Page 25 of Running to You

You trust everyone’s judgment but your own.

Only because her judgment had proved wrong so many times.

When she said nothing, Sam resumed the drive.

Eliza watched the world pass by outside the window. It was familiar, but also…different. Like she’d just been there the day before. And yet, overnight, everything had changed.

Like Sam. She couldn’t help the feelings she still had for him, even though he looked different now, hiding behind a beard, not that it didn’t look good.

Everything was wrong.

The world. Herself. Sam, most of all. He’d always been sweet and charming. Quick with a smile or a joke. Today, he was tense, almost nervous. Distant. And right on the edge of angry.

Which made sense, she supposed, if she’d ended things with him. Maybe he hadn’t forgiven her. Maybe she didn’t deserve his forgiveness.

Finally, he turned into the driveway of her childhood home, a two-story colonial. Green siding, mature bushes, annuals blooming beside the porch steps.

She could almost see Dad kneeling in front of the flowerbeds, showing Eliza how to plant the trunkful of flowers Mom had bought at the nursery. Dad’s weathered face and easy smile were clear in her memory. His gentle voice instructing an awkward preteen in exactly how deep to dig the hole, how wide. She could feel the brush of his hand against hers.

Your turn. One of these days, you’ll have your own house to pretty up.

But Dad wasn’t there. He’d been gone two years… No, seven.

She’d never get used to living life without him. Or…maybe she had. Maybe the wound had scabbed over.

Now, the grief was fresh and tender.

“Here.”

She snagged the handkerchief Sam held out and dabbed at her tears. He was the only man she knew who carried one—like Dad had. The first time Sam had handed it to her, she’d fallen a little bit in love with him.

Who’d planted Mom’s flowers? Had Eliza? Had she put Dad’s instructions to good use?

The effort to remember only made her head hurt.

No memories came, only fresh nervousness.

“Park on the street, please.”

Sam had already turned into the driveway. He shot her a look but didn’t ask, just backed out and pulled over, half on the grass, half on the asphalt. Mom would hate that, but Sam probably didn’t care.

It seemed wise to park where they could leave fast. She didn’t say that because she couldn’t explain it.

The houses on this street each sat on one-acre lots, leaving plenty of room between them. The neighborhood looked lived in and loved, cozy and familiar.

“You ready?”

She handed him back his handkerchief, which he took without a word, and climbed out of his sedan. She had to hurry to keep up with Sam’s long steps, down the driveway and up the walk. Puffy clouds were low and thick, the sky bright blue behind them. The breeze, a constant this close to the ocean, carried air tinged with the scent of rain.

A lawnmower buzzed in the distance. Children’s laughter came from the other direction. A typical Saturday afternoon in suburbia. A van was parked in front of the house next door, a good fifty yards away. She’d once known the people who lived there, but maybe they’d moved.

She should feel relaxed here. She should feel at home.

She should look forward to seeing her mother.

They reached the front door, and she tried it. Locked. She pressed the doorbell. Then knocked.

Sam knocked louder. When there was no answer, he knocked again. Eager to be rid of her, obviously.