Page 9 of The Staircase in the Woods

But a little part of him wished they had.

6

What They Each Wanted

What Lore wanted was this:

She just wanted it to becoolagain. To befun. For this to not be a celebration of Nick’s life and some proactive memorial just before he died, but instead just to be like any other time they had hung out years ago. She wanted to tell stupid stories and dumb jokes. She wanted to get high with Hamish, to drink beer with Nick—and she wanted Owen to just benormal,for god’s sake. Just regular Owen, sweet Owen, don’t-rock-the-boat Owen, stop-looking-at-me-like-that Owen. And she wanted Matty to be here. Matty would just show up, walking out of the airport like it was nothing at all, like he’d just taken a trip and they’d missed him for a while. But none of that would happen. Nick was still dying. Hamish looked like a douchebag now. Owen was gonna be weird because Owen was Owen. And Matty wasn’t ever coming back. So, realistically, beyond the fantasy, what Lore wanted was simply this:

She wanted to survive this experience, to make it through to the other side, and to get back home and get back to work.

—

What Owen wanted was this:

He wanted it to feel like they had never been away from one another. That the time that had passed since they had actuallyseenone another in person—what, eleven years now?—would be no gap at all, just a crack in the sidewalk easily stepped over. They would come together and it would be like magnets snapping together,click.They’d fall into patterns. They’d have their inside jokes. They’d tell one another about their lives, but they’d remember the times they had together, too. He’d get a famous Hamish hug. Lore would say sorry to him, and together they’d rebuild the bridges they burned. Nick would be funny Nick, not shitty Nick. And they’d all raise a glass to Matty, Matty who was the best of them, Matty who’d left them. They’d crash together, and maybe it would be weird and maybe it would be messy, but they’d sort through it all, the good and the bad. But that wasn’t possible. Because the bad was so bad, it made the good seem impossible, as if it had never been present in the first place. The good was a guttering candle against the cold wind of a deep dark moonless winter night.

It never had a chance.

7

You Are Three, You Come with Me

They met just outside baggage claim at Logan Airport.

Lore and Hamish were already there, talking—a little thorn of jealousy hooked into the meat of Owen’s heart at that, stupid and silly but it scratched him just the same. Lore looked like Lore, but like a reduced sauce of who Lore was and always had been: hair dyed of smoke and lavender over an undercut carved with geometric lines, wearing an outfit that Owen would best describe asapocalypse prepperBlade Runnerchic. Pair of custom headphones around her neck, the cups ringed with pink lights. Doc Martens lacquered with stickers. Thin soft hoodie with a cross-body bag. Pockets everywhere. Even her carry-on was badass: some kind of frosted metal with pink wheels, pink edges, pink handles. Every inch of her, cool as fuck.Like she’s trying too hard,Owen thought suddenly, a poisonous plant grown up out of jealous earth. An invasive thought he had to kill quick.

As for Hamish—

He’d seen him online, obviously—Facebook and Instagram and even Twitter back when Twitter was a thing. And so Owen figured he was prepared to see what Hamish looked like now, but—

It still knocked the wind out of him.

Hamish looked the opposite of himself.

He had always been big, always tall. But most of his bulk was gone, winnowed down to an athlete’s form. And now he was clean-cut, well-kept. V-neck T-shirt under a light blazer. Copper-top hair closecropped. A beard shorn so close to the face it barely qualified as a beard and looked more like it had been painted on. This was a guy who owned a Peloton. Who ran marathons. Who not only had a robust 401(k), but hadopinionsabout them.That’s not Hamish,Owen decided. Another bad, mean idea. Another invasive he had to stomp out.People are allowed to change,he thought, less like a belief he agreed with and more like an argument he was desperately trying to make to the jury of himself.

The sounds they were making indicated small talk: that gentle murmur of inconsequential chatter, like the noise of a small creek cutting through a soft forest.

“—yeah, yeah,” Hamish was saying, chuckling as he talked, “three kids, Taylor, Emma, and Chad, and of course each of them do their own sport, you know. Emma does field hockey, Taylor, she’s our soccer fiend, and Chad runs cross-country, so dude, I’m pretty sure we’re just an Uber for our kids at this point.” It was weird for Owen to hear it, because it was Hamish’s cadence—he used to get high and talk all the time, just an endless stream of consciousness yammer, but always about wild shit likeStar Warsor Bigfoot or some new live bootleg cut of some jam band he loved. But while the cadence was there, now it was strictly middle-aged Dad vibes instead, like an artificial intelligence online had stolen his voice but not his personality, deepfaked for this airport meeting.

Lore said, “Cool, man, that’s great,” and to Owen’s ear it was very clearly her meaning the absolute opposite of that, or at the very least Lore transmitting the signal that she gave absolutely zero shits at all about this conversation. She started to say, “You know, I think kids are way overscheduled these days—”

“You have kids?” Hamish asked, surprised.

“Oh, hah, fuck no—” But then she turned and saw Owen, and her face did this thing where it went through a series of expressions, a roulette wheel spinning until it finally landed on something resembling happiness and surprise, or at least the artifice of it. She said his name, and in it, he heard the doubt give way.

She didn’t think I’d show up.

“Owen, hey,” she said after a few perfectly awkward seconds. Lore went in for a hug.

He returned it—it was weird, ill-fitting, like a sweater that was too big, too roomy, to really feel comfortable. As if she didn’t know how close they were, or weren’t, still. Which was fair, he thought. Owen had the same question, though bitterly, he suspected he already had that answer.

Hamish, on the other hand, said, “Hey, buddy!” and went in for a big hug. Felt genuine. Robust. Like one of his old hugs—the difference being there was so much less of him to hug now—a body hewn of rock, not soft happy marshmallow. It turned what was supposed to be a Hamish hug into something sharper, less comforting.

“Hi, guys,” Owen said, forcing a smile. He was still shaky from the flight—the ghost of adrenaline still haunted his body’s hallways. “Good flights?”

“Yup,” Hamish said, nodding along.

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