Page 20 of The Sound Of Us

Now, as I settle on the boulder, I guess I can see the appeal. It’s… sexy. The thought makes me choke on my saliva. I’m not saying I’m sexy—that’s just embarrassing.

Except for James (and even that is a stretch of a comparison), I’ve never found a single man in this town sexy. Back when I used to imagine being miraculously cured of cancer, I fantasized about finishing high school and moving away; about meeting someone who knew nothing about River Valley. Someone who was nothing like us.

I don’t know what I’m doing, sitting here trying to get a glimpse of a perfect stranger. The gentle swish-swish of the lake bears witness to my self-inflicted humiliation.

Turning to the page in my book where my grocery store receipt serves as a bookmark, I conclude that, just like everyone else in this town, I am, indeed, just curious, and then I put it all out of my mind.

The book I’m reading is called All the Battles We Surrender. After I interviewed for the assistant position at the Till Books Do Us Part bookstore last week, Benson gave me a complimentary copy from the new shipment that had just come in.

Third shipment this month for this book, Benson had said. “Might as well let you have a copy of our fastest selling book, yeah?” And then, more seriously, he added, “it’s about a guy who has cancer.”

“Does it have a happy ending?” I asked immediately. Because that’s all I needed from a book about a guy with cancer. I don’t care how it happens, I just need for the guy with cancer to get the love of his life and live.

Benson hadn’t answered me because a customer had walked into the store just then, so I took my chances, hoping this author—Garry Michael, from Seattle who has a background in medicine and academics (he’s an actual doctor, apparently)—wouldn’t actually let the main character die, right?

The book is about a couple that had split up over some disagreements about their future. Sawyer goes back to his husband to make things right when he learns he’s dying of cancer, before it’s too late. I don’t know how this book is going to end, but I know I need for Sawyer to survive. I need to see someone like me get the future they dreamed of.

And if this book ends badly, then this author won’t be ‘skiing or surfing or playing tennis’ ever again since I’ll find him and personally relieve him of his arms and legs.

I’m nearly at the end when the words begin to blur into the darkness.

I check my phone for any texts from Frank. Nothing. The light at Mrs. Johnson’s house remains off.

Maybe Sawyer is going to be okay. Maybe he’ll get back together with Hawkins and they’ll make it work this time, even if Hawkins is being a complete asshole at the moment.

But… what about me? What about my happy ending?

The darkness from Mrs. Johnson’s place eats away at me with a ridiculous amount of unease. My boulder of shame feels too small to hold the weight of my troubles. I pull back my tears, resolving to stop reading for a while. I hate the way books make me long for a life, a world different from the one I live in now. I hate getting lost in love stories I can never have for myself. Happy endings, not written in the stars for me. Fantasies that run away with all my secret dreams, only to return with the crushing reality of my life.

When I’ve pitied myself enough, I wipe my tears, tuck my books into my pocket and make my way home with Pepper.

The cold air is soothing tonight. I keep my head down so my cheeks are not too red when I get home. Red cheeks with overgrown golden locks and dimples and a red mouth isn’t Frank’s favorite version of me.

You look like one of those dolls, Axel.

You need a haircut. Get a soldier style like me.

No, Frank. I like the way I look when you’re not around.

I like the panties I hide from you.

I like my big, fat cock when it’s not for you.

When I turn the knob and enter the house, not one of those thoughts enters with me.

Pulling back the bedcovers, I slip into bed and lie next to Frank, listening to his garbled breathing and cursing the day I was born.

Chapter 10

Eli

It turns out the people of River Valley have no concept of words like boundaries. Or personal space. Or no, thank you. And they do it with the most incredible amount of politeness and happiness. Sometimes, they’re high on painkillers (according to David Shapiro, who we’d worked with after Aunt Alberta’s death), but man, they’re nice.

So, I graciously accept their apple tarts and cupcakes. The most delicious pasta I’ve ever had. Freshly squeezed juices. Homemade pastries I’ve never tasted before. Each container has a label on it with the name of the owner and their address, and a note asking for the dishes to be kindly returned.

Later on Sunday morning, a text comes through from David, saying that the Mayor Harebell asked him to pass on the message that he’d be around any minute to pick me up for the Welcome Party. I text back, asking if I could rather follow with my truck. David tells me I can ‘discuss it with the mayor’ and that just sounded like code for no.

The mayor is a man of round proportions and a kind smile. A moustache that covers his entire upper lip. Graying hair around his head, except on the top (there, it’s shiny and smooth).

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