Chapter 1

Now

“You’ve dealt with crazy shit before. You’ll deal with this too,” I whisper, just loud enough for only me to hear.

I stand across from the funeral home, the sun long set, watching the warm glow of light streaming through its windows. Everything looks serene and peaceful. It’s quiet—a sharp contrast to the hammering of my heart. I take a tentative step forward and then pause, my breath catching somewhere between my chest and throat.

“Come on, Josie. Pull it together,” I mutter, urging my legs to move, but they feel cemented to the pavement. The thought of facing the people inside looms large, but it’s the pain of losing Sarge, my old friend and neighbor, that clouds my fear of revisiting old ghosts. If I don’t go inside, maybe I can pretend he’s still alive. Instinctively, my hand moves to my belly, trying to manage my breathing—or lack thereof. I don’t know who I’ll find inside, and I’m not sure how I’ll be received, but all that matters right now is Sarge.

I square my shoulders. “This isn’t about you,” I remind myself. “Breathe. You’re strong. You’re brave. You’ve dealt with crazy shit before. You’ll deal with this too.” I repeat the words, my mantra, the same ones I’ve been telling myself for years whenever I feel the walls closing in.

Drawing in a deep breath, I force myself to move, using another old trick to stave off the panic. “Name three things,” I remind myself—a method that usually calms my racing heart and clears my vision.

“Car, door, tree. You’re safe,” I whisper until my feet, seemingly of their own accord, carry me up the steps to the entrance. “You’re safe.”

This is bad. I’m literally pulling out every self-help tactic I’ve accumulated through years of therapy and reading. I’m not sure if I’m making myself better or worse. “You’re safe,” I repeat as I cross the threshold of the funeral home. After offering a quick, sad smile to the man in the black suit, who nods sympathetically as he ushers me through the door, I mostly keep my eyes down. I barely glance up as I stand in line to sign the guest book. I quickly scrawl my name, my bangles jangling in the quiet, willing myself not to look at any familiar names.

Lifting my eyes, the sight of the casket hits me—along with a sudden, gut-wrenching sadness—and I rear back slightly. I was so consumed with anxiety, so focused on taming it, that I forgot I was about to face Sarge’s body in a casket. I’m not prepared. I will never be prepared for this.

All my coping tricks go out the window. A wave of pure grief washes over me as my eyes land on the face of one of the few people who truly loved me. But that doesn’t really matter right now. All that matters in this moment is how much I love him. He looks so peaceful, as if merely sleeping, with an American flag folded neatly in the corner of his casket. But something feels off. He doesn’t quite look like Sarge. And that alone pulls the air from my lungs. I’m reminded of how long I’ve been gone. He seems older, thinner, less robust than I remember. Tears blur my vision as I focus on his hands—those hands that held mine through some of my darkest moments. They’re still now, no Lucky Strike cigarette between his fingers. It feels wrong seeing him without one. Surely death has earned him a smoke.

After a silent prayer and the sign of the cross, I touch Sarge’s hands, startled by how cold they are. I silently thank him for everything and promise that I’ll keep talking to him—through the ether, if I must. I’ve become quite the expert at holding in my emotions, but I can’t stop the tears that spill down my cheeks. I love Sarge, plain and simple, and the agony flaring inside me serves as a painful reminder of what I’ve lost and what I’ve let go.

Taking a deep breath, I gather myself and turn to face the curious glances of his family. Many of them have never met me. I’ve been gone too long. A petite older woman steps forward—Sarge’s sister, Alice—and reaches out her hands.

“Oh, Josie. You made it. Sarge knew you would,” she says, her eyes glistening with unshed tears.

“Alice!” I exclaim, my voice coming out louder than I intended as I wrap her in a hug. “I’m so sorry,” I begin, but she gently cuts me off.

“Oh, hush now, dear. He had a long, good life. He wouldn’t want you crying,” she says with a warm, comforting smile. “You know that better than anyone. He was ready. But he made me promise you’d be here,” she adds with a soft laugh. “I told him, ‘William, that girl’s across the ocean!’ But he insisted, ‘No, Alice. Josie will come.’”

A sound escapes me, something between a chuckle and a sob. Sarge knew me better than I knew myself. He believed I’d come, even when I wasn’t sure. Only he could have pulled me back here, and the familiar sting of guilt creeps in for waiting until he was gone.

“How many years has it been, honey?” Alice asks, her voice gentle.

My throat tightens as I force out, “Almost fifteen.”

