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As my mother's 24/7 caregiver, November being National Family Caregiver Month has always been important to me. Not because I want personal recognition for what I do but to help show people that caregiving is more than just medical assistance, it can also be emotional, physical, psychological, that it effects every aspects of a person's life, it can be temporary, short term, long term, chronic,. I would give anything to make it so my mother did not need the assistance but that isn't possible so I do this so she can have the best quality of life and still live in her own home. So I realized that there are stories out there that have caregivers and whether it's a big or small part of the plot doesn't matter, they help show people what caregivers provide all within very entertaining romances and reading experiences.
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Summary:
It’s 1919, and Frank Huddleston has survived the battlefields of the Great War. A serious head injury has left him with amnesia so profound he must re-learn his name every morning from a note posted on the privy door.
Gerald “Jersey" Rohn, joined the Army because he wanted to feel like a man, but he returned from the trenches minus a leg and with no goal for his life. He’s plagued by the nightmare of his best friend’s death and has nervous fits, but refuses to associate those things with battle fatigue. He can't work his father's farm, so he takes a job supervising Frank, who is working his grandparents’ farm despite his head injury.
When Frank recovers enough to ask about his past, he discovers his grandparents know almost nothing about him, and they’re lying about what they do know. The men set out to discover Frank's past and get Jersey a prosthesis. They soon begin to care for each other, but they'll need to trust their hearts and put their pasts to rest if they are to turn attraction into a loving future.
This is an amazing story of love, friendship, and overcoming both physical and emotional difficulties. Added on top of all that, it was a time when a gay relationship was not only shunned but illegal. Jersey and Frank both have their own issues to overcome that linger after returning from the war, alone they just manage to "get by" but together they find strength to not only get by but also grow and overcome. I loved the way the author dealt with their individual issues and meshed them together at the same time. Not all the characters are likeable but they aren't suppose to be and the author writes them in a way that is understandable, at times leaves the reader wanting to shake them till they realize what they are saying and doing could do with some rethinking. A definite must for those who love historicals and for those that enjoy a good romance and character study, because you just might find something that makes today a little brighter, I know I did.
Summary:
Love in O'Leary #1
“I was in free fall the moment we met, and I just keep falling.”
Small town police officer Silas Sloane knows every resident of O’Leary, New York. He’s earned the love and respect of its citizens, though living under the small-town microscope grates on him. But though he’s good at his job, there’s one thing he’s not good at: commitments… Until Everett.
Widower Everett Maior, O’Leary’s newest citizen, came to the small town kicking and screaming. He never wanted to become primary caretaker for his grandfather and has no interest in living the provincial life. Snarky and superstitious, he’s proficient at keeping people at a distance... Until he lays eyes on Silas.
Strange disappearances are plaguing O’Leary, though, even as Silas and Everett find their growing attraction undeniable. Can they find their way to a future together, even as ghosts from the past threaten to tear them apart?
The Door Behind Us by John C Houser
Chapter 1
1965
THE YOUNG man still had a dressing over one ear and a crust of blood inside one nostril. The doctor paged through the chart. Notations recorded progress as good as could be expected for such a recent amputee. “Mind if I look?” He pulled back the sheet and noted the wound drained normally. “How’d he rest last night?”
The resident pulled at his narrow tie. “Poorly. He was yelling and thrashing around. That’s why I asked for you to look in.”
“Hmm. Has he been given anything to help him sleep?”
“No, he even tried to refuse the morphine.”
“That’s interesting.” He watched the steady rise and fall of the muscular chest. “He’s a sergeant. Was he a squad leader? Do you know what happened to him?”
The resident shook his head, yawning. “Nope. He hasn’t said much.”
“Does he know about the leg?”
“We told him there was too much nerve damage.”
“The nightmares started before the surgery?”
“Before.” The resident yawned again. “From the first night he was here.”
“There’s not much I can do for him until he wakes up. You’ll have me paged?”
Chapter 2
1919
FRANK CAME into the barn sniffing the air like the scent might tell him whether the place was dangerous.
