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Not wanting to startle her, I kept my distance, moving to the outer edge of the track to pass her. When I got close enough, familiar features solidified. The hair that cascaded gently past her shoulders appeared black in the lamplight, but I recognized it even so.
“Aly,” I said.
She turned, not at all concerned. If it had been me and someone had spoken my name in the middle of the night, I would have leapt ten feet in the air.
She smiled. “Linc, what are you doing here?”
“I don’t sleep,” I answered.
We fell into step together, walking slower than we had to.
“I don’t sleep either,” she admitted, hands in her pockets.
“Why not?”
“It’s a long story.” She shook her head.
I grinned. “I’m here, and I’ve got time.”
She sighed, and I could tell she didn’t want to open up just yet. “I was under a lot of stress some time ago, and the doctor says that my system is still working it out.”
I nodded. “That’s pretty much my situation.”
“I’m sure you’ve got me beat.” She glanced my way, concern in her eyes.
“It’s not a competition,” I said, parroting the counselors at the VA. “You weren’t attacked or anything, were you?”
“No,” she said quickly.
“A bad relationship?” I guessed.
“No, nothing like that.” She seemed to think for a moment and then qualified her response. “Actually, maybe it was like that. I had a job that was really stressful and much more intrusive than it should have been.”
“Not with Porter?” I demanded, feeling anger rise in my chest.
“No, no!” She saw where I was going and threw up a hand to stop me. “Porter’s great. Your dad is great. This was way before the lumberyard.”
I relaxed. “It must have been bad.”
“It was,” she admitted. “I hung on for years. It was my first real job, and I didn’t realize how toxic it was until it became too much and I had to quit.”
“Well I’m glad you’re out of that situation now,” I told her.
“Me too.”
We walked in silence for a few beats. “What’s it like being home?” she asked.
I inhaled. It was a good question, one that most people didn’t have the sense to ask. I had spent eight years in the desert, fighting for my life. It had become normal, and as friendly as Singer’s Ridge was, I still hadn’t found my equilibrium.
“It’s different,” I said honestly.
She laughed. “I bet. What was the one thing you missed the most from home, when you were overseas?”
“Apple pie,” I replied.
She laughed. “Really?”
“Yeah. You could get decent coffee, beer, even Italian food, but nobody made apple pie the way moms in Singer’s Ridge make it.”
