Page 27 of Somewhere Without You

Twenty Six

Dear Captain Walker,

This feels completely insane. Somehow, our letters are slipping through time, like this bag is some kind of portal.

Do you think it disappears with each letter?

Like it only lets one through at a time before slipping back into whatever space it came from?

I have no idea if that’s even possible. Honestly, it sounds ridiculous just writing it.

Part of me thinks you’re just some kind of hallucination, like something out of a bad sci-fi movie, or the kind of dream you wake up from and try to explain, only to realize it never made sense to begin with.

And yet, here we are.

I’m so sorry to hear about your wife. Just reading her name in your letters made me ache in places I thought I’d sealed shut.

I can’t imagine what it was like, to lose her in the middle of a war, with death already so close around you.

But I think I understand a small piece of that pain. Loss is loss, no matter the century.

You asked who I am, and the truth is, I don’t really know.

Not anymore. A few weeks ago, I left a marriage that was, for lack of a better word, brutal.

Honestly, I stayed longer than I should have.

Out of fear, mostly. Fear of what came next, of being alone.

And maybe part of me believed I deserved it.

Karma, maybe . But this time was the last time, and so I packed up and moved into my Gran’s old farmhouse, here in the small town of Windhaven.

It’s tucked away at the foot of the Appalachians, surrounded by magnolia trees.

I have no idea if it exists in your time.

Maybe it hasn’t been settled yet. Or maybe our letters are proof that it does.

Maybe you’ve walked the same hills I look out at now.

Wouldn’t that be something? Two strangers staring out at the same horizon, separated by lifetimes, but somehow. . . connected.

Part of me wants to know everything about you.

I want to ask what you’re like, what you dream about when the fighting dies down, what kind of man you were before the war stole you away.

But another part of me wants to crumple this whole thing up, toss it into the fire, and pretend it never happened.

Because what kind of sane person writes letters to the past and expects a reply?

It feels like I’m writing to a ghost. Maybe I am. Or maybe you’re real, and I’m the ghost. Either way, it’s nice not feeling so alone, even if it’s completely nuts. Whatever the truth is, your letters found me. And that has to mean something right?

So I’ll keep writing, at least for now. Because for the first time in a long time, it feels like someone’s actually listening.

Sincerely your crazy, curious friend,

Emily Hart

Monday morning arrived like a clenched fist—gray and overcast and speckled with rain.

I was working my way through my third cup of coffee when the familiar rumble of an engine shattered the morning quiet.

Winston’s ears perked up and I gave him a reassuring pat on the head before heading to the door.

Logan stood there, rain clinging to his jacket. “Hey,” he said, his eyes flicking from Winston to me.

“Morning,” I replied, stepping aside to let him in. “Are you sure you still want to do this?”

“I’m here, aren’t I?” He set his toolbox on the table with a metallic thud, then gave Winston another wary glance. “Nice dog. Where’d you get him?”

“I adopted him from the shelter.” I smiled down at Winston, who thumped his tail against the rug, oblivious.

Logan raised his brows. “You think that’s a smart move?”

I felt a jab of irritation rise in my throat. “A few days ago, you were worried I was alone. Now that I’m not, you’ve got a problem with that too?”

He hesitated. “I meant. . . you know what, never mind. It’s not my business.”

“You’re right—it’s not.” My voice was sharper than I intended. Sensing the tension, Winston settled onto the couch, his head resting on his paws.

Logan went to work on the door,unscrewing the old hinges and setting them aside.

“He’s a good listener,” I offered, trying to break the heavy silence. “Winston, I mean. Not as good as a human, of course, but he does the job.”

Logan let out a quick laugh. “He seems to have impeccable couch-potato skills,” he said, nodding toward the couch with his drill.

I tilted my head and smiled. “Have you always been this mean? Or did that come with age?”

“I prefer grumpy, ” he said wryly. “Sounds better.”

I rolled my eyes, suppressing a laugh as Logan straightened, lifting the new screen door into place.

“Want a cup of coffee?” I asked, already drifting toward the kitchen.

He shook his head. “Appreciate it, but no thanks. Never been much of a coffee guy.”

“Maybe that’s why you’re so grumpy ,” I teased, eyeing my own half empty mug before deciding three cups was probably enough.

Once he finished mounting the door, Logan opened and closed it a few times. “That should do it,” he assured, testing the alignment. “Everything feels solid.”

I hesitated. “What about the other door?”

“What about it?”

“Is it. . . sturdy?” I asked carefully.

He rapped his knuckles against it. “This is solid oak. Doesn’t get much sturdier than that.”

My eyes widened.

“What happened?” he asked, suddenly suspicious.

“The other night. . .” I began slowly, the unease still lingering, “I woke up and the door was open. It was probably nothing. I’m sure I just forgot to latch it all the way.”

Logan studied the lock. “It’s definitely old,” he said, running a thumb over its worn edges. “I’ll replace it with a new one—something a bit more durable.”

I opened my mouth to argue, but one look at his face told me not to bother. Instead, I offered a small, genuine smile. “Thank you, Logan. Really. It means a lot that you’re doing all this.”

