Page 7 of The Strawberry Field
THE FUEL LIGHT blinks on as I start the car. I remember Carl’s has gas, or used to. Hopefully it’s still open. Not every rural place has completely reopened yet. Not every place wants to.
The road is empty, familiar in the way of things you haven’t seen in years but never really forget. I reach Carl’s sooner than expected.
A single truck is parked at the pump. The driver, older, baseball cap, kind eyes, nods as I pull in, tipping the brim of his hat in a quiet, politely familiar gesture.
I don’t return it.
I realize that too late. And the shame that follows is instant and sharp.
I used to be better than this. Or at least I thought I was.
I grab a pair of gloves from the console and slip them on. After pumping gas, I reach for the disposable mask I brought from the city and loop it over my ears.
Inside, people come and go, unmasked, unbothered. Their eyes land on me. Not hostile, just curious. I feel both exposed and invisible.
I want to tear the mask off, explain myself, assure them I’m not dangerous.
But fear still owns too much of me. It followed me here, and it’s not letting go.
I reach for a basket and head down the far aisle.
“Morning, hon,” an older woman at the dairy case says, her cart a notable mix of dried beans, eggs, and ice cream. “You new to the area, or just hiding from the world like the rest of us?”
Surprised by her friendliness, I smile behind my mask. “Little of both, I guess.”
“You have a good day now,” the woman says and rolls her cart on down the short aisle.
I try to remember what I came to get. Milk. Cereal. Peanut butter. Crackers. Bananas. I keep my head down, moving quickly, until I reach for a roll of paper towels—and collide with someone.
I stumble back, startled.
“I’m so sorry,” I say, voice muffled by the mask.
The man I’ve bumped into towers over me, at least six-three. I’m five-seven, and I still have to tip my head up to meet his eyes.
He steps back, giving me space.
And then I recognize him.
Jake Rowan.
My breath catches, my pulse stumbling in my throat. My first instinct is to turn around and walk away. Pretend I didn’t see him. Pretend he didn’t see me.
But it’s too late.
“Sawyer?”
I nod.“Jake.” The name feels foreign and familiar all at once.“I… I didn’t expect to see you.”
“It’s been a long time.” His voice is quiet, even, his expression unreadable. It flows over me like warm honey, sweet with something long thought lost.
“It has.”
We stand there, the silence between us thick with years and all the things we didn’t say back then. Still haven’t.
“Do you live here?” I ask.
“I do. You don’t. At least, I didn’t think you did anymore.”
