Finding Refuge

by J. P. Oliver

  I pushed through the lobby, heavy with the scent of lemony disinfectant spray. The source of the stench was on the other side of the sliding glass window in reception, where another one of the doctors was wiping down the counters.

  Her name was Sara Anderson. She was five years older than me but was technically my employee. Born and raised in North Creek, just like the rest of us, I knew more about her now as colleagues than I ever did in school. Sure, she would run around with the Savage family like I did, but she was a couple years ahead of me and Zach. Out of our league.

  She huffed as I came in through the door, and the noise made me skid to a stop. Her brown eyes were focused intently. Her blonde hair, long and tied back, seemed like it was coming out from her scrubbing so vigorously.

  “Hey?”

  “Hey,” Sara said. She paused, thought about it, and dropped the lemon-scented paper towel into the wastebasket.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  Sara flopped back into the vacant receptionist chair, examining me.

  “I was about to ask the same thing—and then I remembered Zach Savage was back in town as of today.”

  “Yeah,” I muttered, pacing across the room to grab my doctor’s coat.

  She followed, spinning lightly in the chair. “I take it you saw him?”

  “What gave you that idea?”

  “Well, I looked out the front door and saw you having a mini-crisis in your car. I figured either it had something to do with Zach or you’re about to be patient zero in some sort of comatose zombie-esque plague.”

  I shot her a look, shrugging the jacket over my shoulders.

  “What?” she asked, voice smooth and low. “I figured the former was more likely.”

  “Mm.”

  “Was I wrong?”

  “No,” I finally sighed. “Not wrong.”

  Sara clicked her tongue. “Figured. How’d that go over?”

  “About as well as you’d expect. I thought I’d be out of there before he got there, and when he wasn’t, I cracked.” I held my fingers up to measure, “Just a little. He was being a prick.”

  “How so?”

  I paused. It wasn’t that he’d done anything specifically irritating—it was that he did nothing at all. He barely said two words to me, and I felt a little rush of retroactive embarrassment, knowing I’d done most of the talking.

  “He seemed just as pissed at me,” I finally said, “like that has any founding whatsoever. He didn’t say more than, like, four words to me. All he talked about was that he was definitely going back to Virginia when this is all done, so.”

  “It’s something,” Sara offered optimistically.

  I let out a little laugh. “Oh, it was something, all right.”

  With a smirk, she kicked her leg out to nudge my ankle lazily. “Well, hey, you know Zach. He’s an idiot.”

  “Don’t I know it.”

  “He’s gonna keep being an idiot, because he’s Zach, but… he’ll come around eventually. He always does, right?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “He does.”

  Not that I believed it would apply to us now. People were capable of shocking and surprising one another and reconciling and coming to their senses, but in the case of Zach Savage, I didn’t have much hope. It’d take a goddamn miracle for us to have a change to mend what was broken between us.

  “Enough about my ugly past walking the streets of North Creek. What about you?” I asked.

  “Huh?”

  “You seemed pretty pissed about a minute ago.”

  “Oh,” she deadpanned. “I was just scrubbing the counters because some shit passed through here. It was foul, had a real evil stink to it.”

  “Foul?” I asked, laughing a little. “What the hell’s that supposed to mean? Sounds more like witchcraft than medicine to me—”

  “A developer was snooping around.”

  That was enough to stop me dead in my tracks. Twice in one day; it’d be Sara’s new record.

  “What?”

  “Yup,” she said, popping emphasis on the p. “Passed through here to chat. Total bullshit. He was trying to get friendly, I think. Seems like the type—you know, get to know the locals, make nice so they don’t sniff out the shit you’ve been doing.”

  “What the hell was a developer doing out here?”

  “Apparently he’s interested in buying up a patch of land south of North Creek.”

  I frowned. She was right; this was foul.

  “What for?”

  “You know,” Sara said. “The problem with these fancy cats who come in and try to turn a profit on the land—the kind who gets really friendly? They talk too goddamn much.”

  “Sara, what’d he tell you?”

