Page 1

The Attic

I was an orphan again. Despite my best efforts, somehow, that kept happening. I was also a thirty-four-year-old redhead who lived alone and hadn’t kissed a woman in a year and a half. But who was counting? Apparently, me. There was also a grocery store I was in charge of that was losing money, and I had my aunt’s entire attic to clean out, full of all of her prized possessions and mementos I’d been too grief stricken to sort through until now.

The familiar grief swooped and settled. My Aunt Lindy was gone. It had been three weeks since her heart attack, and the reality was only now starting to settle. Lindy had been my rock after I’d lost my parents at eleven years old, the person who’d shown up to every school function and snuggled with me in my bed on the nights I was scared of jarring claps of thunder or was missing my old life.

Lindsay Renee Bright, my mother’s sister, had been one of the good ones, and I vowed to be one, too. I’d make her proud and always try to mirror her kindness, her warmth, and her unwavering belief that the world was a wonderful place. I also hoped to stay a little silly in her honor and not take things like “stupid trash day” too seriously. I’d celebrate it instead with the little rhyming song that she’d sashay her hips to as she pulled the cans down the drive.

In the meantime, I had to figure out what to do with her things, all left to me. The volume overwhelmed, accumulated from over sixty years of experiences and memories made. Her crowded little home three blocks from the bay was just as she’d left it, and up here in this attic were all the keepsakes and important signposts from her life’s journey. The certificate for volunteer hours she’d put in at the hospital. The old fishing pole my grandfather had used to teach his kids to fish. The jar of playing cards, each pack collected from a different city she’d visited. I smiled at the impact she’d made not just on me but on everyone she’d come in contact with. Each person was better for having known Lindy, and that was the best possible legacy. I hadn’t had it in me to do much with her home until now. But the time had come to pull myself together and blink back the tears.

But grief, for me, wasn’t new.

My parents were killed in a head-on collision twenty-two years ago while returning home from their anniversary weekend away. They’d splurged on an ocean view room at a fancy hotel my mother had been dying to stay in. Before she left, she told me the restaurant there was known for their amazing lobster. I never found out if she’d enjoyed it.

It had apparently been instant, their deaths. Everyone acted like that information should serve as a great comfort, but it didn’t ever take away the fact that I didn’t have parents anymore. And they’d been great parents for every year of the eleven and half we’d spent together. I still had very vivid memories. My mother loved chocolate ice cream and early evening game shows. My father was a sports guy who’d taken me to games every chance he got. Baseball had been his favorite, but honestly, any sport would do. He’d never been much of an athlete himself, so he’d made it a point to learn absolutely everything he possibly could about the sport, the players, the league, and the season as a form of compensation. Losing them both had been the tragedy of my life. How was I now losing Lindy, too?

I leaned back against the structurally necessary wooden post smack in the middle of the musty room. My Aunt Lindy’s attic, as always, was warm and damp, one of the reasons I generally avoided it. The box in my lap held a twine-bound bundle of my mother’s cards, letters, and pressed flowers, all of which had been a joy to sift through after so many years. I’d taken the afternoon and just absorbed the words she’d saved from her friends, relatives, and my mother herself. Distractedly, and as I still sorted through my feelings of panic and shock and who knew what else, I still clutched an old to-do list of my mom’s that included picking up a cake topper for my parents’ wedding. I blinked down at the faded swoops and dips of her penmanship. She’d had beautiful handwriting, even better than my own, which I took pride in. I ran my thumb across the blue ink, a time capsule transporting me back to a happier time. Memories flew by in fragments. Dance parties in the living room when I’d brought home As and Bs on my report card. Watching TV all together on the couch when I was scared of the howling winds in the middle of the night. My mom crying when our cat, Figgy Pudding, went missing, only to have her come wandering home a week later.

My life was definitely divided in two parts: before the accident, and after. I wondered if this loss would do the same. Who would I be now that I was completely without family? I wondered about starting one of my own someday. It was a momentary consolation.

“I’m here!” I heard the sound of the front door below, and it jarred me into the here and now. Jonathan had arrived, thank God, my best friend and other half. He’d planned to give me some time to sort through the attic on my own before meeting me here and helping where he could—from both the emotional and logistical standpoints. I needed him now more than ever.

“Hey, Savvy. Did you hear me?” Jonathan called.

“Down in a sec!” I called back.

As I gathered the haphazardly strewn cards and letters and placed them back in their twine binding, I reflected on my own trajectory. My life was certainly feeling battered these days.

