Chasing Spring(3)

I slipped my headphones in and started the short walk toward the town square, hopeful that something would catch my attention on the way. I was at the end of the street—about to turn the corner onto Main Street—when I heard a car rumbling down the road behind me. The distinct sound was loud enough to disrupt my Vance Joy playlist and there was only one car in town that was that decrepit. My gut clenched and I turned despite my better judgment, just in time to see the clunky monster swerve up into our driveway. The truck had seen better days, possibly during the Nixon administration, but Chase owned the wear and tear like a badge of honor. Like most things, the old truck just added to the small town charm of Chase Matthews. All-American baseball star. Prom king. Heartthrob. My ex-best friend.

He was sitting behind the wheel, staring up at my small house. Even from down the street I could make out his handsome profile from behind his truck’s dusty windows. He was perfect. The culmination of good genes and baseball practice made it easy for him to fill out his tall frame. I couldn’t see his hazel eyes from where I stood, but if I closed my mine, I could imagine them clear as day.

He lingered there for a few minutes, taking in our house. Then his head shifted to the passenger seat, and my heart dropped.

I turned and ran; he couldn’t know I was watching him.

I kept running right down Main Street and even as I slowed to a walk, I couldn’t brush away the memory of his smile. That was the hardest thing to forget about Chase. It didn’t matter that I hadn’t seen it up close in a year and a half; it’d been my constant companion for sixteen years.





Chapter Three


Chase





I stared up at the Calloways’ house and tried to find the courage to get out of my truck. I checked for life behind the living room curtains and the window that ran along the upstairs hallway. I hadn’t been inside their house in over a year, and I had no clue what waited for me on the other side of that front door.

I didn’t want to move in with the Calloways, but thanks to my dad, I didn’t really have a choice. In recent years, he’d progressed from the fun-loving life of the party into a miserable alcoholic that drank alone. A few days earlier, Coach Calloway had stopped by and found him asleep in a pool of his own vomit with the oven left on, and he wouldn’t hear of me continuing to live there. So there I was, practically an orphan.

I unbuckled my seatbelt and turned to where Harvey was sitting next to me on the bench, unabashedly licking his crotch. Typical dog. I reached out and scratched the sweet spot behind his ear.

“Should we head in?” I asked the two-year-old golden retriever.

He tilted his head to the left and let his tongue hang out. It was as much of a yes as I’d ever get.

I opened my truck door and hopped out just as the front door swung open. Coach Calloway stepped out with a cup of coffee. He held his free hand up to block the morning sun and nodded a welcome.

“Mornin’. Need help with your stuff?”

I shrugged. “It’s not much. I just have a few bags and Harvey’s bed.”

At the sound of his name, Harvey tried to shove past me so he could jump down and get to Coach Calloway. He pawed at my jeans and when that didn’t work, he let out a desperate bark. All in all, it wasn’t a stellar first impression.

“We can keep him outside if it’ll be trouble. I just couldn't leave him at home. My dad forgets to feed him.”

Coach’s gaze hit mine. “No trouble at all. Lilah always wanted a dog. She’ll be excited.”

I glanced behind him at the mention of her name.

“You just missed her though,” he continued. “We’ll have to introduce her to Harvey later.”

I wasn’t surprised to find that Lilah wasn’t part of my welcoming committee, but a part of me wished she had been waiting for me in the house. I was done playing the silent game. I’d been done the first day she’d started to ignore me, but she’d moved off to Austin and left a gulf between us. Now that she was back, I wondered if her silence would last.





Chapter Four


Lilah





Addiction is a powerful thing. One hit, one taste of a drug can generate an itch that a lifetime of scratching can't soothe. Contrary to what most afterschool specials preach, the substances themselves aren't powerful boogeymen that ruthlessly conquer the strong wills of stable people. No, they're all just differently colored sparks, and some people are more flammable than others.

My mother was addicted to everything under the sun. Pain pills hoarded from an embellished chronic back injury. Alcohol, a staple from her youth. Meth, a rural infection whose toxic tendrils tore away the shards of her slowly shattering life. Her dependencies occupied the driver’s seat for most of my life. After her funeral, I sat in the front of the church as relatives in ill-fitting formal clothes took turns offering some variation of “just know that your mother loved you more than anything”. But I knew better; if what they said had been true, she would have still been alive to tell me herself.

I browsed through the aisles of Crosby’s Market, trying to stretch out my grocery store run as long as possible. I carried my empty basket down one aisle and then doubled back, confirming the absence of the things I needed. They didn’t have places like Whole Foods in Blackwater. There wasn’t an organic, gluten-free, vegan, or free-range label in sight. If it wasn’t canned or processed, chances were you weren't going to find it at Crosby’s. Fortunately, I wasn’t there for food.