  A knowing, worrying look passed between us.

  “They want to build a new hospital. I’m hardly paraphrasing when I say: big, fancy, and expensive. Something to really knock the socks off this little town of ours.”

  3

  Zach

  “Ready? Blue! Fifty-two! Sacramento! Apple—”

  “That’s not how you do it, Uncle Anthony!”

  Uncle Anthony tossed his head back, laughing, before shouting, “Hike!”

  I watched from relative safety on the back porch, tucked into one of the many Adirondack chairs as the haphazard formation exploded into action, aunts and uncles and cousins and siblings shouting and fumbling and running in a messy amateur round of flag football. The teams were weighted pretty evenly against each other—each divided up the little kids and adults in a way that made sense—and I’ll be the first to admit, it warmed my heart to see them all goofing around with each other.

  I’d missed this without even really realizing it: family, home.

  Kids were shouting, grappling. Adults were tugging at each other’s shirt backs. Uncle Anthony, my father’s brother, was still a spry fifty-five and in great shape, so he made use of all that muscle bounding up and down the field. Typically, he was a business suits-only type of guy—that kind of came with the territory when you were mayor—but tonight was a special occasion at the Savage household, and that meant two things: football and Uncle Anthony’s infamous “athletic jorts.”

  I watched as Beth jumped at him, snagging one of his flags. She reached up and tried to ruffle his hair, black with gray coming in on the sides, the picture of salt-and-pepper.

  Beth spun his flag and galloped over to Robert, her boyfriend—I mean, her fiancé. Fiancé. Had to get used to that one. Robert was playing for the other team but spared a kiss for her anyway.

  “What do you think of him?” I asked Victor, who was propped up in the other Adirondack, legs crossed and open, nursing a beer.

  “Who? Robert?”

  “Yeah.”

  We both spared him a glance. He was pretty average: dark hair and happy brown eyes and thick brows. He was an out-of-towner who’d met Beth on a trip into North Creek. Next thing you know, he’s moving here and dating my sister. Not that the two were tied. Just happy coincidence, apparently.

  “Is he good to her?” I asked.

  Victor took a noisy sip and nodded. “Seems like it. But you know—Dominic and Dad and I gave him a hard time for the first few months.”

  “Well, you have to.”

  “Right. He seemed to get it. He put up with us.” Victor grinned, glancing at me. “He’s still around, so that must be a good sign. Plus, Beth is happy. That’s all that really matters anyway, at the end of the day.”

  “Good. He should know that if he does anything to hurt her, he’s got the entire Savage clan to worry about.”

  Victor laughed. “Yeah. He’ll be run out of town before he can even say, ‘Babe, I don’t think it’s gonna work out.’”

  “God, help him.”

  “But now that you’re home, baby brother,” Victor said, patting me square on the knee. “Beth can finally quit dragging her feet about setting a date for the goddamn wedding. We’ve all been waiting.”

  “Yeah, well,” I huf
fed, grinning. “Hopefully it’s not anytime soon. I’m only on leave, Vic, and I’m not sticking around.”

  Victor nodded to himself, turning to look out at the family as our Mom took the ball from Uncle Anthony. The teams shrieked as she ran for a touchdown, and something crossed over Victor’s face, a thoughtful sort of shadow. For a while, it was silent, but then he turned to me, voice a touch softer—a touch more concerned.

  “You know you don’t have to be afraid of being home, Zach.”

  Something pulsed through me, a nervous twinge.

  “Yeah,” I said, unconvincingly. “I know.”

  “It isn’t your fault. There’s nothing for you to—”

  “It is, though.” My voice cut easily through his, sharpened by a decade-old guilt. “The accident… and Joe.”

  The accident. What a loaded, perfect word that was. Accident was just another word for mistake, and that’s what happened ten years ago: a mistake. My mistake. My choice to drink at a party, my choice to drive a friend home, my choice that got us into the wreck that ended his life.

