Page 3 of Heartstring

NOW

I’ll never knowwhat comes first, the overwhelming smell of burned food or the sudden darkness outside.

One minute it’s daylight, and the next, I can’t see through to the end of my small yard. Is it a sign of my age or the state of my life that I find myself spacing out and lost in thought more often?

I’ve never even been that much of an introspective person, or forgetful, for that matter.

The doorbell rings as I hopelessly try to rescue what should be my dinner, but unless charred vegetables become the new health fad, I think I’m better off ordering in.

“Serves you right. Next time pay attention to what you’re doing,” I mutter, setting the pan in the sink to get the door.

I don’t usually get visitors, so this is probably someone asking for directions. When I moved into this place, I thought I was lucky to have so much yard space. In good weather, sitting outside with a beer and looking at the stars is nice.

The realtor conveniently forgot to mention that whenever there’s a major event in town, I practically have to stand outside with a sign directing cars unless I want to have people knocking on my door a hundred times a day.

The doorbell rings again. I want to shout something I shouldn’t, but when people are lost, they get testy, and I know all about feeling testy, so I bite my tongue and get the door.

“Dude, did you know there’s only one way into this town, but there are two ways out?”

I stare at my brother-in-law. His smile is warm and patient. He knows it always takes me that tiny breath of a moment to gather myself when he’s in front of me. Not to mention he has always had the best, and I really mean the worst, timing.

“Seymour. What are you doing here?”

“I was in the area, and I know you miss me a lot.” He shrugs past me like he’s familiar with my house even though he’s never visited once in the four years I’ve lived here. I close the door behind us and follow him to the kitchen, where he’s transferring a six-pack of beer from a duffel bag into my mostly-empty fridge. I really must go grocery shopping.

“Dude, what’s that smell?”

I ignore his question since the answer is in the sink, still slightly smoking. “I don’t recall you mentioning a visit.”

He shrugs.

I raise a brow. “Have you moved?” No way I’ll admit I’ve missed the man who’s the closest thing to a brother I’ll ever have.

“No,” he says, looking at the darkened, soggy vegetables stuck to the bottom of my pan.

“Do you have any business in Connecticut?”

“Nope. I hope this isn’t your dinner. It doesn’t look very good.”

I lean against the counter, crossing my arms. “So you don’t have business in the area and you haven’t moved. How were you so conveniently nearby?”

He starts opening all the drawers in my kitchen.

“You won’t find the answer to my question in there,” I say.

“Where are your takeout menus?”

I laugh, and he stares at me.

“What’s funny?”

“You think this town is big enough that I need a dedicated drawer for takeout menus?”

He gasps. “You can’t get takeout here? I mean, I’d cook something for you, but have you been in your fridge recently?”

Yes, I have. If there was ever an accurate representation of my current life, my fridge is it. Empty with a few dirt marks and crumbs that will eventually get cleaned up.

I point to the small notice board by the fridge. “You see the number on that card? That’s who you call for takeout.”