we sleep at sunset | 18+

17 | Turn the page

I glance to the walls of the room. Sky-blue—Henry's choice a long time ago before he's killed in that car crash.

"I watched you there, so small, laying in his bed. I knew I'd pick myself up and be there. One foot in front of the other. You gave me something to live for."

"I'm sorry," I whisper to him, shame coating my skin. I don't know what I'm apologizing for.

"I'm not telling you all of this for an apology," he says, squeezing my hand. "I'm just getting to the good part. There was a boy next door."

I lower my head, worrying about the direction this might go.

"You were friends quickly. The Scotts were kind enough to watch you when I couldn't. They were there for us. But we were there for them too, especially when Serena decided not to be a mother anymore. So you do not have to feel obligated to that family, or to the friendship. You've done much for them, as they've done for you. Sometimes, people grow apart. That's okay."

Pat sighs. "You've got such a bright future ahead of you, away from this town, away from people who aren't good for you."

His words sting sharply, like small needles. It's a dismissal of everything Greyson and I've been through.

Arguing with my uncle would only entrench him deeper into his beliefs. I'm not stupid.

I choose silence, focusing on the texture of my cap. I really am glad to have it back. This one means a lot.

My night, following that conversation, is short, dark, and hungry. I don't eat, just let myself be swept under the waves of exhaustion, aching already for dawn.

The next morning is better. So much so that it fills me with hope for the entire day.

From behind my sheer curtains, I watch Steven Scott load up his buddy's red pick-up, the bed of the truck swallowing bags and equipment for a week-long hunting trip up by Lake Louis. Rifles, reflective vests, and coolers.

I pull back slightly, making sure not to be seen. Grey's car is gone too, puttered off to work before I woke.

With Steven finally driving off, the dust settles back down on our quiet street, and I let myself smile.

Hell yes. Days without monsters? Better days.

I fit my baseball cap over my hair and wander downstairs. The empty house echoes my steps against the hardwood.

I exhale a long breath, nod, and grab my bag, heading out the front door in jeans and a loose tee shirt the color of sunshine. Today could be—will be—a better day than the ones before.

The sun is already high and merciless, the air thick with humidity that makes my shirt cling to my sticky skin. I tug my cap further on my brow.

The local library is just a fifteen-minute walk from my house, and getting through those front doors to the air conditioning is very welcome. It feels like diving into a lake. I wave to Mrs. Collick as I come in, and when she offers a wobbly smile in return, my shoulders slump in relief.

I log into one of the public computers, my fingers familiar with the clunky keyboard, and print out the forms to defer my studies at GoldwenU for one more year. Just one more, that's all. It's the maximum extension they allow without risking my scholarship.

Pulling the warm sheets from the printer, I sit at a nearby table, the pen in my hand heavy like a judge's gavel.

Just one more, right? Just one.

But filling out the forms, my handwriting is shaky with hesitation.

I feel... older, distanced from the carefree days of my childhood when the biggest decision was what game to play after school.

This is the right decision. I can spend another year with Grey, find another job. Despite the whispers that still echo faintly around town, opportunities aren't scarce. Mr. Jenkins's apple orchard is always looking for pickers. Middlebridge Elementary needs someone to watch over the kids after school. And Rick's Electrics is on the hunt for apprentices.

It all makes sense. Just one more year.

Paper by paper, my future seems to reorder itself into something stable, something hopeful. Yet, telling Pat is out of the question. He has dreams for me that stretch beyond the borders of Middlebridge, dreams that don't include me deferring another year—or Greyson.

I'm not telling Pat about this—no sir, I'm not ready to watch his dreams for me get dunked in cold reality.

As I shuffle the completed forms back into a neat stack, I realize there's no one I can tell. I wish there was.

With the papers tucked safely in my bag, I leave the library, the heat sticking to me once more.

On my way home, the route instinctively veers me past the old local bookstore. It looks more worn each time I see it, the paint peeling like sunburnt skin, the windows dusty but still proudly displaying classics—faded covers of Dickens, a dog-eared Hemingway, and a hardbound Brontë.

I'm not sure why I go it, but I do. Nostalgia perhaps, maybe avoidance of home, but likely because of the cops lingering at the next corner of my walking path.

The bell chimes as I push open the door. The air inside is heavy with the scent of old paper and binding glue. I like it.

I wander between the cramped aisles, my fingers trailing over the spines. Then, tucked between some newer releases and a stack of forgotten memoirs, I find a collection of poems by Yeats. A sister of the one Greyson once read aloud to me during those endless summer nights that stretched between one school year and the next.

Picking up the book, its cover cool and slightly textured, I flip through the pages.

There is another world, but it is in this one. Hm. Interesting.

The book's edges are soft from years of turning, the print still bold.

Though I am old with wandering

Through hollow lands and hilly lands,

I will find out where she has gone,

And kiss her lips and take her hands.

The book is perfect—a reminder for Grey of simpler, happier times. I know he said he doesn't write anymore, and maybe he doesn't, but I also know that a part of him is a poet. Always has been, always will be.

At the counter, Mr. Wilkins wraps the book in brown paper. "A good choice," he tells me, his voice as worn as the pages. "Yeats can heal what modern medicine often cannot."

A poet among poetry, he is.

I smile, tucking the book under my arm after paying. "It's not for me. But I hope it works."

The bell chimes again as I step back into the sunlight.

Tonight, when Greyson comes home, tired and worn, I'll hand him this piece of the past. Maybe it'll remind him that not everything is lost; that some beauty is bulletproof.

Life's still got good stuff in store. Just gotta keep turning, turning, turning the pages.

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Thanks for reading We Sleep at Sunset.

Laurel's Fun Facts #17: mites live in your eyelashes.

—Laurel Montaze—

👁️

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