Page 8 of The Strawberry Field
“I haven’t been back in a while.” I hesitate.“I’m—was—a physician in New York.”
Alarm flickers in his eyes. “Oh—”
I rush to add,“I just got here yesterday. I tested before I left. Negative.”
“I’m not worried about that. Just can’t imagine what all you’ve seen,” he says gently, shaking his head.
And I envy him, for the calm, for the steadiness, for his lack of fear.
“I never thought I’d see you again,” he says.
“I never thought I’d come back.”
“You haven’t been back since—”
“No.” My answer is sharper than I mean it to be, really. “My parents passed away last year in a car accident.”
“I heard. I’m sorry about that. Really sorry.” His voice softens. The sincerity in it breaks something loose in me. A single tear escapes, disappears into the mask. I wipe at it quickly, eyes burning.
“Thank you,” I say in a low voice.“I… I should pay for these.”
He steps back, bumping into the cooler behind him. A Coke bottle tips and clinks gently against the others. He looks rattled.
“Okay, then,” he says.“It was really nice to see you, Sawyer. I mean… sort of see you.”
I almost smile. It’s there—just barely. But guilt shuts it down.
“You too, Jake,” I say.
At the register, the woman scans my items with practiced ease, offering a warm smile that doesn’t waver at my mask or gloves. I pay quickly and murmur my thanks before heading outside.
Once I’m back in the car, I yank off the mask, toss the gloves to the passenger-side floor. My chest feels tight. My pulse skips and stutters beneath my skin.
I hate the mask. Hate the stupid gloves. I hate what they represent. Fear and everything I couldn’t stop. Everything I lost.
The door to the store opens, and Jake steps out with a Coke in one hand and a small bag of cashews in the other. He’s wearing neither mask nor gloves and looks as normal as if it were six months ago and life held no clues of anything so soul-destroying as a pandemic. He looks around the lot, eyes searching, uncertain—until they land on me.
Before I can start the engine, he walks toward my car. His presence feels like a reminder of another life, one where closeness wasn’t dangerous.
I lower the window halfway.
“Are you okay?” he asks, voice low, gentle.
“I’m fine,” I say.“Sorry.”
“You don’t need to apologize. You don’t have to explain anything.”
His words are simple, but something inside me stirs. A thread pulled taut loosens just enough. I shouldn’t feel comfort in the presence of a man I haven’t seen in years—not after everything. But I do.
“I just wanted you to know… if you need anything while you’re here, I’m not far. I live at the old Patterson place. The one with the strawberry field behind it.”
The memory hits me like a warm breeze. That field. Summer sun. Red-stained fingers. Laughter that felt like it was just a normal part of life.
“Oh,” I say softly.“That’s a beautiful place.”
“I was lucky to get it. The owners didn’t want to sell to a developer.”
“I’m glad they didn’t.” I pause.“You’ve kept it the same?”
