Page 32 of Where We Stay

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Later that night, Pen is asleep, and I’m sitting on the porch with a cold beer. The river is quiet, its surface barely moving beneath the moonlight.

An uninvited thought enters my mind.

I wonder how Blair’s shift is going.

If she made it there on time.

If she’s still worried about her car.

If anyone else has made her laugh tonight.

I reach toward my phone before remembering I don’t have her number.

Probably for the best.

What the fuck would I even say?

Hey, woman I met yesterday. How’s work? Still smell like jasmine?

Jesus Christ.

I take a long pull from my beer.

Fucking hell.

It’s been one day.

Six

Blair

Sunday morning in Hartwell is quiet in a way I’m still not used to.

Even after working late last night, I wake early with nowhere I need to be and no idea what to do with myself.

I’ve never been good at sitting still.

By nine, I’m in the backyard clearing out an old garden bed beside the porch. It’s overgrown with weeds and buried beneath years of fallen leaves, but the timber border is still intact.

Considering I don’t have my car back yet, my resources are limited. Thankfully, whoever lived here before me left a collection of tools inside the small garden shed. There are a few shovels, two rakes, leftover timber panels and a pair of musty gardening gloves that are at least three sizes too big.

They smell questionable, but they’ll do.

I pull the gloves on and get to work.

The soil is damp from the cool morning air, and leaves crunch beneath my knees as I clear them away. Somewhere beyond the trees, I can hear the faint crash of waves against the shore.

No sirens.

No shouting from the street.

No footsteps in the apartment above mine.

Just birds, leaves and the occasional sound of G arguing with something inside her house.

I smile to myself and continue pulling weeds.