  Joe was a person I’d never forget, one of North Creek’s many ghosts. He haunted me everywhere, always, even when I was far away from this place. Not that I ever tried to forget him. I couldn’t let myself forget him—not when he was gone and I was alive.

  A scream of laughter sounded from the lawn. Beth was being carried downfield by Robert in some act of romantic mutiny. I crossed my arms over my chest, because this was a family party and I was just trying to have a good time—a minute of respite.

  “I don’t need the reminder, Victor.”

  “I’m not trying to remind you of it, I just….” Vic huffed, running a hand through his hair, frustrated with the turn this conversation was taking. After giving it a thought, he tried again. “I just want to let you know you don’t need to be afraid of this place, Zach. I mean it. And you can think whatever you want—which I know you will—”

  I shot him a grumpy look.

  “But,” he continued, “no matter who was driving that night—you or Joe or someone else at the party—it would have ended up the same. You know that.”

  “No, I don’t know that.”

  I’d never know that, not for sure. The past wasn’t something that could be hypothesized; it was something that happened, my mistake with permanent consequences.

  “Nobody knows that. I should have just stayed,” I said, trying to not be angry, but feeling the irritation and tension pin-pricking in my chest. “I should have done a million fucking things—”

  “Zach.”

  “—but I chose the one thing I shouldn’t have done. We could have walked home. We could have slept on the sofa. I could have convinced him—”

  “It was Joe,” Victor interjected. “He was going to make his decision.”

  I exhaled, looking out at the wide backyard. Uncle Anthony passed the football to one of the kids, grabbed him up, and ran with him in his arms, shepherding him through the opposition. All these aunts and uncles and friends and siblings—they all knew what happened that night. Or, at least, most of them did, if they were old enough to understand what was going on that night. Were they all thinking about it now? Did they remember it when they looked at me, hugged me hello? What did they think of it? Did they blame me the way I did?

  I hefted myself onto my feet, feeling a hot sort of shame crawling on my neck. “I’m gonna head in.”

  “Zach—”

  “I’ll be a second.”

  I heard Vic call after me as I pushed in through the backdoor, the emptiness and solitude of the kitchen welcome. The whole room smelled like all the unwrapped, half-eaten foods we’d dipped into earlier. The sun was setting, though, and soon the bugs would be out full-force. The football games wouldn’t last for long, and then I’d be out of hiding spots.

  The backdoor opened again with a creak.

  When I looked over my shoulder, Victor was there, lips pulled into a thin line. He tossed his beer into the recycling bin and clapped me reassuringly on the shoulder.

  “You want me to drive you someplace?” he asked.

  I didn’t know I wanted it until he offered.

  “Yeah,” I murmured. “That’d be nice.”

  “Joyce? A drink for me and my baby brother here, please?” Victor asked, slinging his arm around my shoulder. “It’s his first night back in North Creek, and he needs something to drown his sorrows.”

  Joyce Russell was our cousin Kat’s best friend and the most-liked bartender at The Speakeasy. She was the most-liked for two reasons: she was a cute redhead with freckles, and she made the meanest mixed drinks this side of the Great Smoky Mountains.

  The Speakeasy was owned by our cousin Kat, and was attached to the North Creek Hotel, also owned and operated by cousin Kat. True to its name, it was a Roaring Twenties-inspired joint that matched just about every old-timey nook of North Creek, and was only easy to find if you knew about it—which meant if you weren’t from town, you’d probably never know it was there. There was an entrance via the main block of the hotel and another at the backside of the building, hidden from sight.

  Despite the on-brand secrecy, The Speakeasy was packed tight with North Creek locals, all familiar faces who greeted me and Victor with varying levels of familiarity. Everyone knew everyone in North Creek, but especially everyone knew the Savage-Cross family. Our uncle ran the town, and the rest of us practically owned or operated half of it.

  Victor got us an easy couple stools at the bar, the best perk to owning the joint. When he ordered, Joyce gave me a sly once-over.

  “Well, if you ain’t a sight for sore eyes,” she hummed, grabbing two rocks glasses. “Shit, little Zach Savage finally makes an appearance. ‘Bout time you came lurking around these parts again.”

