[listen to chapter one here]

IVEY 

THE HOUSE WAS EXACTLY HOW they left it.

The ancient tunnel of trees bordering the driveway shielded the harsh August sun from entering my car, but the leaves diverged at the roundabout and sent sunlight streaming through my windows. My hand flung up and blocked the rays from blinding me.

The outside had been kissed by time and a few decent storms.

Vines clung to the walls like a scared child. The white paneling was coated in a dull beige of dirt. The grass was overgrown, and the windows were smeared with water stains. The carmine red door had faded a long time ago to a pale scarlet. Even though the house had only been uninhabited for two years, the wildlife quickly reclaimed the land in tangles of green and brown. No one had been there to stop it.

"Hi, again," I whispered to the house, unable to get out of my seat. It stared back with beady eyes, almost cursing me for letting it deteriorate. It's not my fault, I wanted to say aloud like it was listening. 

As if they were still here.

As if the front door would swing open from the sound of my car approaching, I would see my mom and dad standing in the doorway with open arms, tanned from the summer sun and exploration.

You promised you wouldn't cry, Ivey. So, do not start today. Somehow, I managed to avoid this place for two years. But today was the first time I was back since the accident, and every emotion I had buried for the last two years crept up like bile in my throat. Slow and steady.

It was hilarious how fictional my life had become.

The last thing I liked to do was talk about it because when I told people my parents were dead, I felt pity radiating from them like humidity before a summer storm. The conversation would grow weird, and I was suddenly treated like a house made of sticks; one wrong move, and I would fall over. Followed by a pang of guilt for ruining the mood.

So, I found it was easier to pretend they were still here, nestled inside the house on Clifton Bay, sitting in their respective dock chairs drinking coffee during sunrise. And I couldn't get ahold of them because of the slow internet. They didn't call to sing Happy Birthday because they were out on an exploration for their next research journal. We did not spend the holidays together because flights were overpriced.

It was easier to pretend than face reality.

The truth was I lived across the country. I moved from state to state doing what they raised me to do—spread my wings and study nature. It helped me forget my parents were buried five feet under the ground. Yet, standing on the brick stairs, staring into the windows, felt hollow as if someone took a butcher knife and sliced me down the middle, letting my insides pour out onto the front stoop.

I buried the thoughts, left my bags in the car, and took the small path around the house.

The tall grass swayed with the breeze from the water and tossed my hair awry. If I was staying, I would need to cut the lawn. I wondered if dad's mower was still in the shed. 

The dock came into view, and I smiled for the first time since arriving. I kicked off my shoes and left them hidden in the overgrown yard. The second my feet hit the weathered wooden planks, I closed my eyes and exhaled, then began counting.

One, two, three, four... I whispered until my body wobbled at forty-six (and a half), and I opened my eyes to find my toes barely hung over the edge of the dock. My lips tugged upward into a scant smile. I still had it, I thought.

"The only thing holding you back is your mind. Remember that." I recalled my dad standing behind me, his hands on my shoulders as we stood at the beginning of the dock. I was a little over seven years old. "Close your eyes."

"What if I fall in the water?"

"Then you'll get wet." He squeezed my shoulders. "I won't let you, little bird, but I won't always be here to stop you from falling."

"Where will you be?"

His soft chuckles filled the air. "One day, you'll fly away from your mom and me. You'll have to remember what I'm teaching you now. How many steps did we count from here to the dock?"

"Forty-six and a half," I said proudly.

"And do you remember the first time we walked with our eyes closed and fell in?"

"Yes."

"That's because we didn't have a plan. But now we do. We know how many steps it takes to get to the end of the dock without falling in. I want you to remember this when you get anxious. If you fail the first time, you'll still be able to climb out of the water and learn from your mistake. Then, you make a plan, so you don't fall again. Don't stop counting, Ivey."

I never stopped counting.

Every time I joined my parents on the dock, I closed my eyes and counted until my dad proudly swept me into his arms. My eyes were still shut, and I laughed, and it bounced off the waves and dissipated into thin air. And to this day, I count when I am anxious, giving myself enough time to calm down and devise a plan.

The memories were never painful until now. Partly because when I came home in the past, I knew they would be here to create new memories, and now that I was back and nobody was here.

It was desolate.

Though, there were never many boats passing through in the first place. The occasional crabbers came to collect their traps, or fisherman visited for a bite. Yet, the only human life came from the occupants housed across and beside me.

On this side of the inlet, the water formed a Y shape. Our property veered to the right of the Y, and the tail led to the main drag of Clifton Bay. The other houses bordering the water sat further back inland, hidden by the trees. The only thing visible was their dock and occasional house lights at night.

