Page 9 of The Strawberry Field
“Mostly. I fixed up the house, cleaned up the land. It feels like home now.”
“How many acres?”
“Fifty. There’s a strip of woods and a big pasture that used to be for cattle. I just mow it.”
“That sounds… peaceful.”
We fall into a pause. Not awkward. Just full. Full of questions, of curiosity, of what-ifs.
“I should go,” I say finally, because really there isn’t anything else to do.
“Right.” He shifts his weight, hesitant.“I was going to ask… did your parents ever come back after—”
“No,” I say quickly.“Not as a family. My dad came down now and then to check on things. But they never really came back. I think they meant to sell it… but they couldn’t.”
“I’m sorry,” he says.“I shouldn’t have asked.”
“It’s okay,” I tell him.“I just… can’t talk about it very easily.”
“I understand,” he says, stepping back. “You take care, Sawyer.”
“You too.”
I raise the window and start the car like something utterly terrifying is after me.
And maybe it is. Memories. Of loss. And everything I thought I left behind, but quite obviously didn’t.
Chapter Four
Sawyer
I DRIVE BACK with my hands clenched around the steering wheel, knuckles white. I force myself to let go, draw in a deep breath, and slowly pull into the driveway.
I cut the engine and sit in silence, staring at the house. The front door is still slightly ajar from earlier. The grass shimmers in the sunlight. The porch, still sagging. Everything is unchanged.
And I am exhausted.
I climb out of the car, my legs threatening to buckle. The boulder is back, lodged at the center of my chest, pressing down until it’s hard to draw a full breath. I lift my bags from the back seat and carry them inside.
In the kitchen, I set them on the counter, the sound too loud in the quiet. I put the milk and half-and-half in the fridge. They sit next to a lonely yellow box of baking soda, like strangers on a train who were never meant to meet.
I slide the cereal into a cupboard, then stop, remembering I need to eat. I pull a bowl from the hutch by the screen door and pour some in, add milk, then sit at the harvest table by the window.
Outside, the lake sparkles. It’s late morning now, the sun high and warm. A handful of boats crisscross the water. I spot one—low, sleek, fast. A skier cuts across the waves behind it, carving a wide arc in the still-cold water.
It’s too early in the season for that. The lake has to be frigid.
But maybe the cold doesn’t matter. Maybe the joy of movement, of speed, of something is worth it. I understand that. The desperate desire to feel anything but stuck.
I finish my cereal without tasting it, rinse the bowl and spoon, leave them on the counter. Then I go upstairs and pull on a pair of shorts and an old Clemson T-shirt. I don’t bother with shoes.
Outside, the grass is cool beneath my feet. I follow the familiar slope of the yard down toward the dock. Two wooden chairs wait at the edge, faded, weathered, somehow still standing.
I sit in one and stretch my legs out in front of me. The sun warms my face, my shoulders. A breeze skims across the lake, brushing against my skin. I close my eyes and let myself rest there, in the quiet.
And for the first time in weeks, maybe months, I don’t feel the sharp, electric edge of fear. That knife in my nerves, always waiting, always ready. It’s gone.
What’s left?
