Page 15 of Under Locke & Key
“Oh.” Is all she says before she clears her throat, likely weighing her words.
“I’m that way with temperature. If I get too hot, it’s over.
I can’t focus on anything else. I’ll never live in Florida, I can promise you.
That’s not even accounting for the alligators and the snakes.
” She shivers with disgust and I can’t help the chuckle that escapes at the sight.
And it’s just that simple. In a few sentences Rachel Mackey has turned me inside out and right way round, dusting off the shoulders and I’m ready to go again.
When I look over at her—not at a stoplight but a rather risky stolen glance after changing lanes—she’s looking out the window and drinking in the sight of the old Civil War markers along Main, each picture describing an event.
My freakout is over, washed away by understanding and letting go.
“I have to ask. Why Locke Box?”
“It’s my middle name. Bryce Locke Dawson. Not quite sure what my parents were thinking but it serves my purpose well enough now.”
“Meant to be, for sure.” Our eyes meet at the next red light, the last one before the mill, and something weird curls inside me at her words and the conviction behind them.
Maybe she’s right. Maybe this can work, if I let it.
My rumination is cut short when we pull up the gravel drive toward the mill. Our arrival is a rush of tires, the click and zip of the seatbelts set free, and shoes on shifting ground. This time when Jim lets us inside, Rachel lets her questions run wild.
I follow behind them, acclimatizing myself to the sawdust smell from outside, before it can get too overwhelming.
The floors are concrete and the brick building stands tall around us.
Small square windows take up most of the upper parts of the walls and I swear I can still smell the machinery even though it’s been gone for years.
My grandfather brought me here on a tour when I was a kid and somehow the impression of it stuck—the work benches, the loud grinding of the saws against wood. My eyes are covered with protective glasses and too-big ear covers held against my head with my hands. I must have been seven or eight.
I miss him.
“So, what do you think, Bryce?” Rachel asks, pulling me from my memory.
It’s not right. No matter how much I want it to be. No matter how much it makes me think of family and tradition, and Dulaney.
“It’s a stunning space but it would probably be better suited to an event venue or brewery than an escape room.”
Jim slaps me on the shoulder as we head back out. “Oh ho, you are speaking my language. You ever decide to open up a brewery and I will be your first customer.”
I huff out a laugh at his enthusiasm and I realize I’ve missed this too; not just my grandfather but Dulaney and the people that make it feel like home no matter how long I’ve been away.
“I don’t know. Letting you in would also mean I’d have to be the one to kick you out if you got too rowdy and if I recall a certain barbeque during mine and your son’s senior year of high school, you definitely know how to rile up a crowd.”
Jim’s face is confused for a moment as he rifles through the years and when he comes upon the memory I’m referencing—the day our high school won the championship and he decided to play DJ and dancer, complete with an AC/DC air guitar and leg kick—he bursts out into guffaws.
“What a blast from the past that is. You’re right though, better stick to this escaping thing. From what I remember you were always messing around with stuff like that. I just hope you’ve gotten better at it.”
My cheeks flame at the reminder and Rachel’s expression is careful as she absorbs all she can from our interaction.
“Here’s hoping. Thanks for helping us out today. I’ll be in touch with you soon on whether or not we need to view those other two properties you mentioned.”
And then Jim’s out of there and it’s just me and Rachel and the ghosts of my past.
“Lunch?” she asks, walking toward my car, and only then do I feel the hunger gnawing at my stomach and remember I skipped breakfast as well.
“Lunch sounds great. You let me know where you’re staying and I’ll drop you off afterwards as well.”
“There’s actually a Japanese place right across from my apartment I’ve been interested in trying. I’m over on Hoffman.”
We drive in quiet, me lost in thought and Rachel entranced by Dulaney in a way that I have forgotten to appreciate.
Once or twice she asks me about a particular building—the local canning plant where they make everything from jams right through to soups and pickled vegetables.
A hollowed out shell of stone that used to house a few small businesses—like the tailor that helped me with a tux for prom when nothing suited my tall and broad frame—that burned down a couple of years ago.
There’s a plaque out front with plans to turn it into a community garden.
I pull out onto the street, lucky to find a spot near the restaurant, and back into the parallel parking.
Not even thinking about the fact that I’ve got my arm across the back of her seat and I’ve turned myself to look out of the rear window, until I hear a small snick in her breathing, as if it stopped for a moment and she had to remind herself to start again.
“I’ll—uh. I’ll go get us a table while you pay the meter.” Rachel is out as soon as the car’s no longer in motion and I can’t even begin to unravel what just happened.
Pulling out my phone, I buy us two hours on the parking app. It’s overkill but I’d rather not take a chance on getting towed. When I get inside and up the stairs to the second level, Rachel is sitting in a small booth by the window, staring out at the street we just came from.
As if she can sense my approach—despite the steady din of the restaurant—her ponytail whips over her shoulder as she turns her head to face me. And somehow, with no particular reason I can put my finger on, I know I am in a world of trouble.
I’m a mess of grief, anger and determination, and somehow—impossibly and inconveniently—there’s a stirring of something I haven’t felt for a long time. One I’m not ready to name. Something that I can’t afford to entertain right now.
I slide into the booth opposite her and she tugs the table closer to her to accommodate my legs, a small smile on her face like it’s nothing . . . as if she’d done it out of reflex alone and not consideration.
Rachel flicks through her menu, handing me one to peruse on my own, but I’m stuck. On silky black hair, and big brown eyes, and the uncomfortable feeling of being seen—and liking it.