In the Middle of Somewhere (Middle of Somewhere, #1)
Roan Parrish
For Anni, who wanted a story. This wouldn’t exist without you.
Acknowledgments
The deepest thank you to Anni, who read every chapter as I wrote it and kept asking for more. Our conversations about this story (and many others) were always the best part of my day. Thanks for showing me what it’s like not to write into the void.
To the ladies of DIRGE, the smartest readers I know. Thanks for taking the jump with me; as always, you made everything more fun.
To my early readers, some of whom read this in chunks printed on the backs of things—many thanks for your enthusiasm about this story, even when it wasn’t necessarily your cup of tea. To Judith and Ellen for being such excited, opinionated readers, and for the tipsy conversations about (mostly fictional) love.
Profound thanks to the Dreamspinner team for all your hard work. From semicolons to cover design, your professionalism and support have made this journey a joy.
To my parents for being open-minded readers, for listening to me ramble on about my “secret project” for months before I would tell you what it was, and for taking me seriously when I told you.
To my wonderful sap of a sister. This may be the first story other people are seeing, but you’ve heard them all. Thank you for being unfailingly excited about everything I write and perpetually willing to discuss it. Loudly. In public. Over nachos and beer.
And to Dorian Gray, for alternately curling up and stretching out beside me (or on my computer) as the situation required.
Chapter 1
February
I TOSS my bag in the door of my rental car and practically throw myself in after it. Once the door is safely closed, I slump into the seat, close my eyes, and curse the entire state of Michigan. If Michigan didn’t exist, then I wouldn’t be sitting in a rental car at the edge of Sleeping Bear College’s tiny campus, having a premature midlife crisis at thirty.
I just spent the day interviewing for a job at Sleeping Bear, a small liberal arts college I’d never even heard of until six months ago. My interview went well, my teaching demonstration went even better, and I’m pretty sure I never let my cuffs slide up to show my tattoos. I could tell they liked me, and they seemed enthusiastic about hiring someone young to help them build the department. As they talked about independent studies and dual majors, I mentally catalogued all the bear puns I could. Of course, what they’d think if they found out that I associate bears’ hairy chests and lumbering gaits with large men drinking beer instead of the college, the nearby dunes, and the animal they are named for, I can’t say.
I’ve been working my ass off to get where I am today, and all I can think is that I’m a fraud. I’m not an English professor. I’m just some queer little punk from Philadelphia who the smart kids slummed it with. Just ask my ex. Just ask my father. Ask my brothers, especially. God, what the hell am I doing here?
Sleeping Bear is the only college where I got an interview and it is in the middle of f*cking nowhere—near some place called Traverse City (which is definitely not a city, based on anything I’ve ever seen). I had to drive for nearly four hours after I flew to Detroit to get here. I could have gotten closer with a connecting flight in a tiny plane, but I’ll be damned if the first time I ever flew I was going to crash into one of the Great Lakes. No, overland travel was good enough for me, even if the flight, the rental car, and the suit I bought for the visit put me even deeper in the hole than I was before. At least I saved a hundred bucks getting the red-eye from Detroit to Philly tomorrow night.
I shudder when I think what my credit card bill will look like this month. Good thing I can turn the heat off in my apartment in a few weeks when it gets above forty degrees. Not like there’s anyone there except me. My friends from school never want to come to my neighborhood, claiming it’s more convenient to go places near campus. Richard, my ex, wouldn’t be caught dead in my apartment, which he referred to as “the crack house.” Asshole. And I only see my brothers and my dad at their auto shop. Still, I love Philly; I’ve lived there all my life. Moving—especially to the middle of nowhere—well, even the thought is freaking me out.
Now, all I want is to go back to my shitty little motel room, order a pizza, and fall asleep in front of crappy TV. I sigh and start the rental car I can’t afford.
I have to admit, though, the road from the school to my motel is beautiful. All the hotels near campus are cute (read: expensive) bed and breakfast joints, so I booked in at the Motel 6 outside of town. It’s down a two-lane road that seems to follow the tree line. To my left are fields and the occasional dirt road turnoff with signs I can’t read in the near-dark. God, I’m starving. I haven’t eaten since an ill-advised Dunkin’ Donuts egg sandwich at the airport.
It’s really cold so far north, but I crack the window to breathe the sweet smell of fresh air and trees anyway. It’s actually really peaceful out here. Quiet. It isn’t something I’m used to—quiet, I mean. Library-quiet and middle-of-the-night quiet, sure. But in the city there’s always noise. This is a quiet that feels like water and trees and, well, nature, I guess, like the time my parents took us to the Jersey Shore when we were kids and I hid under the boardwalk away from the crowds, listening to the overwhelming sound of the ocean and the creak of docks.