It was you and me and one hot summer,
Beading up with sweat all over each other.
Soaking wet.
We didn't have a lot of time,
So we didn't waste much.
Found in all the right places,
You wanted me to touch.
And all those memories
Make it so hard to forget about me.
It's strange being back in Ashwood. Even after all these years, it still feels like home--nostalgic in the way city streets fade into dirt roads, familiar in how little has changed. All part of the small-town charm--right down to the fact that nobody can mind their own.
Your business is everybody's business.
And secrets? They don't stay secret for long.
When something unforgettable happens, it settles into the bones of the place, becoming like an old wives' tale that everybody knows. That's how legends and scandals are born. How certain names are still spoken with a knowing tilt of the head long after the dust has settled.
But I know a secret that never made the rounds. Never slipped into whispered conversations in the after-church crowd. Never left its mark in gossip or guilty confessions.
It was just Shane Dalton and me. One hot summer after graduation, caught in the twilight between adolescence and adulthood. Tangled up in each other's arms on the bed of that old Chevy K10, with sleeping bags for pillows, and a wine cooler full of root beers and ginger ale.
Looking back, it never should have happened. Didn't make any kinda sense-- I spent years trying to get outta Ashwood, and Shane was never gonna leave. But maybe that's why we worked so well. He never tried to convince me not to go, and I never asked him to come with me. There were no promises or expectations. Just two months of stolen time. Just us.
And then it was over. I left for college. He stayed and joined the force.
Even though it was over ten years ago, the memories of those two months made it so hard for me to forget about him.
People always said I had him wrapped around my finger from the day I was born, and I suppose it's true. I've always been a daddy's girl; I could always make him smile at the end of a hard night. In that stern expression of his, I can always find the warmth and pull it out like a blanket fresh from the dryer.
I know me going off to college nearly killed him. I could see the tears brimming in his eyes the day I drove out of Ashwood, trying like hell to pretend I didn't see 'em. I can't imagine nothing harder as a parent than seeing yourself become a spectator to your only child's life. I drove off, leaving that patch of dead grass where I used to park my car, feeling like I was abandoning the last bit of family I had.
And now here I am, surprising everyone, including myself, when I step into the precinct out of the clear blue with a rucksack slung over my shoulder. I feel like a child coming home after failing miserably, hoping Daddy will bail me out. I feel ashamed.
But that shame is short-lived when all the shuffling of the precinct falls silent, and I lock eyes with my father's cool green gaze from across the room.
Panic and fear fill my heart when I see the paperwork he's holding flutter lifelessly to the ground. He sees the bruises and the splint. The black and purple have faded but it still looks awful. The smaller cuts have faded into memory, but one along my cheekbone still lingers, a thin, pinkish line that catches the light.
The circles under my eyes are dark from lack of sleep, and even under the long-sleeved shirt I'm wearing, I'm sure he can see how thin I am. Not to mention who in the Hell wears long sleeves in August in Georgia. He knows it's bad long before I can even open my mouth. I see it in the way his chest stops moving like the very air has been ripped from his lungs.
He takes a step forward--fast, unthinking.
And I flinch just a little. Just enough that his whole expression cracks.
I've never disappointed him, not once, and yet here I am, shrinking under that look of his like I'm in trouble. His question comes out with a bark I've never been on the receiving end of, and the station goes dead quiet.
"Who did this?"
He probably doesn't even realize how loud he's said it; he's got tunnel vision, and there ain't a thing he can see except for me. I was hoping to sneak into his office and do this quiet-like, but now? The sun won't be down before the whole damn town knows I'm home looking like I've gone ten rounds with Mike Tyson.
"Austin Cherie Walker," He marches up to me, saying my full name, and I feel a throb of sharp pain when I straighten my spine. Lord knows here in the South when your full name gets called, it ain't ever for a good reason. "You tell me who did this."
I try my best to force a smile, but we both know it's just full of lies. I feel like crying. I can feel the floodgates breaking, but Lord help me, I'm trying to hold it together for just a few more minutes.
Keep it together, Walker!
"Hey, Daddy," My eyes are burning and I fidget with the hem of my sleeve, biting the inside of my cheek, straining for just another minute. I give a pleading nod in the direction of his office. "Can we talk?"
My father is not a man to cross. He's never had much in the way of time or patience for other people's nonsense, and he was like that even before my brother died. Just a hard man from a hard time.
He doesn't shout, doesn't yell--never has. Least not that I've ever seen. I've seen plenty wither under my father's gaze, and it ain't because he's an angry guy. But he's got this way of making you feel about two inches tall, that's for damn sure, and that's exactly how I feel right now.
I've only ever seen him cry four times in my life--which makes seeing him blink back tears from behind his glasses all the worse. His throat bobs, and he clutches the papers I gave him with one trembling hand and his desk with the other. For a second, I'm terrified he'll have a heart attack.
Shit.
His mouth is a hard line, his mustache failing to hide the quiver in his upper lip--but I don't miss it. I can feel every eye on me through the glass pane of his office window, all of them riveted by what's happening.
Because their chief doesn't cry.
Not even when his world is caving in. Yet-- here he is, rubbing at his face like today is the second worst day of his life.
He's speechless, and I'm heartbroken. The urge to apologize rises up in my throat, tasting like bile--even though I know the only thing I owe him an apology for is not calling him when I first came to in the hospital.
I swallow down the sob that's fighting to be heard, but my voice still wavers when I finally speak.
"So, I was thinkin', if it's ok with you--that maybe I could stay at the house for a while. I know it's been a while since I've been home--"
Too long
, "And if it's not enough notice, Hadley said I could always drop in--"
I can't even finish my sentence--not just because the idea of not being welcome in my own bedroom, in the house I grew up in, is unbearable, but because he doesn't let me. He holds up a single finger--you know the one. The
'don't you even dare'
gesture.
He looks at the ground, trying to regain his composure before speaking. Then he shakes his head--once, then again, faster, like my suggestion is too outrageous to even consider.