My doctor felt strongly that I needed a vacation or outlet for all the pent-up stress I carried with me, but I preferred to press on and try to see the good in life. Because there had to be an infinite amount of joy out there if others were scooping it up and making it their own. I just needed some time to catch up with the rest of the world.

“Hey. Just checking in on you.” Jonathan, with his soulful brown eyes and dark hair neatly styled with tea tree oil pomade, blinked at me with the tenderness of a good friend on a hard day. He’d somehow made his way up the ladder without me hearing him, which could have easily led to a fall.

Concern struck. “You should have asked for my help. Now I have to murder you.” I was protective of him, always would be.

He shrugged, leaning on the forearm crutch that had aided his climb. “And ruin the surprise? Never. I live to shock and impress. Just look at you. You can’t take it, murderer that you aspire to be.”

He was attempting levity on what he knew was an emotionally charged afternoon. I attempted a smile for him. Our relationship was laced evenly with one part humor and one part sincerity. We leapt back and forth without notice, which I loved about us.

“Results are pending.”

He shrugged as if to say you can’t win ’em all . But there must have been something about the look on my face that alerted him to my new level of stress. He tilted his head. “What’s going on?”

“I’m emotional. My heart hurts and my aunt is gone.” I offered a halfhearted shrug.

“Fuck a duck.”

“I know.” Silence hit and we shared a laugh. Lindy would have loved that comment.

Jonathan chewed the inside of his lip and leaned more fully on his crutch. I could tell he was uncomfortable, which meant sincerity was on the way. “Savvy, I want you to know that I’m going to have the perfect words for you, but they’re as of this moment, not yet assembled. I’m in the deep end with you, though.” He opened his mouth and closed it. “I’m sorry for what you’re going through. Let’s start there.”

Jonathan and I had been inseparable ever since the day he’d organized a Gay-Straight Alliance our freshman year of high school and I’d been the only other person to attend the first meeting. I firmly believe it was meant to be just us. We’d come out to each other that day, discontinued the less than successful club, and become best friends instead. With a graduating class of only a hundred and sixty students, we’d been the only gay kids in the mix until Lorelei Newman brought home a wife from college years later. Damn her for stealing the spotlight—and marrying first, too. But that had done it. Next, James Garza and Brett Lunsford were miraculously a couple and not just teammates on the town’s recreational softball team. Devyn Winters and Elizabeth Draper, the most opposites attract story ever, were now living a few streets away in absolute bliss. The list didn’t end there. We now had an actual gay population in little Dreamer’s Bay, South Carolina. Who’d have ever predicted that ? Jonathan and I had simply been ahead of our time. A trendsetting duo.

“Okay.” He paused as if trying to keep up with the organization happening in front of him. “Tell me. What is your plan for all this?”

The shift in topic was the reprieve I needed. I could breathe again. “Simple. I go through each box, each belonging, each greeting card, and figure out what to keep and what to get rid of.” I turned to him, the finality of it all weighing on me. “Isn’t it interesting how it comes down to this? A bunch of things and furniture trapped here instead of with her. They’re all just sitting around alone in boxes without their person.”

“It is. But don’t lose sight of the memories, Sentimental Sandy. We had a lot of fun here,” he said with a gleam.

God, we had. Movie marathons. Disastrous cooking lessons where Aunt Lindy had done her best to teach us both a few staple dishes to catastrophic results on our part. We were too busy tossing the cheese we’d grated at each other to actually pay attention. There’d been birthday parties in the backyard that were decently attended by our more popular friends and classmates. It was a testament to the warm environment my aunt had always created for us, a safe but cool place for the teenagers of Dreamer’s Bay to gather. Now it was up to me to figure out how to transition the now quiet space to something new and special.

I had one prominent idea.

But before expressing it, I blinked, wishing I had water. My throat was sandpaper, and my head now ached. Why did raw emotion always make me so thirsty? “I think I might hold on to this place,” I croaked.

Jonathan’s jaw dropped. His eyes went to saucers. “Stop. The house? Do you think you’ll move in? This is better than a bottomless brunch at a Beyoncé concert.”

