Page 28 of Somewhere Without You
“Home sweet home,” I muttered under my breath.
I’dimagined this moment a thousand times on the drive here—the way the sun would catch thefreshlypainted clapboard, the porch swing swayinggentlyin the breeze.Butas I drove closer, reality hit me.
The roof sagged, missing a few shingles like teeth in a weathered smile. The once-pristine white painthadpeeledaway, leaving patches of raw wood exposed. The barn was gone now. All that remained was a scattered ruin of wood and memory.
I parked the car beside the ruble, the engine hummingsoftlyas it came to a stop. Gran’s urn,carefullypacked in its box, sat next to me.WhenI’dpickedit up in Charleston, something about stowing it in the back seatfeltwrong, so I buckled it in beside me like a strange passenger. I grabbed it from the seat and slammed the door shut behind me, the sound startling a flock of birds into the distance.
Taking a deep breath, I let the crisp mountain air fill my lungs, a welcome change from the staleness of a thirty-six hour car ride. Holding Gran’s urntightly, I walked towards the front porch. Papas rocksweregone, and I wondered ifthatwasGrans doing—or someone else’s.
On the porch, I dodged loose nails and warped boards, the wood groaning under my feet. Chipped, empty flower pots sat abandoned on the railing, and the swing Gran once used towatchthe sunrise clungdesperatelyto its broken chain.
Thiswasn’tthe warm welcome Ihadimagined. The house, once so well-kept by Gran, now stood in a state of quiet decay. Cobwebs hung like forgotten tapestries from the archways, and thick flakes of peeling paint crunched beneath my feet.
Itwasas if, when she died, the house died too.
The screen door swayedlooselyon its hinges.AsI tugged it open, one hinge snapped with a sharp crack, and the door swungwildlybefore settling askew against the frame.
“Well. . . that’s something,”I murmured, half-expecting the rest of the house to come crumbling down on top of me.Butto my relief, themaindoor openedsmoothly.
Stepping inside, I inhaledsharply.
Everythingwasthe same.
The floral sofa, its ruffled skirt sagging and worn, sat untouched near the stone fireplace. My eyes fell over the crocheted blanket draped over its side, and Iwasinstantlybrought back to the memory of cold nights, the scratchy threads biting into my skin as I huddled beneath it for warmth.
Eventhe way the sun streamed through the kitchen window, casting its rays across the original hardwood floors, evoked a flood of memories.
I swallowed hard, my throat dry as I closed the door behind me. Gran’s presence lingered in every corner, woven into theveryfabric of the house. I set her ashes down on the coffee table, next to a pile of incense ash and a towering stack of old magazines.
The familiar scent of aged wood and stale air filled my lungs, and for a moment, I almost expected her to call me into the kitchen, asking if I wanted tea.
Butthe silencethatfollowedwasdeafening. The housewasnolongerthe bustling, warm place it oncewas. Ithadbecomesomething else. Something hollow.
I stoodtherefor a while, staring at the urn. How strange, to hold someone’s remains in something so small. Itfeltwrong somehow, like the rest of herhadbeen forgotten, discarded like the piles of junk around the house.
I shook my head, trying to push away the thoughts. Thiswasn’tthe time.
Instead, I went to the kitchen, where the faded curtains fluttered in the breeze. The once-gleaming countertopswerenow stained and chipped, the sink filled with dishesthathadn’tbeen washed in Godknowshow long. I turned back toward the living room, where Gran’s urn sat.
All around me, the house creaked and groaned, the old wood shifting with time. It used to terrify me, but now itwasa fragile comfort—a distraction from the thoughts I couldn’t shake.
Thoughtsthatmade mefeelguilty.
Thoughtsthatmade me want to run back to California.
The airport hummed with chaos as fellow passengers rushed by. Jackson stood beside me, his hand brushing my cheek, soft and warm. A touchthatseemedto pull me into him. Hewasgentle, and for a moment I almost let myself believe itwasreal.
Butthen, his fingers began to drift lower, trailing over the delicate column of my throat. The softness hardened, turning rough, andsuddenly, Ifeltthe pressure building beneath my jaw, his fingers curling like steel around my neck.
Dread knotted in my gut.“What are you doing?”The words fell from my lips, a nervous laughthatmorphed into a desperate, strangled gasp as his grip tightened. My hands flew to his, my nails scrapinguselesslyagainst his skin. “Jackson. . . stop. . . please. . . you’re. . .” I couldn’t finish. His gripwasa vice now, cutting off my air, cutting off my words.
His eyes locked onto mine, glassy and distant. “I love you, Emily,”he lured, his voiceimpossiblycalm.“Don’t youknowhow much I love you?” A malicious smile curled at the edges of his lips.
I tried to speak, to say the wordsthathadonce come soeasilybetween us.“I. . . I love you, too,”I gasped, my vision swimming, the world around me dimming as the pressure of his alleged love crushed me from all sides.
Buthe didn’t stop. His hands tightened, both of them now, interlocking around my neck like a promise I couldn’t escape.
“I love you, Emily. I love you,”he repeated—a cruel chantthatechoed in my head, like a lullaby of betrayal.