I try to apologize again, this time for not coming back sooner, but Alice hushes me softly. “No need, love. You’re here now,” she whispers, glancing around before leaning in closer. “My brother left something for you. I can’t explain it now, but stay awhile. Sit down. I’ll find you when it’s quieter,” she promises with a knowing smile.

Nodding, I let her introduce me to the rest of the family. Sarge never married, never had children. That part of his life was always locked away from me, and now, only now, do I realize how strange that was. He was such a fatherly figure to me that it seemed a waste he didn’t have a child or grandchild to lavish all that affection and wisdom on. After offering my condolences, I look for a corner to retreat to, but every corner buzzes with quiet conversation, despite it being the end of the viewing. My anxiety begins to spike again, and no amount of self-talk helps.

Then, as the crowd blurs into anonymity, one figure snaps into focus. One voice drowns out the rest. I’d know him anywhere—the deep timbre of his voice, the sound of his laugh, the steady energy he exudes. Even with his back to me, I feel the pull toward him. I can imagine the smile on his face as he talks with Sarge’s friends—a smile that once belonged to me, a smile that once felt like sunlight warming my soul. So when Sawyer turns, mid-laugh, and our eyes meet, his smile falters and my heart sinks. And I remember what it feels like to be left out in the cold.

***

I never expected Sawyer to be happy to see me. In fact, I hoped we’d never see each other again. But I have to admit, his reaction is a bit jarring. He turns back to his conversation, excuses himself, and walks straight out the front door. Clearly, fifteen years hasn’t eased the bad feelings, but frankly, I should be the one harboring them. A twinge of anger creeps up my spine. He made a decision a long time ago that didn’t include me, so I upended my life to ensure we’d never see each other again. He should show a little gratitude, as far as I’m concerned.

Before returning to Maplewood, Pennsylvania, this morning, I might have obsessed over how to dodge him—my late arrival to the viewing was part of that plan. Deep down, I knew that if Sawyer was still around, I’d probably run into him—something I planned to avoid. Yet in the still, quiet moments, a profound sadness crept in at the haunting possibility that he might no longer be in Maplewood, and the unspoken disappointment at not seeing him unexpectedly began to bother me. I should be glad he walked out of the funeral home. After all, I’d put a literal ocean between us just to ensure we’d never run into each other again.

My hands are clammy, my heart thrashing in my chest, my stomach knotted. I quickly find a seat, avoiding contact with anyone who might recognize me. I certainly recognize a few people from town, but Sarge’s viewing is no place for a reunion. Mrs. Miner and her brother, owners of Miner’s Inn where I’m staying, sit huddled in the corner, their faces stricken with sadness. I notice a few other familiar faces from my past, mostly older now, the years etched into their features and movements. It suddenly dawns on me how long fifteen years really is.

When I reflect on those years, they seem to have gone by both quickly and slowly. The memories from when I left are as raw as they were that day, but only a long stretch of time could have changed me the way it has. The transformation I’ve gone through required several painful years, but the result, as far as I’m concerned, is strength—even if it was hard-fought and even if I’m not immune to panic attacks and flashbacks.

Just as I start to feel the weight of fatigue settle over me, the line of people paying respects begins to thin. Alice walks in my direction. I move to stand, but she urges me to stay seated. Planting her giant purse on the floor beside her, she sits too.

“You must be exhausted, Alice. There were so many people here.”

“Oh, my brother knew everyone, didn’t he, honey? He was a sort of fixture in Maplewood. A character in many people’s lives.” She smiles kindly and reaches for my hand again. “But he especially loved being in your life.”

The tears that have been threatening to spill over all evening well up, and before I can stop them, one escapes. “I loved him. He was . . .” I shake my head, searching for the right words to measure the importance of this man in my life. But in the end, there are no sufficient words. “He was so good to me. He wasn’t just a staple in Maplewood. He was—he is Maplewood. I loved him more than I can tell you.”

“Don’t think it was one-sided, sweetheart. Don’t think that for even a second. You filled a hole in my brother’s life that no one else could.”

I shake my head and laugh. “I’m pretty sure I gave him more than he bargained for.”

“Oh no, you were special. Listen, none of us know the whole story, but William wanted a family. We know that much.” She pauses, her expression softening. “This life just didn’t allow that for him. But you were as much a daughter to him as you could’ve been, and I can’t tell you how grateful I am for that.”

“I left.” I shake my head as more tears fall. “I left everything, and I left him. And I’m so, so sorry.” The guilt claws at my heart.

“Listen to me, and listen well. I haven’t been around, living in Florida all these years, and I only know what Sarge told me. But I do know this—whatever happened, you needed to leave. And Sarge knew it. He often said it broke his heart that you had to go, but he also knew it was necessary.”

