Page 37 of August Lane
August fled to the kitchen. She pressed her back to the wall and took slow, square-shaped breaths like she’d learned in the only grief counseling session she’d attended.
She should have gone back. At the time, it had felt excessive, like a lazy way to deal with vanilla grief.
That kind of comfort should be earned by surviving some big tragedy.
She hadn’t realized losses could accumulate over the years, gathering mass like snowballs.
The women from the grief counseling session probably knew that.
If she walked into that room today, they’d probably take one look at her and say “Oh no. You made choices, didn’t you?
Bad idea before you clean up the slush.”
She took out the trash and bused tables until closing.
Once everyone left, she sat in a booth and scrolled through her messages.
Mavis had texted twice. Silas left a voicemail.
Nothing from Jojo, who was probably waiting for an apology for embarrassing her.
But August wasn’t in the mood. If Jojo was content to let the news cycle churn, so was she.
There were more important things to deal with.
Luke had called numerous times but didn’t leave a message.
He’d sent one text. I’m here when you’re ready , and then went silent.
She was grateful for the space. His confession had changed things, tilted the past enough to make her look at it differently.
It was like he’d found a broken clock she’d thrown out years ago and said “Try changing the batteries.” Yes, that might work.
But after sitting in the trash for so long, was there any point in trying?
August opened her YouTube app and typed his name. One of the first results was a 2013 performance at a small state college titled “Another Love Song Live.” She played the video and the crowd’s rhythmic chants burst through the speaker: “Love Song! Love Song!”
Luke’s hair was longer, his beard thick and messy. His head was bowed, and he seemed to ignore the crowd. He grabbed a red Solo cup from a stool and gulped the contents.
“What about ‘Tennessee Whiskey’?” he slurred into the microphone. He scanned the room and shouted, “George Jones. Y’all know him?”
The chants continued like he hadn’t spoken. Luke plucked at his guitar strings. “All right,” he drawled, smiling the worst smile August had ever seen on a man, grim gratitude for the gallows. “Let’s sing a love song.”
The chants became screams. Instead of playing the intro, Luke set his guitar down. He grabbed the microphone with both hands and sang the first lines. “ I’m frozen in place / My heart’s gone numb / But you keep breaking the part that still feels something. ”
Screams continued to fill the room, but Luke didn’t acknowledge them. He turned inward, closing his eyes and pulling the words from a place so deep it looked painful. Every muscle popped and strained, like it took effort not to burst from his skin.
The song was nearly unrecognizable without the music: a haunting plea in a rough baritone that made it soulful and timeless.
August remembered what Luke said about conjuring her during his performances.
She pulled a pen from her pocket, grabbed a napkin, and wrote, You look like every moment that could have been better .
Someone knocked on the door. August stood, peering through the glass, and locked eyes with Ava Randall.
It had been a long time since she’d seen Luke’s mother.
The woman kept to herself, rarely leaving the farm.
She looked thin and sallow. Undyed roots framed her face with dingy gray.
Her eyes were the same, honey gold when the streetlights hit them.
Beauty that masked her ugly. That was why Luke never told anyone how she abused him.
“No one sees her that way,” he’d said. “They wouldn’t believe it. ”
August unlocked the door and cracked it just wide enough to say, “We’re closed.”
“Five minutes.” Ava’s pupils were blown. Words dripped from her, like she was speaking in slow motion. “I need to talk to you about Luke.”
“Did you drive here?” August looked past her to the parking lot and spotted Luke’s old truck, rusted and peeling from neglect. Seeing it again triggered memories that made her want to slam the door in Ava’s face. “You shouldn’t be on the road like this.”
“I’m not—” Ava faltered, realizing that whatever story she told herself about her medication wasn’t fooling anyone. “I can make it home all right.”
August shoved the door open. “Come inside. I need to do a few more things, and then I’ll drive you home.”
Ava followed her and seemed to shrink now that she’d gotten her way. She watched August grab a broom and start sweeping. “I didn’t realize you still worked here.” She waved at the parking lot. “Noticed your car out front, so I stopped.”
August kept her eyes on the broom. “Is there something you want to say to me?”
Ava looked like a woman facing a short jump into a deep hole. “You love him,” she finally declared, and seemed irritated by it. “Don’t lie, I could tell from the pictures.”
“That’s none of your business.”
“I love him, too.” She swallowed hard once she said it, like she wasn’t used to the taste.
“I don’t care if you believe me. It doesn’t look the same on everyone.
But I know my heart, and I know his. He’s been coming to the farm out of obligation, but you know it’s not good for him. It’s not good for either of us.”
They locked eyes. Despite spending most of her life despising this woman, August suddenly understood her perfectly. “What should I tell him?”
Tears coated Ava’s eyes, turning them into liquid gold. “To forgive me. Or stay away.”