  “Little?” I huffed, crossing my arms on the bartop. “I’m a year older than you, Joyce.”

  “Like it matters.”

  She uncapped an expensive bottle of whiskey and poured a thin layer in before mixing it with Coke and ice. She nudged it to me, winking.

  “I still remember what you like.”

  “I haven’t had a Jack n’ Coke since high school,” I laughed.

  “What we drink in high school always has a special place in our heart,” she said, sure and proud. “Take Victor, for instance. I know he looks like a classy, high-end distillery owner with an extensive knowledge of liquors, but I know, deep, deep down, he’d still happily knock back a Smirnoff Ice any day of the week.”

  Victor laughed, loud and happy around a grimace. “Yikes. I hoped everyone forgot about that.”

  “Well, what about you then?” I asked. “What’s your deep dark high school drink of choice?”

  She snorted. “Easy. Shots of straight vodka—the cheap kind that tastes like rubbing alcohol.”

  Victor and I made disapproving noises. I took a sip of my drink, shaking my head, relaxing a bit. The Speakeasy was a special sort of familiar; even before I could drink, we used to sneak in through the hotel entrance or help out where we were allowed to in the back (as unofficial stock boys, mostly, a helping hand in a very different time). It was a dimly lit joint with pool tables among the regular tables, all warm-colored wood and spits of exposed brick and vintage Prohibition propaganda; top-shelf liquor glimmering in the light; the sweet smell of fresh-cut garnishes—lemon, mint, cherries—and pungent whiskey.

  “That shit’s the worst,” I groaned. “I can’t be around even the smell of it anymore without gagging a little.”

  “Sounds like a personal problem, darling,” Joyce chuckled. “So, you’re in town again. It’s been a long-ass time. How’s life been treatin’ you?”

  I shared a knowing look with Victor.

  Joyce clicked her tongue. “That good, huh?”

  “Ah, you know. Life’s been… life.”

  “Exciting.”

  “Right. I’ve just been deployed, working on boats, going overseas, going after bad guys—you know. The usual Navy SEAL gigs.”


  “The usual Navy SEAL gigs,” Joyce scoffed, smirking. She whipped her bar towel at me lightly. “Shut up. That sure don’t sound like nothing.”

  “I promise,” I said, bowling over it easily. “Not much to talk about.”

  Not that I could talk about it if I wanted to anyway.

  “Right. I forgot how big a pain you are, Zach Savage.”

  “Aw, you missed me that much, Joycie?” I asked, which got a good little laugh from everyone. Already, I felt a bit more relaxed. I’d come down into town, and nobody was shooting me dirty looks or trying to run me out with pitchforks. “Now, North Creek on the other hand—what news do you have for me, Joyce?”

  “Who? Me?”

  “Yeah, you.” I rapped my knuckles on the bar. “C’mon, you know a drunk never keeps secrets to himself. It’s been three years. I’m behind on all the good gossip.”

  Joyce shot Victor a wry look.

  “What?” he laughed.

  I pointed to my brother. “Don’t look at him. He doesn’t tell me jack shit.”

  “Oh!” Joyce folded her hands on the bar, leaning in like she had a few juicy secrets to spare. “Well, actually, now that you mention it—did y’all here that Quinn from school is knocked up again?”

  My eyes went wide. “Again?”

  “Uh-huh.” Joyce grinned like she was proud of herself. “And you’re never gonna guess who by.”

  “Not Tommy Warden?”

  “Not Tommy Warden. Tommy’s brother—”

  “Billy?” I hissed.

  Victor laughed, shushing us both. “Someone’s gonna hear you, two, I swear—”

  The door swung open on the far side of the room, and Joyce’s eyes went to it, naturally surveying a possible customer. Curiously, my eyes followed her gaze, landing squarely on someone I’d never thought of running into.

  “Is that—”

  “Yup,” Joyce said, clearing her throat. “Jared Clark, in the flesh.”