be brave enough to get myself out the door.

  ***

  Bundled beneath a hooded sweatshirt and jacket, both on loan from Chris, I secured my seatbelt and drew in a liberating breath.

  We pulled away from the B&B in silence, the only sound coming from the sputtering engine of the Chevy pickup.

  Thirty minutes into the drive, Chris turned on the radio, letting the holiday music fill the silence at a low volume. He seemed content without conversation, and I was grateful for that.

  I kept my eyes focused out the passenger’s side window, watching as the scenery rolled by. One empty field after another, each covered in a layer of snow, was all I could see for miles. Everywhere I looked, farmland backed up to clusters of dense forest. Rolling hills of more snow and farmland. Nothing commercial in sight. We were as far out into the country as I could imagine.