“It’s no trouble,” he said, wiping the sweat from his brow. His hand gestured toward Gran’s urn. “So, when do you plan to. . . ?”

I rocked back on my heels and sighed. “Soon,” I said. It was the truth. Gran didn’t want to spend eternity in a jar and every day I put it off—the guiltier I felt.

“Do you know where?” he asked.

“Not exactly,” I admitted. “Maybe the garden, once I get it cleaned up. She loved that place. Spent most of her time there.” I left out the part about not having the heart to do it in the state it was in. The thought of it all felt like another layer of unfinished business weighing on me.

Logan must’ve seen the defeat on my face. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

“No, it’s okay,” I said quickly. “It’s just. . . I’ve had so much going on lately.”

“You know,” he said after a moment, “if you want help fixing up the garden—for Gran, I’d be happy to lend a hand.”

My pulse quickened. I hadn’t expected the offer. I hadn’t even realized how badly I needed it.

“Yeah,” I whispered. “I’d like that.”

I looked at him then, really looked at him—and for the first time I noticed the fine lines etched into the corners of his tawny eyes. The hint of silver dusted along his dark roots. At some point, the boy I once knew had become this man I didn’t know. We might as well have been strangers now.

“How’s your mom?” I asked, desperately clinging to a thread of our shared past.

He shifted, his eyes dropping to the floor. “Wouldn’t know. Haven’t seen her in six years.”

“What?” I blinked. “Why? Is she okay?”

He shrugged, still avoiding my gaze. “She’s probably fine. We were never close. . . you remember.”

I did. He and his mom were like oil and water—always clashing. But Logan had a habit of shutting people out when things got hard. And for him, things were almost always hard.

I followed Logan out onto the porch, the rain still falling steadily from angry gray clouds. He stepped down onto the front steps and pried at a warped board. A loud crack split the air as the wood gave way.

“When I got back, she was in rough shape,” he said, shaking his head.

Another sharp crack echoed between us as he wrenched loose a second board.

“The bank was days from foreclosing, and she couldn’t stay sober long enough to give a damn.

” He paused, gripping a third board tightly in his hands, the rain running in thin rivulets down his back.

“I didn’t know what else to do. I took what little I’d managed to save and brought the mortgage current.

On one condition. . . she had to go to rehab. ”

His voice trembled, and I watched him blink rapidly, trying to hold back tears. Or rain. Or both.

“She went,” he continued. “And for a while, things were great. She even managed to get a job over at Connie’s.”

“The truck stop diner off 59?” I asked, surprised.

Logan gave abittersweet laugh. “Yeah. That’s the one.

Started in the back washing dishes, then moved up to waiting tables.

She was proud of herself, hell, I was proud of her.

” His smile faded as quickly as it had come.

“But then she met this guy. A long-haul trucker who loved Oxy more than she did.”

My stomach knotted as I stood in silence, watching Logan methodically replace the old boards with the new ones he’d brought.

“After that, she started missing shifts,” he said, his voice growing more distant. “And then one day, I found her in the cab of his truck—high as a fucking kite and barely able to stand. Turns out, she never really quit, she just got better at hiding it.”

He went quiet again, his brow furrowed, sleeves rolled to his elbows as his hammer met the wood in steady rhythm. The scent of fresh pine mingled with the cool mountain air, and for a moment, the world narrowed to the creak of the porch and the sharp clink of nails.

I stood by, unsure if I should offer help or just stay quiet—the silence between us stretching taut like a rope neither of us was ready to pull.

I didn’t know what to say. The image of his mother, slumped in some stranger’s truck, eyes glazed over, lost to a haze she’d chosen over everything else, including her own son—made me sick.

Finally, Logan took a step back, admiring his work. “That was the last time I tried to save her. After that, I stopped showing up. I figured. . . if she didn’t want it, why should I keep wanting it for her?”

Tears burned at the corners of my eyes, but I blinked them back.I wanted to reach for him, to comfort him—to be there for him the way I should have been this whole time but I remained frozen, stiff with guilt and aching with regret.

“She lost the house after that,” he said, ashamed.

“It all happened so fast—like watching a building crumble into dust, only the building was our life.” He turned to me then, and the raw, hollow look in his eyes was something I’d never seen before.

“I couldn’t do it anymore, Em,” he confessed. “I couldn’t keep fixing things.”

“Logan. . .” I began, then stopped. What could I say?

“I’m fine,” he said quickly, swiping a hand across his face as if to erase everything he’d just shared. He glanced down at his watch. “It’s already after eleven,” he mumbled, changing the subject, “and I haven’t eaten yet. Do you want to grab some lunch?”

“Yeah. . . sure,” I said, though the idea of food made my stomach turn.

“Meet you at Connie’s in twenty?” he asked, tossing his jacket over his shoulder.

I stared at him. “Seriously? After everything you just told me, you still want to eat there?”

Logan gave a half-smile and shrugged. “What can I say? I’m a sucker for their burgers.”