“About time you got here. Saw the note, I take it? Any questions?” Charlie watched the boy take in the stone barn, from hayloft to the three-legged stool where he sat. “Questions?” he prompted the boy a second time.
Cocking his head as if sorting through a stack of mental index cards, the boy eventually picked a pair of questions. “What happened to me? Why can’t I remember?”
“You received a head injury, maybe from a shell explosion. That’s what the quacks at the hospital told us. But that doesn’t answer your question, does it? Why don’t you remember anything? I don’t know. Here, grab a bucket. I expect your hands remember how to milk a cow, even if your head don’t.” Charlie watched the boy’s hand creep upward to touch his head. “Queenie knows you, even if you don’t know her.”
Frank picked up a bucket hesitantly.
Charlie nodded at a Jersey cow that stamped impatiently at her stanchion. “She’s waiting.”
What was it like for the boy to discover who he was every morning from a note tacked to the door of the privy? If the boy had any feelings about it, he never told Charlie.
THE BOY discovered the note after waking in an unfamiliar room. Pale light filtered through a dusty window at the end of a tunnellike dormer. Feeling exposed even under a woolen blanket, he slid to the floor and rolled part way underneath the bed. More comfortable with the solid frame looming over him, he stayed for a time, staring upward. As the light strengthened, he let his gaze follow the lines of wood grain in the window frame. The builder of this house had cut matching pieces for the verticals, their patterns mirrored on either side of the window.
Eventually he rose and struggled out of the tangled bedclothes. A small writing desk, cluttered with loose sheets of writing paper, a fountain pen, and an inkpot, was tucked into the dormer. A stack of unopened envelopes lay next to the writing supplies. The first was postmarked in July of 1918, and the last in October of the same year. Why didn’t this fellow, Francis Huddleston, open his mail?
Gut fluttering like an anxious bird, he peered under the bed for a chamber pot. Finding none, he rushed down to the second floor looking for a toilet or the way to the privy. Steps led down toward either end of the house. The set in the back were coarse and painted rather than finished, a servant’s stair. He knew the term, even if he didn’t know where he’d learned it. Down again, he found a large kitchen and heavy door framed in pantry shelves. He ran out into the yard. A well-worn path led to a small, clapboard structure with high windows. A minute later, as he tried not to breathe the acrid stink, he noticed a ruled sheet of writing paper tacked to the door in front of him. GOOD MORNING was blocked out in square letters.
GOOD MORNING
Your name is Francis “Frank” Huddleston. You are a soldier, returned from the war in Europe. The white-haired man milking the cows in the barn is your grandfather, Charlie Clark. He will welcome your help with the chores. When you return from the barn, the gray-haired woman in the kitchen will give you breakfast. She is your grandmother, Edith “Eddy” Clark.
Charlie continued to milk his own cow and watched as Frank began to squeeze a stream of milk from Queenie’s teats, the familiar act calming the boy. Soon the milk squirted steadily, and Frank fell into a kind of trance, his movements automatic, until a diminishing stream and restless stamp from Queenie signaled time to change to a new pair of teats. Shifting to a new set, he rested his head against Queenie’s side and continued mechanically.
Charlie finished first and went to stand behind the boy. When Frank was done, he placed his hands on his knees and looked around. Charlie held his breath and watched Frank’s face. But there was only a tightening around Frank’s mouth and a narrowed gaze. Charlie sighed and placed a hand on Frank’s shoulder. “It’s all right, boy. I’m your grandfather, Charlie Clark. You’re Frank Huddleston, come home from the war with a head injury. That’s why you don’t know me. Let’s go in and meet your grandmother. She’ll give us something to eat. Are you hungry? Don’t forget your bucket.”
EDDY’S SPOTTED hands twisted in her lap as she spoke. “Charlie isn’t a young man anymore. You’re a great worker, Frank, but it’s the forgetting. With one of us staying with you all the time to answer your questions, we can’t….”
Frank fidgeted in his chair and let his gaze wander over the worn fixtures and scarred wood of the kitchen. He wondered if they would ask him to leave, the strangers who had fed him for months, judging from the thick wad of notes in his hand. Would their faces ever be familiar?
