Page 16 of Somewhere Without You

Fifteen

I jolted awake, gasping for air. My hands shot to my throat, frantically pulling the lilac-colored sheets that had somehow wound around my neck.

A sharp, cool breath filled my lungs as Kat’s voice, a distant echo, still lingered in my ears. I shook my head to clear it.

Across the room, the curtains billowed with the cool mountain breeze. A shiver ran through me as Inoticedthe quilted comforter, discarded in a heap on the floor beside my pillow. Stretching, I pushed myself upright, the old wood floor groaning beneath me as I tossed the quilt back onto the bed.

Dawn broke over the eastern horizon, a faint glow illuminating the dark silhouette of the Appalachian mountains, still bathed in the soft light of the moon.

I glanced at the clock on the nightstand. 6:45 AM.

My fingers traced the hollow of my throat, and another shiver wracked my body.Therewasno way in hell Icouldfall back asleep—not with the heavy reminder of whatwaswaiting for me. I yanked open my suitcase, slipped into my robe, and hurried down the hallway.

Gran’s familyhadownedthis house for generations—long before the Civil War. Over time, modern additionshadbeen made—new appliances, electricity, but the farmhouse’s timeless charmhadalways remained. . .untilnow.

It broke my heart toseeit like this, knowing how bright, vibrant, and well-loved ithadonce been.

I stepped into the kitchen. The wood floors beneath my feetwerescarredand worn, the grainnearlyerased in places. I sighed, the weight of guilt pressing on me.IfIhadnever left, if Ihadstayed—would things have turned outdifferently?

Peering out the kitchen window, the shattered remains of a hand-painted gate lay scattered across the backyard. Standing on tiptoes, I leaned over the sink, my eyes tracing the sullen, overgrown patch of earth. Whathadonce been a lively, flourishing gardenwasnow a wild tangle of weeds.

I closed my eyes, blinking back the tears. The blue twilight of dawnwasbeginning to fade, and Iwasn’tgoing to waste the morning drowning in self-pity.

Shaking off the sorrow, I forced myself into motion.

I yanked open the cupboard door and grabbed the first mug Icouldfind.

The ceramic handlewaspaintedblue, adorned with two smudged pink handprints twisted into a lopsided heart.

Beneath each printweremine and Katherine’s initials.

Another sob caught in my throat, threatening to break free.

I set the mug down and spun the lazy Susan, searching for the coffee. Everythingwasexactlywhere ithadalways been. My gaze landed on the small red tin of instant coffee nestled between the flour and sugar.

Reaching for it, I stopped. Something behind the oats and cornmeal caught my attention. Icouldseeits shadow. Kneeling, I peered into the cupboard’s dark corner. The shadow blinked.

A scream tore from me as alargesquirrel shot across cans of baked beans, knocking over a bag of flour in its frantic escape.

I fell back onto the floor, slamming my hands down as a massive cloud of white dust exploded into the air,temporarilyblinding me.

The squirrel, leaving a trail of tiny white paw prints, disappeared around the corner.

I coughed, sending more flour into the air as I struggled to sit up. Flour coated my hair, my robe,evenmy eyelashes. IlookedlikeI’dbeen in a fight with a bakery.

Staring at my dusted hands, something inside me shifted. A laugh bubbled up, deep and booming, shaking my whole body. It echoed through the small kitchen, butjustasquicklyas it came, it faded into a heavy sob. Tears streamed down my flour-streaked face, carving dirty trails through the powder.

What a fucking mess.

My shoulders trembled as I spiraled into a full-blown breakdown.Whenthe shakingfinallyeased, leaving nothing but a dry heave, I wiped my sleeve across my face, only smearing the flour further.

I sattherefor a moment, breathingheavily. Icouldhearthelowhum of the house settling, the creaks and groans of its tired bones—as though the wallsweremourning with me.

I took a deep breath, trying to steady myself, and stood upslowly. My bodyfeltheavy, like Iwasdragging the weight of everything—every mistake, every regret, with me.

With a shaky hand, I reached for the mug, not bothering to wipe away the flour on my face, and poured hot water over the instant coffee.

The steam rose in a slow spiral, filling the kitchen with the familiar, comforting scent.

It didn’t fix anything, but for a moment, itwasenough to make mefeelhuman again.

Warm sunlight poured through the window, casting a soft halo of light over Gran’s urn where it rested on the coffee table.

“I’m going to fix this,” I whispered, a small spark of hope, stirring in my chest.“The house, myself, everything.”

It wouldn’t be easy, but Iwasready.Andfor the first time in a long time, Iactuallybelieved it.

One hour of intensescrubbing later and the kitchenwasfinallyclean.

After dealing with the flour mess, I spent fifteen minutes battling years of stubborn grease on the oven, ten more tossing out spoiled food, and a solid half hour cleaning out the fridge.