I nod, trying to keep it together. “Alice, I really did need to go back then. But I should’ve come back before—before this.” I can’t even bring myself to say the word: death.

At that, she reaches into her bag and pulls out an envelope, handing it over. “This is for you.”

I stare at the envelope, recognizing my name in Sarge’s familiar handwriting. A letter? He wrote me a letter? I am overwhelmed with a mix of deep grief and excitement. The thought of never hearing from Sarge again is tearing new holes into me. Perhaps this letter will ease my broken heart. Sarge is the only one who can console me right now. And here he is—doing it from beyond the grave.

Sarge was the only person from Maplewood I had contact with over the past decade. Some conversations lasted ten minutes, others an hour. The shorter ones usually came to an abrupt end if I thought he was going to bring up old ghosts. It was only recently that I finally found myself more willing to talk. More willing to listen.

“Don’t open it here. Where are you staying?”

I shake my head, rattled from my thoughts, not fully comprehending that Alice is speaking to me.

“You do have a place to stay, right, honey? If not, I can call the hotel we’re staying at and see if they have a room—”

“Oh no, no. I’m sorry. Yes, I have a room. I’m staying at Miner’s Inn in Maplewood. I checked in this morning, so I’m good. All settled in for the week.”

“Oh, wonderful!” She leans in with a twinkle in her eye that reminds me so much of her brother. “Except for Mrs. Miner. She can be a bit dry, but her brother is lovely.”

A sudden laugh bursts out of me, and I cover my mouth. “Dry is a good way to put it. But I couldn’t find a place for a full week except Miner’s. I guess there’s a festival happening, so all the hotels nearby are booked. There was a last-minute cancellation right before I called.”

“I guess that’s either a blessing or a curse.” She winks and stands up. I stand too and look fondly down at the much shorter Alice. “Go on now. Get some rest.”

“I will. Thank you, Alice.”

“No, honey. Thank you.” She turns to walk away but stops short. “Oh, and I think there’s an old friend of yours waiting for you outside. I spoke to him earlier. Handsome redhead.”

And as if she hasn’t just punched me in the gut, she walks away.

***

I exit the funeral home on shaky legs, but I’ll be damned if I let Sawyer see any sign of my anxiety, so I force myself to stand tall. I scan the area for him, but he’s nowhere to be found. I stand alone on the dark porch, feeling part of me suspiciously deflate. I don’t want to see Sawyer, but my adrenaline kicks in, and somehow I feel ready to face him in this moment.

I immediately want to kick myself for giving him any power over my emotions. Great, now he’s the landlord of my fight-or-flight response, I think bitterly. I don’t deserve the hand I’ve been dealt—especially not the cards Sawyer has thrown my way.

And then, like an old, unwelcome friend, the familiar feeling of anger rises in my throat. I pace the porch, my thoughts taking off in a gallop.

He takes off like I did something wrong? Like he hasn’t completely destroyed me? He has the nerve to disappear? He’s a coward, just like everyone else I gave too much of myself to. And I have a right to be here.

I stomp my foot to punctuate my thoughts.

“The balls on this man,” I murmur under my breath, a growl escaping my throat. It feels good to not be filled with anxiety. Even if it’s anger, it’s better than fear and self-doubt. Sure, I didn’t do everything right, but I can’t marinate in guilt when I wasn’t entirely to blame. I worked hard to earn this peace.

“She lives . . .”

I jump at the familiar voice coming from the shadows, my hand flying to my chest. “Jesus!” I breathe.

I look over and see Sawyer sitting on a bench in the far corner of the porch. It’s completely dark now, save for a faint porch light and the interior glow from the windows, but I still manage to make out a smirk on his face.

“You scared me,” I say, hating the way my voice trembles slightly.

He stands up, a faint, unfriendly smile playing on his lips. “Funny. I should be the one scared, considering I’m the one seeing a ghost.”

And here he is. The real Sawyer. Not the boy I knew years ago. This is the arrogant prick who rips hearts out and crushes them without a second thought. Well, to hell with him!

“Ah, clever. Such a funny guy,” I reply dryly, trying to mask the swirl of emotions inside me.

“I haven’t seen you in a while.” Sawyer’s tone holds a hint of bitterness, which really pisses me off.

It seems we’re not even going to feign politeness after fifteen years. No false niceties. He’s still far enough away that I can’t make out his features, but I see his waves—still a little unruly. I wonder for a second if there are any grays woven through yet. What have the years seen that I didn’t? I shake the sad thought and replace it with bitterness.