“… so Charlie and I, we’ve posted a notice at the Grange Hall. We hope to have someone here by the harvest.”
Frank became aware the room had fallen silent—except for the tap dripping in the sink and the birds calling outside. Eddy and Charlie. They watched him closely as if they expected something, as if they were unsure of his response. He didn’t know why. Eddy’s careful announcement seemed to have little to do with him.
“Will you hire someone I knew… before?”
“No, Frank. You were with your parents in Philadelphia before the war. Nobody around here knows you.” Charlie looked away. His voice took on a rote quality. “They thought you might be more comfortable here with us while you recovered.”
“Will the new person stay with me or work with you?”
Charlie rubbed fingers across his forehead like he was trying to erase the wrinkles there, but Eddy answered in firm tones. “We have to be careful with our money, Frank. It may be cheaper to hire somebody to keep an eye on you and to help you remember when you have one of your spells. Charlie will work around the house.”
Frank fingered his notes again. “So… you want me to keep feeding the horses and milking the cows?”
“Yes, you’ll do that and other work as well.”
“Now, Eddy.” Charlie’s voice was gentle. “The boy’s still recovering. I’m not dead yet.”
“He’s strong as a bull, Charlie.”
“I don’t mind doing more, if that’s what you want.” Frank shifted from face to face until he focused on the sharp furrows at the side of Eddy’s mouth. “Just tell me what you want.”
“That’s what the new man will do,” Eddy said, looking at Charlie.
Charlie’s gaze dropped to his callused hands.
1965
THE YOUNG man still had a dressing over one ear and a crust of blood inside one nostril. The doctor paged through the chart. Notations recorded progress as good as could be expected for such a recent amputee. “Mind if I look?” He pulled back the sheet and noted the wound drained normally. “How’d he rest last night?”
The resident pulled at his narrow tie. “Poorly. He was yelling and thrashing around. That’s why I asked for you to look in.”
“Hmm. Has he been given anything to help him sleep?”
“No, he even tried to refuse the morphine.”
“That’s interesting.” He watched the steady rise and fall of the muscular chest. “He’s a sergeant. Was he a squad leader? Do you know what happened to him?”
The resident shook his head, yawning. “Nope. He hasn’t said much.”
“Does he know about the leg?”
“We told him there was too much nerve damage.”
“The nightmares started before the surgery?”
“Before.” The resident yawned again. “From the first night he was here.”
“There’s not much I can do for him until he wakes up. You’ll have me paged?”
Chapter 2
1919
FRANK CAME into the barn sniffing the air like the scent might tell him whether the place was dangerous.
“About time you got here. Saw the note, I take it? Any questions?” Charlie watched the boy take in the stone barn, from hayloft to the three-legged stool where he sat. “Questions?” he prompted the boy a second time.
Cocking his head as if sorting through a stack of mental index cards, the boy eventually picked a pair of questions. “What happened to me? Why can’t I remember?”
“You received a head injury, maybe from a shell explosion. That’s what the quacks at the hospital told us. But that doesn’t answer your question, does it? Why don’t you remember anything? I don’t know. Here, grab a bucket. I expect your hands remember how to milk a cow, even if your head don’t.” Charlie watched the boy’s hand creep upward to touch his head. “Queenie knows you, even if you don’t know her.”
Frank picked up a bucket hesitantly.
Charlie nodded at a Jersey cow that stamped impatiently at her stanchion. “She’s waiting.”
What was it like for the boy to discover who he was every morning from a note tacked to the door of the privy? If the boy had any feelings about it, he never told Charlie.
THE BOY discovered the note after waking in an unfamiliar room. Pale light filtered through a dusty window at the end of a tunnellike dormer. Feeling exposed even under a woolen blanket, he slid to the floor and rolled part way underneath the bed. More comfortable with the solid frame looming over him, he stayed for a time, staring upward. As the light strengthened, he let his gaze follow the lines of wood grain in the window frame. The builder of this house had cut matching pieces for the verticals, their patterns mirrored on either side of the window.
