WHEN I WAS ELEVEN, my parents left me home alone for the first time.
The anxiety of them leaving hit first. It was heavy. They held me while I cried and almost did not go on their research trip. But then the exhilaration of having control hit—back when wanting responsibility was appealing, unlike now.
Even though my parents left dinner in the fridge, I remember digging in the pantry for treats. I ate all the Milano cookies on the dock while flipping through my book about trees. Mr. Morris waved to me as he fed the birds, and I waved back.
"Where are your parents, young lady?" He would ask.
"In the house," I would lie. He tried pressing further, but I never budged. I was sure Mr. Morris knew they were gone, even though it was never more than two days.
That night, after the sun went down and I was settled in bed, I locked myself in my room. The house creaked more than usual, and the pipes in the walls groaned from the summer heat. My eyes closed a total of two times, and I slept with my bedroom lights on, convinced our house was haunted.
As I got older, my parents waited until I was in high school to leave for long periods. That was when my anxiety was at its lowest, my thrill-seeking was at its highest, and I was very good at sneaking out or sneaking people in. Ghosts were not in the forefront of my mind.
But last night, I was eleven again, laying in bed with my eyes wide open.
I could have sworn I heard my parents muffled laughter above me and the sound of the coffee brewing this morning. Though, I think it was grief filling the leftover holes of their death in my heart.
So, I got up early. Instead of starting with a grocery run or my one-hundred paged house-to-do-list, I went outside at dawn and plucked different plants from the yard. The grass was wet with dew, and my feet were sopping wet. The muggy air cocooned my body, and I could barely see over the water horizon.
The man from the dock was gone, and no life graced the blue house today.
Maybe he was the younger ghost of Mr. Morris? Though, the coffee mug and dog bowl left at the edge of the dock told me the burly man was, in fact, real.
After setting my basket of new discoveries in the kitchen, I grabbed my purse and drove into town.
I followed the bends of the road, my mind subconsciously knowing where to go even though I had not lived here for nine years. I would have biked into town, but a load of groceries would not have fit in the tiny basket.
The paved road turned to rocky red brick as the old-fashioned town came into view.
Boats rocked in the harbor beneath the hidden sun, and the sleepy town slowly stirred awake. People walked with their dogs or partner, and others sat with a cup of coffee outside of Oliver's Cafe. I watched small store owners flip their closed signs to open and shifted in my seat.
My head buzzed with discomfort. I felt the stares before I saw them. Did people know it was me, or was it the lack of recognition that made them look? With faint smiles in their direction, I beelined into the grocery store and shopped faster than ever before.
"Did you see someone is staying at the Pierce house?"
"Tragic what happened to that family."
"Do they have any kids?"
"Just an estranged daughter."
"Estranged?"
"I think that's her."
And so it started. My stomach turned upside down from the conversation, but I didn't turn to look and set all of my groceries on the checkout counter. The older woman smiled at me; her eyes lingered on my face between each item scan. "Having a good start to the morning, Hun?"
"Yeah, thanks. And you?"
She nodded. "You're a pretty thing," she said. "And look awfully familiar too."
It was not that I didn't want people to know who I was or that I was back in town, but it was the pity I would receive once people realized I had returned. Everyone grieved when my parents died, but I never came back to let people grieve with me or share their condolences, and their sympathy was left unheard.
Before I had the chance to speak, she squinted and leaned forward. "I know you... You're the Pierce girl."
I chuckled nervously. "Ivey, yeah."
"My God, you're a grown-up! Have you been back long?"
"I got back last night."
Her lips pressed together in a sad smile as she swiped my credit card. She paused before she asked, "How have you been?"
"I've been okay." I smiled and loaded my groceries into the cart, neglecting to show any signs of sadness. "This is a random question, but do you know if Mr. Morris, Peter Morris," I corrected. "Still lives on Clifton Bay?"
Her face fell. "Mr. Morris passed away a year ago, Hun."
"Oh." So someone new lived there.
Our conversation turned relatively light for the next few minutes. I avoided any more talk of my parents, then meandered to my car and drove back to my house. I was relieved to be back, hidden in the privacy of my home.
THE NEXT COUPLE OF DAYS were like groundhogs day. I woke, threw on the shittiest clothes I owned, and worked outside until sunset. The yard needed more attention than the interior, and if I wanted to sell the house without breaking my bank account, I figured I would do everything on my own.
It couldn't be that bad, could it? It was already therapeutic, despite my aching muscles, and the showers were the best reward.
Since my grocery store trip, I avoided venturing into town like the plague, and my dinners mainly consisted of take-out. I had more leftover pizza than I could consume, but I went to bed each night with a full belly and woke up to eat another cold slice.
After showering, I took my mug and laptop and walked to the edge of the dock to watch the sunset, but when I got to the bottom, I turned around. "The chairs," I said and set my stuff down on the wood.
When I dug the lawn mower out of the shed earlier in the week, I found my parent's dock chairs hidden inside. I wasn't sure why they were tucked away and not on the dock, but at least they were still intact.
With all my might, I lifted my mom's Adirondack chair and carried it down the dock.
Halfway there, I lurched forward, and the chair I carried clattered onto its side. My body hit the wood, and pain seared through my foot and up my leg in shock waves. "Damnit! Shit!" I cradled my bloody foot, cussing more.
I scanned the area until I saw the culprit—a bloody nail sticking from the planks.
"You alright?" A deep voice bellowed over the water, followed by the distant clanking of heavy footsteps.