I’d considered it. But I loved my own little house too much to let it go. It had taken so long to save up enough for a down payment, and once I had, my friend Devyn Winters, a real estate agent here in town, had brokered an amazing deal. That house was purely me and, now, my biggest accomplishment. I’d taken time to decorate it in my own random style. Framed magazine covers on the walls. Several seating nooks for reading or working, rather than just one central living room conglomeration. I’d gone with more pastels than the average person, leaning into blues and greens. Comfortable and bright, that was my place. I’d even constructed a garden in front and a second, more expansive one in the backyard, where I could sit on the patio, drink my milky-white coffee, and look out at the Carolina roses as they bloomed in the spring. I just couldn’t imagine leaving my home, nor could I part with Lindy’s house.

I took a deep breath. “Devyn thinks I can list it and take advantage of the market, but I don’t think I can say goodbye to this place. To all of the memories here.” My heart squeezed uncomfortably imagining that moment: locking the door for the last time and handing over the key to what had been my safe place. As for the idea I’d had percolating, I decided to just go ahead and say it out loud. Band-Aids were best ripped off. “I want to rent it out to visitors to Dreamer’s Bay.” There. It was out there now. I was giving the idea wings and hoping it flew.

“Yeah?” He squinted, quirking his head. “Like an Airbnb?”

“Exactly that.” I could feel myself ready to explode with detail. “I already have a few ideas on how I can modernize the décor, change the paint colors, and make the study into an extra bedroom. I also want to put together a whole welcome packet for my guests, telling them all about the Bay and where they should head.”

“And avoid,” Jonathan supplied. “Ma’s Café has given me food poisoning three times in three years.”

I winced. “Yeah, Ma likes her chicken on the pink side. We’ll tell the guests.” Holding on to my excitement with all that I had, I made a headline gesture. “Tips and tricks from Savanna Potter, your honored host. Oh! Maybe I’ll send a dozen donuts on their first morning.”

“Maybe,” Jonathan said with a nod.

I ignored his reserved chime. My thoughts took over like a boulder down the soft side of a hill. “Oh, and maybe even a basket of snacks and bottle of wine when they arrive.” Honestly, I needed the distraction from whatever number this grief thing was going to do to me once I let it sink in. Maybe the goal was avoiding that moment altogether.

Jonathan tilted his head from side to side as he weighed the concept. “That’s a lot. Are you trying to make money or new friends?”

It was rhetorical and I understood his point. I needed to slow my roll and not reinvest all my potential profits in perks. It was hard not to want to do all the things for my imaginary tenants. I wanted to spoil them, wow them, until they couldn’t imagine staying anywhere as wonderful. They’d tell their grandchildren about my service.

“Okay, so maybe no donuts. But on the whole, what do you think?” I rolled my shoulders like a boxer heading into the ring. “Hit me with the Jonathan Parsons realism. Dash my dreams. Spit on my goals. I’ll see if I can hold my own.”

He nodded, absorbing. I very much valued Jonathan’s opinion. He tended to see things from angles I hadn’t examined, which was why our friendship was superior to all others ever invented. I was pie in the sky. He was practical and down to earth. His gift. He had no problem telling me that I was ridiculous when I good and was .

“I like it,” he said, finally. “The potential is there. It’s a lower risk investment. I say run with it.”

I waited. “Where’s the other shoe? Isn’t there one you’re about to lob at my head?” I raised a suspicious brow. I’d honestly believed he’d play the too risky card, and I’d have to lay out all the pros to his list of cons.

“Going barefoot today,” he said with a very Jonathan-like smirk and shrug. “And avoiding that beautiful head. Plus, it’s the first day all week your hair has slayed. The deep red works in an attic.” He was so cute that I ignored the backhanded compliment. Why had no wonderful man snatched his snarky ass up yet? It made no sense to me.

“Oh, I like it. You called me beautiful.”

“Well, everyone else does. I’m loosening up. It’s the new me.” He pretended to ease a strand of nonexistent long hair behind his ear.

“Say more words.”

“About your venture? I will recommend your place on my wildly popular gay men’s Discord group, Ocarina of Crime,” Jonathan said, smiling more widely now.

“Is that a play on words I would get if I played Zelda ?” His favorite. I made my way toward the ladder. The longer I stayed, the greater the chance that the past would swallow me whole.

“It is, and you’ve failed. You insult the honorable people of Hyrule. But I digress. Here’s the nitty-gritty. We live in an ever-growing tourist destination, and you’ve recently inherited a viable property just blocks from the beach. Let me repeat that. Blocks. From. The. Beach.”

“All true. Knowing you, I’m surprised you didn’t add bitch for the alliteration.”