Eventually he rose and struggled out of the tangled bedclothes. A small writing desk, cluttered with loose sheets of writing paper, a fountain pen, and an inkpot, was tucked into the dormer. A stack of unopened envelopes lay next to the writing supplies. The first was postmarked in July of 1918, and the last in October of the same year. Why didn’t this fellow, Francis Huddleston, open his mail?
Gut fluttering like an anxious bird, he peered under the bed for a chamber pot. Finding none, he rushed down to the second floor looking for a toilet or the way to the privy. Steps led down toward either end of the house. The set in the back were coarse and painted rather than finished, a servant’s stair. He knew the term, even if he didn’t know where he’d learned it. Down again, he found a large kitchen and heavy door framed in pantry shelves. He ran out into the yard. A well-worn path led to a small, clapboard structure with high windows. A minute later, as he tried not to breathe the acrid stink, he noticed a ruled sheet of writing paper tacked to the door in front of him. GOOD MORNING was blocked out in square letters.
GOOD MORNING
Your name is Francis “Frank” Huddleston. You are a soldier, returned from the war in Europe. The white-haired man milking the cows in the barn is your grandfather, Charlie Clark. He will welcome your help with the chores. When you return from the barn, the gray-haired woman in the kitchen will give you breakfast. She is your grandmother, Edith “Eddy” Clark.
Charlie continued to milk his own cow and watched as Frank began to squeeze a stream of milk from Queenie’s teats, the familiar act calming the boy. Soon the milk squirted steadily, and Frank fell into a kind of trance, his movements automatic, until a diminishing stream and restless stamp from Queenie signaled time to change to a new pair of teats. Shifting to a new set, he rested his head against Queenie’s side and continued mechanically.
Charlie finished first and went to stand behind the boy. When Frank was done, he placed his hands on his knees and looked around. Charlie held his breath and watched Frank’s face. But there was only a tightening around Frank’s mouth and a narrowed gaze. Charlie sighed and placed a hand on Frank’s shoulder. “It’s all right, boy. I’m your grandfather, Charlie Clark. You’re Frank Huddleston, come home from the war with a head injury. That’s why you don’t know me. Let’s go in and meet your grandmother. She’ll give us something to eat. Are you hungry? Don’t forget your bucket.”
EDDY’S SPOTTED hands twisted in her lap as she spoke. “Charlie isn’t a young man anymore. You’re a great worker, Frank, but it’s the forgetting. With one of us staying with you all the time to answer your questions, we can’t….”
Frank fidgeted in his chair and let his gaze wander over the worn fixtures and scarred wood of the kitchen. He wondered if they would ask him to leave, the strangers who had fed him for months, judging from the thick wad of notes in his hand. Would their faces ever be familiar?
“… so Charlie and I, we’ve posted a notice at the Grange Hall. We hope to have someone here by the harvest.”
Frank became aware the room had fallen silent—except for the tap dripping in the sink and the birds calling outside. Eddy and Charlie. They watched him closely as if they expected something, as if they were unsure of his response. He didn’t know why. Eddy’s careful announcement seemed to have little to do with him.
“Will you hire someone I knew… before?”
“No, Frank. You were with your parents in Philadelphia before the war. Nobody around here knows you.” Charlie looked away. His voice took on a rote quality. “They thought you might be more comfortable here with us while you recovered.”
“Will the new person stay with me or work with you?”
Charlie rubbed fingers across his forehead like he was trying to erase the wrinkles there, but Eddy answered in firm tones. “We have to be careful with our money, Frank. It may be cheaper to hire somebody to keep an eye on you and to help you remember when you have one of your spells. Charlie will work around the house.”
Frank fingered his notes again. “So… you want me to keep feeding the horses and milking the cows?”
“Yes, you’ll do that and other work as well.”
“Now, Eddy.” Charlie’s voice was gentle. “The boy’s still recovering. I’m not dead yet.”
“He’s strong as a bull, Charlie.”
“I don’t mind doing more, if that’s what you want.” Frank shifted from face to face until he focused on the sharp furrows at the side of Eddy’s mouth. “Just tell me what you want.”
