Or maybe that was just the woo-woo shit Sebastian had been talking about. Blessing did seem to know more than she should have, but then again, some people were just incredibly perceptive.
Jaxson briefly considered asking her if she had insights into his future and then reminded himself that he didn’t believe in any of that.
As it turned out, he didn’t have to ask her anything.
“You’ll find your way home,” Blessing said to him quietly when he was walking toward the exit.
“No offense, ma’am, but I know exactly where my home is.”
Rather than be offended, she inclined her head and gave him a patient smile, one that suggested she knew something he didn’t.
“You don’t yet, but you will. Good luck, Jaxson.”
Chapter Two
Jaxson
By the time Jaxson made it home to Campbell’s Junction, it was late. The only place still open was Cheney’s, and while alcohol was definitely in his immediate future, hitting the bar was not. He needed at least one night to deal with the ghosts on his own.
The old house was dark inside and out, so dark that it blended into the inky blackness. Had it not been for the shafts of silvery moonlight reflecting off the windows, his boyhood home would look like just another shadow in the hollow.
His back, hips, and leg were aching from the trek through the woods. He could have called Buck for a ride from the bus station. His old friend would have been there in a heartbeat, no questions asked, but Jaxson wasn’t ready for that conversation or the questions that would inevitably come with it.
So many things had changed since the last time he’d been home, him most of all. He’d come back older, wiser, and far more jaded. And yet, as he approached the house he’d grown up in, it seemed that some things hadn’t changed at all.
The wooden planks groaned loudly as his booted feet pressed down on them. Ignoring the stab of pain down his back, Jaxson extended his arm above the doorframe and felt around for the key. It was the first time he’d ever actually had to use it. People didn’t lock their doors in the hollow. There was no need to.
Jaxson stepped over the threshold and took a moment to fill his lungs with the familiar smells. Old wood. Booze. Car grease. Dirt.
Yep, smelled like home. Didn’t feel like it though.
Without bothering to turn on the light, he swiped a bottle of the ever-present hooch from the pantry closet and went up the creaky stairs to his old room. He tossed his duffel in the corner and opened the window to let in the cool night air, then sank down onto the bed.
He’d known that the next time he came home, his father wouldn’t be there, but knowing something and experiencing it were completely different. Nothing could have prepared him for how empty the old house felt, the sense of loss washing over him in punishing waves.
It wasn’t just the house that felt empty. He did, too. He and his father had always been close. It had been the two of them against the world for as long as he could remember. Now, he was truly alone.
No family. No team. No purpose.
Jaxson brushed off the layer of dust from the cap, then raised the bottle into the air in a silent toast. Putting it to his lips, he drank deeply, relishing the burn, wishing it could override the blade of grief slicing through his chest.
* * *
The incessant rat-tat-tat of a woodpecker roused Jaxson from a deep, dreamless slumber the next morning. It took him a minute to remember where he was. In fairness, he’d woken up in a lot of places over the last ten years.
He sat up slowly and ran his hands over his face, the dull ache in his head reminding him that he’d managed to down half a bottle of locally distilled spirits before he passed out. It barely registered on the pain scale compared with the other aches and pains that plagued him, especially since he’d skipped his prescribed nightly dose of painkillers in favor of the alcohol. He was hurting, but he wasn’t suicidal.
Not yet anyway.
Oh, he’d thought about it often enough. Having bones shattered and chunks of flesh and muscle ripped away, not knowing if he’d ever walk or ride again, did that to a guy.
He wasn’t supposed to complain though. Two more steps, and there wouldn’t have been enough left of him to piece back together. Some days, he wondered if that would have been better.
The first few steps were stiff and painful until his back and hips adjusted to being upright again. The stairs were a little tricky, but no one was there to see him grimace or hear his grunts.
He made coffee and scrounged for something to eat, settling on a bag of stale pretzels. At some point, he’d head into town to pick up a few things, but he wanted to put that off for as long as possible. Once people found out he was back, they’d stop by to offer condolences, bring food, or talk.
Jaxson knocked back a couple of pain pills and then made his way out to the old, detached two-bay garage. He and his father had spent the majority of their time there, fixing up cars and old bikes, anything with wheels and an engine. It was where he’d developed a love for mechanics and the skills that had served him well in the Army. Sure, the Army had trained him on heavy equipment, but he’d learned the basics right here at his father’s side.
Seeing the old 1950 Chevy 3100 made him smile. Jaxson still remembered the joy on his dad’s face when they’d found it in some random widow’s barn two hundred miles away. That scavenging trip was one of many father-son adventures they’d had over the years.
The covered vehicle next to it, however, hadn’t been there before.
Jaxson’s chest tightened when he lifted the tarp and looked. A 1969 Nova Super Sport. He’d always had a thing for classic muscle, but salvageable models were hard to come by. His father must have picked it up while he was deployed, thinking that someday, they’d work on it together.
That had been the plan. Join the service. See the world. Get an education. Return to Campbell’s Junction and work in the garage with his father, where they’d pick up classic junkers for cheap, then restore and selling them to collectors.
It didn’t quite work out like that. With only six months left in his commitment, Jaxson’s father passed away unexpectedly. Massive heart attack, they said.
Jaxson, no longer having a reason or a desire to return, re-upped for another four years. Then another. If it hadn’t been for the car bomb that landed him in a hospital for three months, he’d probably still be in Serbia.
“ ’Bout fucking time you got your ass back here.”
That didn’t take long. Jaxson turned toward the sound of his old friend’s voice. “Buck.”
“When did you get in?”
“Last night.”
“You could’ve called.”
“It was late.”
“Never stopped you before.”
“Yeah, well, your balls were still attached then,” Jaxson ribbed, hiding his wince as his old friend pulled him in for a manly embrace. “How’s Janie?”
“Mean,” Buck said, his eyes crinkling with mirth. “We’re expecting our fourth. She’s threatened to cut my dick off if I get near her again.” He grinned. “Won’t last though. She said the same thing with our first three.”
Four kids in ten years. Jesus.
But that was life in the hollow. Probably would have been his life, too, had he not enlisted.