“I considered it. Now, you get this house into shape within a couple of months, and it’ll be perfect for a family or small group of friends. Bonus”—he exhaled and offered a relieved smile—“we get to keep Lindy’s house, and I’m not at all against doing that.” He said that last part in a rush.

“Right? It’s still ours.” My heart squeezed as I looked over a near mountain of boxes that had belonged to the wonderful woman who’d raised me. She was now with my parents in whatever comes after this life, probably drinking margaritas and whipping something up on a heavenly stove while the rest of them gabbed. God, I was jealous.

“And the Airbnb gives me the motivation to go through Lindy’s things.” I gave Jonathan a shake. “A new beginning to latch onto.”

“A reason to look forward and not just back.”

“Fair point. Now what? I gotta get moving on a plan to make it happen.”

“That’s all you. You’re the idea-girl-that-could and will. However,” he tossed his dark hair as if it would move, “I’d be happy to consult on the numbers since you tend to be the dreamer in our duo. No pun intended, ma’am.”

“You nailed it all the same.”

Not the first time I’d heard that one. Living in quaint little Dreamer’s Bay did fit my personality like a marker to its cap. And Jonathan’s numbers prowess was what made him the hottest financial planner in our adorable city. People scheduled sessions with him months out because he knew money management and had a unique vision for how to protect and grow accounts. “I will definitely take you up on that option. I may have already put together a small budget for your perusal. Was just waiting for this conversation to hit send.”

I descended the four short steps of the ladder first and waited at the bottom, accepting the crutch he handed off so he could climb down easier, a system we didn’t even have to speak about, it was so second nature.

“Well, hit send already,” he said, reclaiming the crutch. “We’re not getting any younger. Speaking of old things, are we going to the Chaplin marathon next weekend? I need a popcorn slash sticky floor fix.”

“I can’t. There’s a seminar in Charleston for new rental hosts. It covers a lot of the basics, and I thought I might make it a weekend in the city. Want to come? Say yes. I can promise espresso martinis and gentle galivanting. We can even find a western bar so you can cowboy flirt.”

His eyes lit up with delight. “Cowboys are such trouble.”

“You tell me daily.”

He thought on it. I could already predict his reservations. “Not keen on passing up a good galivant-cowboy gaze session, but…” Jonathan hesitated. As much fun as he could be, he was also cautious about being away from his built-in remedies should his arthritis flare. As someone who lived with chronic pain, some of it quite debilitating, he had to plan well in advance for the worst and be ready to sideline himself. He didn’t like to stray too far from home. “I think I’m gonna let you grab all the big-city fun for both of us. Have an extra martini in my honor.” The light behind his eyes had dimmed slightly, a reminder of his limitations. Ah, fuck . I didn’t care for this at all. My chest squeezed uncomfortably. Jonathan came with an adventurous heart and less than cooperative body. It didn’t seem fair.

I sighed but, of course, understood. “Are you sure? There might be a very handsome man in Charleston looking for a cute, numbers-minded man from a small town.”

“From your bare lips.”

“Who needs lip gloss for attic sorting?”

He exhaled, seeming to hang on to the daydream an extra beat. “Even so, the Charleston Man may need to come to me.”

“Fair enough, Jon-Bon.” That old high school nickname would never get old. I slung an arm around his shoulders and kissed his cheek with a smack, which inspired a blush. He wasn’t the most touchy-feely guy, but I forced him to indulge me once every few months. He needed the practice. “Until then, you’re stuck with me. For I’m a lonely sap.”

“You’re a picky sap,” he corrected. “You get hit on way more than me on dating apps. I’m jealous with an extra shot of jealous. But I’m never speaking about it again because I hate giving compliments. There.”

I stood taller. “I accept your jealousy and would like to thank the academy of queer women for their online attention.” I shrugged, considering why I never seemed to connect with any of them. “I just want to make sure that I’m investing my time in the right person. That’s all.” And, yes, I could admit to having a more discerning palate when it came to women I’d consider dating. Too important not to.

Jonathan frowned. “Right. And what exactly would make her most worthy of your person? I mean, this week.”

“Smart, driven, funny, and attractive, at least to me.” I waved four fingers. “Those are the ones.”

“The quadfecta,” he said.

“That’s a word?”

Scorn rippled off him. His signature. “It’s like your father wasn’t a compulsive gambler who took you to the track on his weekends.”

“Well, I love the word. Thank you for the introduction.”