“That’s what the new man will do,” Eddy said, looking at Charlie.
Charlie’s gaze dropped to his callused hands.
The Fall by May Archer
One
Everett
O’Leary, New York was fucking impossible to get to.
I mean, on the one hand it was as easy as answering the phone to hear my mother crying like the end-times were upon us. It had been a hard year, and in that terror-struck half minute where my body was locked down and my mind was already flailing in anticipatory grief for whatever new tragedy she was about to share, I’d been easy pickings.
“Grandpa Hen needs your help, Ev,” she’d sobbed, and without sparing a single second to think why he might need help or exactly what that help would require, without remembering that Grandpa Hen and I had a relationship that was approximately as cordial as an armed nuclear standoff, I’d agreed.
“Of course,” I’d vowed, like a fucking idiot. “Anything!” Anything to avert another tragedy, anything to avoid another loss.
As it turned out, anything meant me packing up my shit and moving my ass to the backend of nowheresville for an entire academic year. It meant me fast-tracking a transitional certificate to teach art to kids who might not be aware that the earth wasn’t flat. It meant living with my homophobic throwback of a grandfather, who’d managed to break his leg in three places like the overachiever he was, in The Town That Time Forgot.
That was a tragedy and a loss right there.
But despite the hassles of packing and saying temporary goodbyes, of putting our… I mean, my… condo up for rent, the preparations for my departure were still easier than the fucking drive itself.
Route 222 between Camden and O’Leary was a serpentine hosebeast, and I was pretty sure it was trying to kill me.
“Fuck!” I breathed, trying to ease my Yaris around yet another hairpin turn that had popped up out of nowhere.
I imagined the road had started out as a footpath through the forest, snaking around rivers and ponds, trees and property lines. No doubt it had been perfectly adequate for taking your cow to market, and I’d bet the endless waves of trees were just lovely in the daytime. But trying to drive a tiny Toyota, in the dark, around turns so tight it felt like the road was doubling back on itself, I started to feel like the stupid trees were watching and giggling. Like O’Leary didn’t want me to come any more than I wanted to go. Too bad it was too late to turn back.
“Leave early,” my mom had told me yesterday at my goodbye party. She’d been on the verge of tears, per usual, and giving me the helpless, anxious look that was pretty much her standard these days — the one that made it seem like she was visibly restraining herself from trying to pick me up like a toddler, even though I was nearly thirty and outweighed her by at least twenty-five pounds. “Don’t take chances, Ev,” she’d begged.
Pfft. As if, I’d assured her. The Ev who took chances had died along with my husband Adrian last year. These days, I was self-reliant and responsible. I took care of my own shit, always. You could find my picture in the dictionary next to competent. See also: risk-averse.
But then, after everyone else had gone home — after my friends and relatives had gone back to their own houses, and families, and lives — I’d looked at the empty walls and the packed suitcases waiting in the spare bedroom, and… well, I’d lost my shit.
Everyone had said, “Wait a year, Ev.” and, “Don’t make any life-changing decisions in those first grueling months, when grief is fresh and your mind is clouded.” And since I was Everett Maior, Rule Follower these days, that’s exactly what I’d done.
I’d lived in our condo, which Adrian had decorated in the rustic, urban style he’d loved — a style I’d teasingly called Pottery Barn Puked, just to piss him off so I could make it up to him later. I made the bed every morning, because Adrian used to be fastidious about it, putting every fussy throw pillow into place in a way that would have made him proud.
I’d carved my own pumpkins into works of jack-o-lantern art, remembering how impressed Adrian used to be by my skill. Then I’d gone out and bought the giant Costco bags of candy we used to pretend were for trick-or-treaters even though there were no kids in our complex, and systematically eaten every piece of it. I'd made myself so sick, I hadn't been able to touch sweets since.
I’d hung Adrian’s stocking next to mine last Christmas, on the fussy ceramic hangers he loved, though I was still convinced that Daphne, our resident feline shithead, was going to pull them down and shatter them like ceramic shrapnel bombs. I waited for the Christmas spirit to overtake me. (I was still waiting.)