The last fivewerededicatedto wiping down the counters.

My arms ached, my back protested, but overall, Iwasproud of myself for this small victory.

Unfortunately, the same couldn’t be said for myself.

Sweat clung to my skin, gluing my hair to my powdery face.

Grease stains marred my robe, andtherewasan oddsmellcoming from somewhere I couldn’t identify.

I’dalready emptied the trash and double-checked the fridge for anything moldy.

That’s when it hit me. I was thesmell.

It shouldn’t have been a shock. Ihadn’tbotheredto shower last night, and after thirty-six hours cooped up in a car with only brief rest-stop bathroom breaks, itwasboundto catch up to me.

My hairwasa mess, and a prickling sensation crawled across my skin, like a thousand tiny spiders dancing beneath the surface.

I needed a shower.

The thought of hot water rushing over mefeltlike heaven. I shot back upstairs, grabbing a pair of faded jeans and a loose cotton shirt,thenpadded down the hall to the bathroom.

Setting my clothes aside, I placed my hands on both sides of the porcelain sink and stared at myself in the mirror.

Eventhrough my floury mask, my facewasnoticeablythinner, not by much but enough to make a difference.

My cheeks held a brighter pink, and my once faded freckles now danced vibrantly over the bridge of my nose.

Ilooked. . . like myself. The me before Jackson. Ithadbeen so long sinceI’dseenher, butI’drecognize her anywhere.

Taking a deep breath, I pulled back the shower curtain and twisted the knob, eager tofeelthe warmth of water against my skin. A pathetic whisper of a trickle emerged from the faucet,barelyenough to wet my fingertips, let alone my entire body.

“Shit,”I groaned, my voice tight with frustration. I faced the sink again, flooded with disappointment when I realized thiswasclearlymore than a faulty fixture.

Sighing, I realizedI’dhave to brave the basement. Gran kept a junk bin in the linen closet, and Ireluctantlygrabbed a flashlight before making my way back downstairs.

The basement door creaked open, revealing a steep staircasethatseemedto drop into darkness. The uneven, dirt floor stretched out beneath me. I swallowed hard, my heart thudding with dread.

Somewhere, something clanged. My stomach lurched. I gripped the flashlight tighter.SuddenlyIwaseight years old again, Kat and I daring each other to brave the dark.

“You’re a grown-ass woman,”I told myself.“You can do this.”

The wooden steps groaned under my weight.

My heart pounded in my chest. Another clang rang out from somewhere unseen, and I jumped,nearlytripping on the last step.

Dust swirled in the beam of the flashlight, casting long, eerie shadows across the jagged stone walls.

I swallowed, licking my lips as I forced myself further into this dreaded hell.

Thesmellhit methen—a mixture of damp earth and mildew, followed by the unmistakable sound of something dripping. I swept the flashlight across the exposed pipes, their rust-eaten surfaces catching the weak light. Nothinglookedbroken, but how the hell would Iknow?

The dripping grew louder, feeding my irrational fear.Icouldcall a plumber—I should call a plumber, but in my stubbornness, Iwasdeterminedto figure this out myself, to prove Icouldhandle it.

My flashlight landed on a dark puddle in the corner near the furnace, revealing a watery mess snaking its way across the dirt floor. The dripwascoming from above, where a loose bolt held two pipes together.

Simple enough, I thought.

Across the basement, a rusty toolbox sat on a shelf, half-hidden by cobwebs. Its red paintwaspeeling like sunburned skin, and the metal hingeswereso old theylookedready to disintegrate.

Inside, buried beneath random tools and scattered screws, I found a small wrench. Gripping ittightly, I braced myself against the pipe, the cold metal biting into my palm.

With the wrench in hand, I reached up to tighten the bolt. Alowgroan echoed from the wall, followed by a sickening crack.Then, with no warning, the pipe exploded.

A geyser of water shot through the broken pipe, soaking me from head to toe. I staggered backward.

Through the freezing spray, my numb fingers fumbled along the wall until I found the valve. I twisted and yanked, but the ancient wheel refused to budge. Desperation clawed at me as I wrestled with it. Finally, with a sharp twist, the water stopped.

I coughed, wiping water from my face.Fora moment, I stoodthere, drenched and frozen in shock. Mud clung to my bare feet, and water dripped from my hair.

I didn’tknowwhether to laugh or cry.

I wiped the mud from my cheeks, grimacing as the basement’s musty stench clung to my skin. I didn’t even want to think about what I looked like. Clearly, I wasn’t going to fix this mess on my own—and at this point, a shower wasn’t a luxury. It was a need.

With what little dignity I had left, I dragged myself upstairs, picked up the phone, and did the one thing I swore I wouldn’t.

I called for help.