Even then, there was minimal activity.

My eyes wandered toward the blue house across the water that mirrored ours. Everything was well kept. The regale blue paneling was still vibrant, and the back deck looked like it was freshly repainted white. I wondered who lived there now because the old occupant, Mr. Morris, was pushing eighty-one almost nine years ago, and I would be incredibly impressed if he was still alive.

No boat was tied to the moorings, and no sign of human life aside from one lone chair sat on the pristine pier. Maybe it was for sale?

Deciding it was finally time to face reality and go inside, I unpacked my car and set all of my bags in the foyer when my phone rang. My best friend Kate's name appeared on the screen, and I answered after the second ring. "Hey, you make it there safe?"

"All in one piece, sadly."

"I miss you already."

"I miss you too," I said.

"How are you holding up?"

I exhaled. My lips smacked together, making a wispy sound as I sank onto the stairs to the front door. "The tears keep trying to come out, but I just keep fighting them."

"You're allowed to cry, Ives." A moment of silence passed. "I wish you had let me come with you."

"Yeah." I rubbed the corner of my eye in slight regret. "I needed to do this on my own."

"Nobody should have to fix and sell their dead parent's house on their own. That's what I'm here for. Think about it. You could've sent me for booze and ice cream runs."

I snorted. "You think Larry would have let both of us leave?" Kate was one of the only people who talked about my dead parents like she was talking about the evening news. I loved that she did not tip-toe around me. She understood my incessant need to keep moving, and she was the only person who watched Love, Rosie with me on repeat.

"I don't care what Larry thinks. Larry can suck it."

"Don't let him hear that, or he may take you up on the offer."

She made a gagging noise, then told me she had to get back to work and to call her every day. The conversation left me feeling lighter.

My feet still hadn't budged from the ornate carpet in the foyer. I stared into the living room at the bookshelves lining the walls filled with Pierce's research journals. One's I would most likely never live up to. The worn couches and table decor were thick with a blanket of dust, keeping the lonely items warm.

Mustering up the courage, I hiked my bags onto my shoulder and made my way up the staircase to my old bedroom down the hall. I pushed the door open, flicked the light switch, and watched my green room come to life. A shiver ran through me.

My bed was made.

My curtains were drawn, revealing the perfect view of the blue house.

But nothing felt the same. I never knew it was possible to feel like a stranger in your own home.

I shut off the lights and closed the door.

DESPITE MY ROOM BEING directly above my head, I unpacked my belongings into the spare first-floor bedroom just as the sun had set beyond the waves. The red sky turned a deep royal blue, speckled with stars bright enough to see from the lack of light pollution.

My headphones filled the house's silence, and so did the hum of cicadas through the open french doors.

Albeit I was tired from days of traveling, I did not want to sleep. With my half-day-old cup of coffee, I reheated in the microwave—considering the cabinets and refrigerator were bare—I sat on the couch on the screened-in porch. The ceiling fan rattled and swirled above me, and I opened my laptop to my most recent research project.

After living in Washington State with Kate for the past four months, we were co-writing a research journal on wildlife and plants in the Pacific Northwest. She focused mainly on the animals and how they interacted, while I focused on the native plants. We were making our way down the West Coast and eventually moving to the East, where I was now.

Our boss Larry (yes, his name was Larry) made a deal that I could leave Washington early so long as our journal would be finished on time. As a bonus, I promised to write an article for the company magazine, even though that was not my job. 

Sweet, old, Larry.

We had a love-hate relationship. Though it may have been one-sided.

Larry liked me a little too much, which was why he didn't want me leaving for Maryland. However, after two years of paying property tax on this abandoned house, I knew something had to change.

Wiping a trickle of sweat off my forehead, my eyes darted to the lone porch light that flickered across the bay.

A dark, burly figure emerged from the blue house, followed by a barking dog. My back straightened, and I shut my laptop, which was my sole light source. That was not Mr. Morris.

The man whistled, and the rambunctious dog returned to his side. They leisurely walked down the opposing dock together and sat in a single chair.

I did not know how long I stared and waited for my eyes to adjust. They never did.

He brought what looked to be a mug to his mouth and then, with one hand, saluted me.

Oh shit, he could see me?

I lifted my hand and waved back at the stranger across the bay. 

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Excited for this new journey. It's a tad bit different than my others but I'm sure you guys will thoroughly enjoy ;) ;) 

QOTD: Where is your favorite vacation spot? 

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Thanks for reading ♡

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