I’d planted pansies in the window boxes in April, for God’s sake, even though I thought they were the most disgustingly simple, chipper flowers in existence, because they were hardy enough to survive a cold snap, and Adrian had always insisted on having the first flowers in the neighborhood. I was determined to keep things up to standard.
I’d been as patient as I possibly could be, and I’d waited for time to work its healing magic. But seeing the essential parts of my life — our life — packed into a couple of suitcases, three boxes, and a cat carrier, while I prepared to move to New York without him, had called bullshit on this whole experiment. I didn’t feel any closer to okay now than I had at his funeral. My grief wasn’t a work in progress, but a permanent topographical change.
So I’d dealt with this realization the way any responsible, risk-averse adult would. I’d drunk myself blind on Adrian’s aguardiente.
By the time I’d pulled my sorry ass out of bed this morning, showered, and located Daphne at the top of the bedroom closet — seriously, she was such a shithead — it had been afternoon; hardly early, but the couple renting the place from me were moving in tonight, so there was no way to delay. Besides, I’d been pretty sure I’d rather die than greet Grandpa Hen for the first time in decades with an apology for not arriving Sunday night, as expected.
I hadn’t meant it literally, though. And driving down the road through the darkening, late-August twilight, I realized I’d rather have faced off with a disappointed Henry Lattimer, because this road was spooky-deserted.
There was no traffic in either direction – not a headlight to be seen. Plus, those crazy technological advances I’d been used to back in Massachusetts, like streetlights, seemed not to have made it to Backwards-land, New York. There had been nothing on either side of the car for miles but relentless trees and unmarked dirt paths.
“The upside here, Daph, is that we can’t get lost,” I remarked to the cat, who’d finally stopped protesting her imprisonment in the carrier about half an hour before. She ignored me, which was par for the course.
I rubbed my damp palms on the legs of my khaki shorts one at a time and stared at the miniscule amount of road illuminated by my headlights. I fucking hated driving in the dark. There was a reason I’d been the navigator any time Adrian and I had gone on a road trip.
“The bad news, though, is that a tree branch could fall on us at any time. Or we could crash through the brush and our remains won’t be found for a decade or longer.”
Daphne didn’t dignify this with a response, which was probably what I deserved.
Realistically, I couldn’t be more than a mile out of town. I remembered that much from my weeks of summer imprisonment in O’Leary as a kid. Soon, the road would open into a wide field, and not long after that came the fork where Route 222 continued on toward Rushton, and Weaver Street headed right toward O’Leary. It wouldn’t take more than two minutes.
But a lot could change in two minutes.
Like suddenly deciding you were moving to New York. Or realizing you were in love. Or finding out your husband’s pesky acid reflux was actually liver cancer.
The walls of the car started closing in, and I could feel my cheeks flush despite the air conditioning. My heart started beating double-time and there was a familiar cramping in my stomach. Oh, lovely. A panic attack was just what I needed. The cherry on the shit-sundae of this whole trip.
I took a deep breath and blew it out, then repeated the process, visualizing a calm and protective shield around the car with every exhale. Doctor Trainor would be so proud. You’d never guess I hadn’t suffered from panic attacks until last year, I was such a fucking professional at handling them now.
But tonight, my calm and protective shield was doing jack shit to hold back the tide. My hands started shaking and tingling, and my vision wavered. I tried to guide the car to a gentle stop on the side of the road and…
I swear to God, I saw a man running out of the woods, right at me.
He launched himself out of the tree line at my right, straight out of the brush and into the road. His pale chest glowed in my headlights, like he was some kind of otherworldly creature, and his hair was chin-length and dark, exactly like… exactly like…
At the last possible moment, I yanked the wheel left, sending the car careening through the opposite lane, just as the road curved right. The brakes squealed as I slammed down on the pedal, but there wasn’t enough pavement for me to stop. The car sailed over the embankment, weightless for a heartbeat, and in that time when gravity wasn’t holding me, I thought that if death was this peaceful, it might be okay.
