The One

🔨 Chapter 1

🔨 Matthew Stanford POV

I quietly step out of my childhood home onto the front porch. The crisp June morning greets me with dew on the grass and newly formed spiderwebs. I stretch my arms up high, getting the stiffness out, then drop them to jog down the old wooden stairs. The robins serenade me as I walk up the driveway, around the barn to my old work truck.

I can hear my father already at work, tinkering with something in the barn. I decide not to disturb him by telling him I'm headed to work. I know he'd just nod his head in response. He's always been a man of few words. My mother, on the other hand, has enough words for the both of them.

I sigh with the thought of her up in her bed. She's tired from the chemo. Breast cancer took over our family five months ago. With my older siblings moved away, I'm the one to stay and help. Not that I was going anywhere anyway.

Small town life isn't for everyone, but I was never one to dream of getting away to the big city. I start up my noisy old truck, hoping it doesn't wake my mom. Lately she's really needed her sleep. I pull away quickly and drive down the sleepy country roads toward town. Everything is so familiar. Nothing ever changes here. Apart from my four years at university, I've always lived here in Newberry.

Twenty minutes later I pull up to the ironically shabby shack we call an office for Hank's Construction Company. The only one in town. I don't even have to go inside today because Hank steps out of the door with purpose.

I've been working for Hank for almost a year. At twenty-two I graduated with my Construction Management degree, and moved home. He hired me on the spot. I've probably learned more from Hank than I did at college. My father is a handyman, so Hank says I come by my construction ability naturally.

"Hey, Matt. I need you to run out to the old Martin place. The real estate agent girl wants to talk about doing some updates to try to get the house to sell."

My heartbeat speeds up at just the mention of the house I've spent more time at than my own. Ugh, I can't even hear her house alluded to without losing my cool. I ignore the flush of heat through my body and focus on the conversation. 

"Marcia?" Hank isn't good with names. "She's been the only real estate agent in town for ten years at least. Surely you can remember her name is Marcia."

He purses his lips at my chiding. He likes to tease as much as his employees do. "Don't be disrespectful young man or I'll take back what I'm about to offer."

This gets my interest. "No disrespect intended, Sir."

He smirks at how quickly I fall into line. "Marcia," he pauses to show that he can remember her name, "wants to update the interior of the Martin house. White paint, contemporary cabinet doors, really just cosmetic changes." 

I wince at the idea of that beautiful old farmhouse with contemporary decor. I refuse to even contemplate how much Prim would hate it. I shove the thought of her from my mind, which is nothing new. I'm used to pushing Prim out of my brain as soon as she enters. 

"I was thinking you could take the lead on this one." Oh! Well, that pulls me out of my intrusive thoughts. My first project. "Think you can do that?"

I nod, "Absolutely, Sir. I can do that. I'm ready." He smirks at how much I'm trying to assure him, so I add a cheeky, "You can count on me, Sir," with a salute.

He laughs out loud. "I'm sure I can. It is a good job for you to start with because it shouldn't involve anything structural. If you do a good job with this one, we can have you try something more involved next time." I nod in response. "Meet Marcia," He pauses again for effect. "...at the farmhouse at ten this morning to get all the details." He reaches up and pats me on the back, "Don't let me down, Son." He calls all his workers 'Son'.

I busy myself for an hour, then get into my truck to drive to Primrose Martin's house. It is hard to keep thoughts of her out of my brain when I'm driving to her house. I sigh as the image of her springs to mind. I've seen her exactly twice in the last year. Six months ago at her father's funeral and six months before that at my college graduation. And I never saw her once during my four years at university. It's amazing how someone who is your whole world can just disappear from your life so completely. 'Devastating' would be a more appropriate word to describe it.

I groan that I've allowed myself to slide down this tentacle of thoughts. I've worked so hard to get her out of my mind and now I'm going to be at her house every day. Since it's just cosmetic, the job will probably only require a week or two of work. I take a deep breath, I can do this. My first project, I need to impress.

I turn off the country road at the weathered real estate sign. Six months this house has been on the market, since the day after Roger Martin's funeral. I'm jostled to and fro as I drive down the pothole filled driveway. No wonder no one has bought this house, they haven't even maintained the driveway.

I pull up to the house and am immediately assaulted by memories. In one sense, the house has aged, but in another, it looks exactly the same. The wrap around porch where we played marbles, the flower garden to the right of the stairs where we buried her dead hamster. My eyes go to the tire swing still hanging from the oak tree behind the house. My chest tightens at the memory of pushing her on hot summer days on that swing, from the time we were six until we were eighteen. I can hear our laughter echo in my memories.

Pain washes over me at the loss of my best friend. Then the flash of anger comes. It always does. How dare she abandon me? They always arrive as a set, first the pain, then the anger. 

I'm yet again surprised to realize how little I've healed. Maybe because we never had closure. She never told me why she left. Well, I won't get closure anytime soon. With her being in a different state, I'm not likely to get the chance to ask, 'Why exactly did you go from loving me so completely to never speaking to me again?'

The only words we've said to each other in the last five years was the brief interaction at her father's funeral. And that was odd. I frown at the memory.

It's ten, I need to go in. I'll try to keep my emotions in check while I talk to Marcia about the project. I grab my clipboard, pen and measuring tape. Then head up the worn wooden steps to the front door.

I reach for the handle, used to walking right in. But then I realize we aren't ten years old anymore, running in for lunch after playing in the creek all morning. I move my hand from the doorknob to the knocker. 

As I wait for Marcia to open the door I turn to look at the yard. Every single spot I look at has a memory associated with it. Prim and I were inseparable for our entire childhood. Sure, we had other friends, but no one was closer bonded than the two of us.

I glance past the oak tree across the field to the tree line that runs along the creek and I can almost make out my parent's property that abuts the back of Prim's. How many times have I run across that field to my house and back over here to hers? Several times a day for twelve years. I'm not smart enough to do the calculation in my head but suffice it to say, it's a lot.

I hear the door open behind me and turn to greet Marcia but my world spins off its axis with the woman standing before me. It's almost as if all my memories have produced her here in the flesh. It can't really be her, can it? "Prim?"

She looks as shocked as I am, "Matty?"