“Well, Sawyer, that was the plan,” I say curtly.

“Was it, Josie?” And then, after a labored pause, “O.”

That’s a cruel reference to a familiarity we no longer share, but I’m not going to let him see me shaken, so we stand there in the darkness, saying nothing. I have no words for this man. I don’t know him now, and I didn’t know him then—even though I once thought I did.

I watch as he takes a deep breath, and suddenly something inside me aches at the hardness in his features, the obvious pain he’s feeling. And even though I have no sympathy for Sawyer, I can understand the huge loss that is Sarge.

“I’m sorry about Sarge.”

“About Sarge?” he says quietly. “Yeah, me too.”

The silence between us is heavy. The years have not always been kind to me, and judging by Sawyer’s tone, they might not have been kind to him either. Plus, the absence of Sarge feels like a raw, gaping wound. We are two people in obvious pain, even though I’m trying desperately to hide my side of it.

I shift uncomfortably, trying to find the right words. “It’s hard to believe he’s gone.”

He lets out an exasperated breath, and I ready myself for battle. “Is it? Is it hard to believe when you haven’t exactly been around—”

“Oh, save it, Sawyer! Save your sob story for someone who cares.”

His eyes harden, and any slight sign of the boy I used to know vanishes. “And there it is! The truth! You never cared!”

“Me? You have no idea what I went through,” I snap, my voice rising.

“Don’t pretend you’re the only victim here,” he shoots back, stepping closer. “We both suffered.”

“Because of you!” I shout, the anger boiling over.

His face twists with pain, anger, and confusion. “What the hell are you talking about? I’m not the one who ran off to start a new life!”

I cross my arms, trying to protect myself. “What the hell are you talking about? You made me!”

He steps closer, and my breath catches. I can see him now. He’s stepped right under the weak porch light, and there he is. Sawyer. And my heart—if I have one—sighs. And then it twists uncomfortably, noticing the subtle signs of age, the years I’ve missed. And he’s still so strikingly handsome. More so, in fact. Leave it to him to age well. It’s cruel. But it’s his eyes. The eyes I spent countless hours staring into. So full of soul and feeling and what I once believed to be love—now they seem sad, empty, tired. I wonder if he sees the same in mine.

“This isn’t the place. How long are you here for?”

“A week. Why?”

He rocks back on his heels, hands in the pockets of his slacks. “A week.”

I take a step back, my eyes never leaving his, realizing he’s making plans. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in fifteen years, it’s the fine art of self-preservation, and I’m about to protect myself at all costs.

“I’m sorry, Sawyer,” I say, lifting my hands as if to ward off the conversation. “But I have no plans to revisit the past this week. I can’t go back in time, and I definitely can’t go back to the past with you.”

His features darken, and I find myself mourning the Sawyer I thought I knew all those years ago. I never knew him to be this serious and intense. It feels so wrong.

“Then say something to me now, Josie. Something worth saying. Something that can explain why this is the first time I’m seeing you—hearing you—in fifteen goddamn years!”

I let out an exasperated sigh, rolling my eyes. “Come on, Sawyer. You said it. This is not the place.”

“Is there another time or place? Maybe twelve years ago? Ten years ago? Five years ago? You tell me when I could ask you, Josie, because you were here one day and then you were gone, and I don’t know where the hell you’ve been!”

His hand leaves his pocket and runs through his hair in a familiar move that shows his exasperation.

“And now you’re here for a week, and you can’t give me five minutes of it?”

I laugh humorlessly. “Funny how five minutes can change everything, isn’t it, Sawyer?”

His brows knit together, and his head tilts slightly as the lights of a car briefly illuminate him before lighting up the porch.

I hear the car door slam and footsteps approaching before a familiar Irish accent cuts through the night. “Feck it, Josie, I’m sorry. It was hell trying to get an Uber. Are you okay, love?”

I watch as Sawyer’s eyes narrow, taking in Dermott as he unsuspectingly approaches me on the porch. I don’t believe Sawyer deserves an introduction, but for Dermott’s sake, I make an attempt.

“Sawyer, this is—”

“Yeah, I know who he is.”

Dermott’s familiar grin falters when he notices the tension in the air, and he puffs out a breath. “Whoa. I seem to have stepped in on something.”

“No, buddy, you’ve stepped in on nothing.” And with that, Sawyer is off the porch, walking down the darkened street toward God knows where.

I hear Dermott sigh beside me. “I take it that’s Sawyer.”

I don’t take my eyes off his retreating shadow. “That’s Sawyer.”