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See me, feel me, hear me.
Our pasts won’t break us.
No, they’ll fuse us together.
When we come to a sudden stop, as if planned, I open the eyes I didn’t even realized I closed and look around.
Shawn’s panting, as is Waylon.
Waylon…who’s also grinning, wider than he has in a long time.
“Dude, what was that?” he chokes out on a breathless laugh.
I glance at Shawn and swallow. “See? I told you.”
His mouth twists—that rare, barely-there smile of his finally making an appearance for the first time since coming home with me.
To Waylon, I say, “Fuck, I missed this.”
His eyes redden, and he nods. “Me too.”
Something tells me he doesn’t just mean music.
Cracking my neck, then my knuckles, I look to each of them. “So, not to be a total fucking cliché…”
I pause, and despite the ache resounding in my chest—an ache I almost welcome at this point, if only because it still means there’s hope—I grin.
“How do you feel about starting a band?”
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
AGE 20, JUNE
This is such a bad idea.
The concrete Lackawanna River Viaduct appears up ahead, dark and ominous as it flickers through the trees. And despite how much I prepared for this moment, I can’t help but feel like I’ve gotten sucked back in time, or have finally woken from a long sleep, and college was nothing but a vivid dream.
A glance at my reflection in the rearview mirror confirms neither are true.
I’m still me.
Relieved, I sit a little straighter.
“I can do this,” I whisper, just as the Welcome to Shiloh sign appears.
From my speakers, “Jars” by Chevelle is playing, blasting through the open windows as grassy hills and cornfields and evergreen mountains blur past me, slowly but surely giving way to rooftops.
Fingers gripping the steering wheel, I coast along the highway curving down past the bridge, taking the off-ramp that will lead me right into town. The church on the corner greets me first, with its white needle-like steeple and black doors.
It’s where we had Izzy’s funeral service. One of only a handful of times that I’ve stepped inside a church. Three funerals. One wedding. Jesus wasn’t really big in our family, unless it was a part of some checklist.
Mason used to go as a kid. Every Sunday, Sherry would take him. He did the CCD thing—First Holy Communion, confession, you name it.
I can’t really pinpoint when it stopped, but it was sometime after Phoebe came into their lives. I never asked if her being trans was the reason they pulled away from the church, but I wouldn’t be surprised.
Sucking my cheeks in, I shake away the past trying to creep forward and return my focus to the road. I swing a left at the four-way stop, and then make a sharp right onto Main Street—the so-called hub of all things Shiloh.
Having lived in a city these last few months, it’s startling how quiet it is here.