Then the car slammed into something with a deafening crash, the airbag exploded, catching me in the face, and I was overwhelmed by the tang of metal. I sat there, stunned, even after the airbag deflated, doing a mental assessment. My knee had taken the brunt of the impact, cracking into the center console with bruising force, but I could feel all my fingers. I could feel all my toes.
Alive, then, I decided. And apparently car accidents were an antidote to panic attacks. I’d keep that info in my back pocket.
The headlights were on, but illuminated only a green curtain, since the windshield was so shattered it was impossible to see through. The engine was making an ominous hissing noise, so I turned the key and shut off the car. The headlights cut off with it.
When I heard a shuffling noise from the backseat, I remembered I wasn’t alone.
Shit. Daphne.
I pushed my door open and then yanked at the door to the back seat, peering inside the cat carrier I’d belted into the car. I swear to God, I’d never been happier to see those accusing blue eyes blinking up at me from her smushed white face.
“You’re okay,” I told her, unbuckling the carrier and lifting it up so I could see her better. “I’ve got you, and you’re gonna be fine.”
She let out a plaintive, guilt-inducing meow that rejected any comfort. I rolled my eyes. She’d always been more Adrian’s cat than…
Fuck. Thinking of Adrian made me remember the guy in the road, and I set the carrier on the ground in the small circle of light spilling from the interior of the car. The guy had been lean and pale, like Adrian, with hair that looked exactly as Adrian’s had when I’d first met him. And he’d been so damn close to the car.
My stomach churned. Had I hit him? It had all happened so fast.
“Hello!” I yelled into the darkness. “Can you hear me?”
The only response was the chirping of crickets and the tiny, terrifying sounds of the woods.
I scrambled through the thick undergrowth to the passenger’s side of the car and pried open the front door digging for my cell. The glass had cracked, but it lit up obediently when I touched the screen… and displayed exactly zero bars of service. Because of course.
I had a first aid kit in the glovebox, though, and a vague idea how to use it, so I turned my flashlight on and scanned the road where I’d seen the Adrian-lookalike. I steeled myself to see blood and broken bones. What I found was even scarier.
There was no one in the road. And no sign there’d ever been anyone, either.
Had I… imagined the man somehow? Did panic attacks cause hallucinations? Had I somehow conjured a ghost?
The last time I’d felt so completely alone had been the day of Adrian’s funeral, when his mother had turned to cry in his father’s arms, and his sister had turned to her boyfriend, and I’d realized the days of sharing my troubles with someone I loved were over. I could take care of myself; of course I could. But Jesus Christ, it was tiring.
I thumped my fist against the trunk.
“This isn’t how it was supposed to go, Adrian!” I screamed. “You were supposed to be here with me! We were supposed to do shit together.” I pushed my fingers against my eyes and found them wet. “If you loved me—”
I broke off before saying something incredibly dumb and stood up straight, pissed at myself.
If he’d loved me, he’d still be alive?
I knew better.
Adrian had loved me, he’d fought hard, but now he was gone. If there was a heaven or a beyond, if there was any justice in the universe, he would be floating on a cloud somewhere. He was most certainly not materializing just to jump-scare me in the woods of Upstate New York. I had my own broken mind to thank for that.
I limped over to collect my cat and started walking toward O’Leary, because there was really nothing else to do. The only way out of the woods, literally and metaphorically, was through them.
John C HouserJohn C. Houser’s father, step-mother, and mother were all psychotherapists. When old enough, he escaped to Grinnell College, which was exactly halfway between his mother’s and father’s homes—and half a continent away from each. After graduation, he taught English for a year in Greece, attended graduate school, and eventually began a career of creating computer systems for libraries. Now he works in a strange old building that boasts a historic collection of mantelpieces–but no fireplaces.
May is an M/M author who lives in Boston. She spends her days raising three incredibly sarcastic children, finding inventive ways to drive her husband crazy, planning beach vacations, avoiding the gym, reading M/M romance, and occasionally writing it. She also writes MF romance as Maisy Archer.
John C Houser
EMAIL: johnchouser@gmail.com
May Archer
