Page 11 of The Strawberry Field
But I can’t go there now. I don’t have the strength to unpack that grief on top of this one.
All I know is that while I’m here at the lake, the safest thing I can do, for myself, for him, is keep my distance. Whatever once existed between us, whatever memories we share… they aren’t healing. Not now.
We don’t owe each other more pain.
And in a world already steeped in it, the kindest thing I can give either of us is distance.
Chapter Five
Jake
THIS LATE SPRING evening is the kind of night that makes enduring Virginia winters worth it.
From my back deck, I can see the faint red glow of fishing boat lights out on the lake, their motors humming softly beneath the steady chorus of frogs at the end of the cove.
The air is warm, but there’s a whisper of the cool sixty-degree temperatures that will arrive by morning. Earlier, a storm rolled through—afternoon heat had climbed into the low eighties, heavy enough to break open into thunder and streaks of lightning more typical of summer than spring.
My Labrador, Hattie, had retreated to her usual storm spot under the bed. She’s back out now, lying beside my chair, still wary of stray lightning. Her eyes stay half-open, ears twitching, body tight with suspicion. She hasn’t quite accepted that the storm is over.
She may be right. Virginia weather doesn’t play by any rules.
I reach down and scratch behind her left ear. She licks the back of my hand, then settles again, chin resting on her paws.
It’s quiet now. Aside from the hum of the occasional boat engine, the night is blissfully free of distraction.
Sometimes I wonder if I should have gotten a TV. Something to break the silence.
But then I think of the news—and my stomach turns.
Once you’ve heard your name on a broadcast—attached to a story built on rumor and outrage—you stop thinking of the news as company.
I pick up my beer on the side table, take a long pull. Still cold enough. I close my eyes, but I can still hear her voice. The reporter. I remember every word. The accusations. The fallout. The way my life unraveled in slow motion while the world watched.
I shake the memory off, reach over, and turn on the radio. A classic country station hums to life, delivering an upbeat song meant to take you back to high school Saturdays, windows down, music up, nothing in the world but freedom.
I lean back, let it wash over me. I try to find a memory like that, something light and unburdened.
But they’re slippery now.
Distant.
Like they belong in someone else’s life.
I stare out at the lake. The dark water. The flicker of reflected light.
And I wonder—has the man they painted me to be erased my history?
Did their words steal my own memories of who I was?
I wasn’t raised with much. I worked for everything. Grants. Loans. Long hours. I put myself through college, through grad school. A doctorate in economics. All of it built from scratch.
And what good did any of it do?
Sometimes I wonder if I would’ve been better off following my mom’s path. A job where your paycheck doesn’t depend on reputation. Where no one can accuse you of something you can’t prove you didn’t do. Where your life doesn’t implode from the opinions of strangers.
But the past doesn’t let you rewrite it.
You live. You learn. You course-correct where you can.