He walked slowly toward the living room, the crutch moving in time with his right leg. “The quad is a good list. And I believe you’re gonna find her one day, Savvy, and have a glorious ride off into the sunset. Maybe there’ll be some lip gloss there waiting for you. But I’m going to need you to keep your mind open and flirt a little more. Sway your hips. Toss your hair like you own the room and find everything downright funny. Women like that.”

“Do they, though? I’ve decided that I’m not sure what women like.” I scoffed, my own signature, and led the way into the dim, dormant kitchen. Memories from the past played out all around me like an old film reel. The nostalgia grabbed me by my throat and squeezed, stealing my focus. I used to lounge on top of that kitchen counter, chatting away about the girls I admired—translation: crushed on—while Lindy layered her amazing chicken lasagna with the precision of a renaissance sculptor.

“I flirt,” I said quietly, attempting to pull myself back into the conversation, an anchor to the here and now.

“You think you flirt.” Jonathan placed the crutch against the counter and a hand on his hip. “But you refuse to fully commit to the act because it means you’ll be vulnerable to whatever comes back. You’re good at eye contact. But I have the unfortunate job of informing you that that’s about it.”

“I’m wounded and won’t recover,” I said flatly, turning to him, fully involved now. I sighed, giving in. “Fine. What am I doing wrong? Prove your expert status.”

“I am an expert because I’m a noteworthy observer of people. The successful flirters do more. You have to give signals. Hold that eye contact you’re so good at for longer than necessary. Laugh more openly. Like this.” He demonstrated an enthusiastic feminine giggle I would never attempt, nor should anyone. “Oh, and shoulder bumping is big. I’ve watched women do that often.” He bumped mine. “To be playful. To bond. To stir up a little heat.”

“I flirt in my own way, okay? I just don’t feel compelled to do so unless I’m interested, and that hasn’t happened in a long time.”

“Well, the good news is that Dreamer’s Bay has been welcoming new people from far and wide since that special aired on the Travel Channel. More queer women are surely marching into town in curvy little lines as we speak.”

One year ago, our very own small city had been featured on Small Towns of America , in which seven towns were heavily showcased and explored. They’d included visits to Amazin’ Glazin’, the donut shop, Bountiful Park, and even the grocery store I proudly managed: Festive Foods. Since then, people had arrived in seasonally driven spurts from all over. Some to buy and put down roots, driving up property values. But the majority were short-term visitors, staying for a week at a time to soak up the small-town culture before heading back to their big-city lives. The infusion of new people had been fortuitous and profitable for everyone, and the influx showed no signs of slowing down.

I glanced at my watch and grinned. “Any time now, right? Cue the lesbian stampede. Please, God?” And then I went still, struck by one of my fruitless moments of genius. “‘The Lesbian Stampede’ sounds like a great title for a folk song.”

Jonathan nodded. “I’ll tell Linda the Lesbian from the movie theater. She loves a good open mic night.”

“Not sure anything will top her last song, ‘Sinfully Sapphic Stephanie.’”

“God. Nor should it,” he said seriously. “Stephanie and her sinful ways will always haunt me.” He leveled a gaze and sighed. “And I do mean haunt .”

Jonathan was dry in his judgment, also known as wonderful. The best kind of friend.

“I can affirm that it was quite the night at Ronnie Roo’s. I’m not sure we want to feed Linda any more titles.”

I ran a fingertip across the gray and white marble counter, coated in a notable layer of dust. Time for a house-wide scrub down. I’d call Elizabeth Draper at On the Spot, the odd jobs company, and see if she had any part-timers who could tackle a deep clean. There were two housecleaning businesses in town, but Elizabeth was a good friend, and I liked using her services whenever possible. We were three years apart in high school, and I’d spent much of my freshman year looking up to Elizabeth, a senior then, and wanting to be as much of a go-getter as she was. It was impossible, but I tried anyway. In fact, I owed a lot of my successes to role models like her. I harnessed ambition like a lifeline and usually figured out how to achieve my goals as I went, which in hindsight seemed out of order. But I preferred to be self-taught and relied on myself as much as possible. There were no guarantees in life. I’d learned at eleven years old to not count on tomorrow being the same as today. Jonathan thought I had trust issues because of losing my parents so young. He was often accurate, but there was no need to encourage him.

“Charleston, huh? Savanna in the City.”

I scrunched my shoulders to my ears. “I have a feeling this trip is going to make a big difference. I don’t know what it is, but it feels like an important step on my way to…something.”

“Then it will be.”