My head darted upward from behind the fallen chair, and I caught a glimpse of my neighbor standing at the foot of his dock. There were roughly 100 yards of water between us, and it was rather dark, but I saw his chest heaving from running. That was definitely not Mr. Morris's ghost.
"I'm fine. I just stepped on a fucking nail."
He forked his fingers through his hair. "Is the nail still in your foot?"
"No."
"Are you bleeding?"
"A lot," I laughed in stress while staring at the sticky mess.
"Hang tight," he said and jogged toward his house. Was he coming here? I heard a door slam, faint muffled barking, and then the roar of an engine. Behind the darkness of trees bordering the right side of Mr. Morris's property, a small motorboat coasted into the bay.
The ground shuttered beneath me as his boast glided against my dock.
The neighbor hopped out, slugged the rope around the metal mooring, and strode toward me. He sat my mother's chair upright and bent down onto one knee. "Wow," he blew through pursed lips. "That is a lot of blood."
"I told you," I said, trying not to stare, but I was doing terribly.
This man was the definition of handsome. He towered over me (maybe because he was standing), and his wrinkled black tee-shirt was snug on his arms. I could not help but notice the five-o'clock shadow decorating his chin.
Like me, he looked—and smelled—fresh out of the shower. Yet his damp, light brown hair sat perfectly on his head while the heat twisted mine into frizzy waves. Not to mention, I did not have a bra on, and this tank-top was doing nothing to hide my breast.
"Let's get you in this chair."
He set his first aid kit down and held out his broad hands. My stomach swelled, but instead of taking his help—since I was covered in blood—I pushed myself off the ground and wobbled. At the speed of light, he gripped my hips and stabilized me.
Our eyes locked, and his narrowed. They were dark, dense, like an unpenetrable boulder I could not see through.
He didn't say anything more as he guided me the rest of the way into the seat and crouched to look at my foot. "I can barely see out here." He used his phone flashlight to look at my wound. The tiny solar-paneled lights bordering the dock did not give much light. "I'll help you into the house."
"The house?"
He paused and looked at me as though I spoke another language. "Yeah, your house. The one behind you."
I blinked. "I've never seen you before."
"I've never seen you either."
It fell silent.
"Do you want my help or not?" he asked.
I stared at the brown-eyed man, then nodded, realizing I would have to limp back without my things. Who cares if he saw your mess, Ivey. So, I held my hand out, and we hobbled toward the back door.
"The kitchen is this way." I pointed into the dark, evergreen-colored room and flicked on the light switch, terribly aware of his grip on me.
The space lit up, and his eyes immediately darted toward the mess of leaves and plants on the island. I would've used my parent's old office for my recreational research, but I hadn't mustered the courage to go inside yet.
"Sorry about the mess." I brushed the dirt off the counter, though it fell into a tiny pile on the wood floor. I puckered my lips to blow when he wasn't looking but resided up kicking it away with my unscathed foot.
"Why are you apologizing?"
"I-I don't know." I saw him much clearer now, but all I noticed was apathy. "Because there is dirt on my kitchen counter."
He shrugged like he didn't care and knelt. Unzipping the first aid kit he brought, he asked if I had any hydrogen peroxide, and I pointed towards the sink. I watched him mix it with water, dunk a gauze pad into the solution, and hold it to my arch. My jaw clenched.
The stranger didn't speak. He moved easily, cleaning the blood and wrapping my foot with a long piece of gauze. Back and forth, back and forth, his hands glided. If I had to guess, he had done this before.
Strange didn't begin to cover how I felt. "What's your name?"
"Weston."
I waited for him to ask mine, but he never did.
"Thanks for helping me, Weston."
"Yep."
Okay, then.
For the next five minutes, he secured the dressing and gathered all the wrappers. Wordlessly, I pointed to the bin, and he tossed the trash inside and peeled the rubber gloves off. Without taking my eyes off him, I stood to follow him out, despite my ailment.
"You don't have to show me out."
"I'm not showing you out. I have to get the stuff I left outside." I neglected his advice and slipped on sandals so I didn't ruin his handy-work in the wet grass and followed him out the door. He walked at a much faster pace, and it took a lot of balance to keep up. I could have sworn he was running.
But then, he stopped and my pace slowed. He bent down and picked up my mom's chair laying beside my puddle of blood and carried it to the end of the dock where it used to reside.
A tender throbbing ebbed through my chest from the gesture, and the sight of my parent's chair in its rightful spot had me gnawing on the inside of my cheek in an attempt to chew away the unwanted emotions. He did not have to do that.
I made it to his boat a couple of seconds after. Slightly out of breath, I snorted at the rope. They hung loose, and the vessel wobbled with the high tide, slamming against the wood in lilting jerks. "Your boats gonna float away if you tie it like that."
"What?" He glanced between me and where it was poorly secured to the post.
"That's not how you tie a boat."
He stared deadpan. I did everything not to fidget, but he made me want to crawl out of my skin. I had never met anyone with such a lack of emotion. Except there had to be something behind those dull eyes to help a random woman with their bloody foot.
"Come by the old doctor's office tomorrow on Oyster street." A thud rang when his feet hit the metal floor of his boat. "You will need a tetanus shot."
"What time—"
"Just stop by whenever. I'll get you in."
What did he mean he'd get me in? Did he work there? What happened to Dr. Wagner?
Before I could ask any more questions, he zipped toward the shadow of trees and vanished behind them. Silence fell over the water, a single wallop of a door closing echoed, and the porch lights to the house flickered off.
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QOTD: What's your favorite opening line from a novel?
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