Page 6 of Since the Day We Left

She’d come that far, at least.

The first time Dr. Abrams had demonstrated the finger-steepling technique, Wendi had almost walked out.

This is what I’m paying two hundred dollars an hour for?she’d thought, the woman who’d negotiated million-dollar contracts, who’d managed teams of professionals, and who’d juggled crisis calls on three continents.

But they worked.

Anxiety couldn’t co-exist with full presence in the moment. At least not the debilitating kind that had once sent her to the emergency room, convinced she was having a heart attack.

Max nudged against her calf, his wet nose leaving a damp circle on her skin. She sank to her knees and buried her face in his soft curls. His heart thumped against her cheek.

“What do you think, boy?” She scratched his ears. “Take the job or stick it out here and survive on ramen until the bank comes knocking?”

2

Miles

“Ifoundhimwanderingthe beach, Miles. In his pajamas. He was calling your mother’s name. He didn’t know how to get home.”

Mrs. Winters’ 2:00 a.m. call had sent him packing within the hour. No hesitation. No second-guessing. Just him, his truck, and a bag stuffed together in the dark.

Not that there was much to leave behind.

A rented room. Jobs that barely covered rent. And a couple of guys he drank with at Flanagan’s every Thursday—none of them close enough to ask why he still woke up in the middle of the night, soaked in sweat.

Here we are.

Miles pulled into the driveway, squinting as the mid-morning sun bounced off the faded coral siding of his dad’s beach house. He drained the last cold sip of gas station coffee and climbed out of his truck.

Ocean air hit him as his boots sank into the sandy driveway. Palm fronds and broken seashells crunched beneath each step.

The porch came into view—one corner occupied by a rocking chair with a fraying wicker seat, and an old Coleman cooler doubling as a side table in the other. His dad’s DIY wind chimes—fishing line strung with seashells—fluttered from the porch roof, clinking softly in the breeze. The AC unit jutted from the bedroom window, a recent addition after Miles had nearly melted through the last Fourth of July.

As he approached the house, he noticed the mailbox leaning to one side, half-swallowed by knee-high grass. Strips of paint curled from steps, and a lone shutter dangled from a single hinge, swaying like it might give up at any moment.

“Good grief, Dad,” he muttered, stooping to gather a stack of soggy newspapers slumped against the door.

He took a deep breath and knocked.

Once. Twice. Three times.

Then another.

Finally, the door swung open. His dad stood there in rumpled pajamas and a misaligned button-up shirt. Arthur’s silver hair stuck out in all directions, and something—maybe oatmeal—had dried at the corner of his mouth. For a heartbeat, Arthur’s gaze drifted past Miles, seeming to search the empty air before settling on him.

“Miles.” Arthur’s face brightened. “You’re early. The drive from Atlanta must’ve been quick.”

“Morning, Dad.” He forced a smile. “Five hours instead of six. Empty roads will do that.”

Miles stepped inside. The shirt that had once pulled across his dad’s shoulders now hung loose and the cuffs dangled past his wrists.

“Your mom ran to the store.” Arthur shuffled toward the kitchen. “She’ll be back soon.”

Miles’s stomach knotted.

Thirty-six years gone, yet his dad spoke like she’d only just stepped out. Miles had been just ten when she’d passed. At forty-six, he’d now lived nearly four times as long without her as with her. He sometimes struggled to remember the sound of her voice.

“Could use some coffee,” Miles said, setting his bag down. “Want a cup?”

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