Page 40 of Under Locke & Key

Leaving Rachel there, hair mussed from sex and sleep, her lips soft and swollen, is the hardest thing I’ve had to do in ages.

I’m not sure whether it’s from exhausting ourselves and the stress of yesterday, or just the comfort of her pressed against me, but I’ve slept better than I have for months. She’s ruinous.

It would be easy to let her all the way in.

Hell, I’m pretty sure I already have and I’m just kidding myself to think otherwise.

Rachel’s already become a comfortable part of my day, so right to be there that I’ve never thought to question it.

Now she’s on my mind all the time. I find myself looking around for her whenever something happens, like I’m searching to lock eyes with her so we can share a look or a laugh.

Rachel’s snuck in the way night swallows sunset until I’m bathed in it. Slowly, then encompassing.

Seeing her hurting this morning—my heart twinges in my chest at the broken sound of her sobs and I would have given anything in that moment to squeeze her tight enough that it glued all her broken pieces back together.

My mind is stuffed full of her, cotton wool making me fuzzy and my thoughts sluggish. The drive home is silent, forgetting that I even have a radio when all I can focus on is her and what my mom said on the phone.

I knew the repairs would set me back but I’ve been operating in denial.

Expecting things to work themselves out.

I underestimated how hard this would be.

I’m used to being able to set my mind to something and push myself through anything to make it happen.

But life doesn’t care about how well I can fixate and overwork myself.

The universe doesn’t dwell on my inexplicable belief that as long as I pretend I’m fine everything else around me will be too.

Summer is well and truly underway. Verdant branches hang heavy over the streets downtown, casting shadows in an arch of leaves.

Parks are packed with summer little league camps, families basking in the sun, and people walking their dogs.

Morning melts under the promise of another scorching day.

By the time I pull up to my parents house, I can smell a hint of smoke in the air.

Margaritaville spills from the backyard speakers, grill going, relaxation-mode on full blast. All I can think about is the interaction between Rachel and my parents, and how easy she made it look.

Following the little smoke signal, I enter through the side gate to see my dad behind the grill, happily humming along to the marimbas and upbeat steel drums, and Jimmy Buffet’s rampant alcohol dependence.

“Well, well, well. Look at who finally decided to show up.”

There’s a heavy pause in which I fight the urge to defend myself, before he smirks at me and the tension fades. I’m a grown man. There’s no need for explanation. Although my mom probably won’t be as quick to let it go.

My father clicks his tongs shut, resting them on the side of the grill.

Standing on a perfectly manicured lawn, he’s in open-toed shoes again and my mom is going to kill him if she sees.

There’s a push and pull between them, she tries her best to wrangle him away from impulse and danger, and he runs full speed ahead at whatever sparks joy.

“How’s it coming?” I gesture at the grill.

“Just about done. Maybe fifteen or so.”

In theory fifteen minutes should be no big deal, but in direct sunlight it’s a less pleasant concept.

Dulaney is sweaty. It’s high humidity and bug bites and cicadas.

Most people don’t think of Maryland as particularly humid compared to places in the Deep South but on days like today—ninety-some degrees and desperate for a thunderstorm—it feels like breathing through a wet sock.

But my parents are proud to live here. They know every one of their neighbors.

They spend as much time in the grocery store chatting as they do shopping.

I never thought I’d be back here. At least not in a permanent capacity and yet I find the prospect is kind of invigorating.

The echo of my youth and the fact that I’m realizing at least part of a dream I’d let die has injected some spirit back into my life and myself.

Now that I’m not spending every moment of the day pretending to be the version of me I think people want, there’s so much more room to enjoy things.

By the time the food’s ready, my skin is dotted with perspiration and I’m dying for a glass of something cool.

I follow my father into the kitchen through the sliding glass doors, the blessed cold lick of the air conditioner wicking the sweat from my brow and back.

My mother’s behind the island, hair piled up on her head in a messy bun that’s gotten so much grayer.

Even over the last few months. Or maybe I’m just extra aware of how much older my parents have gotten since I’ve moved back in with them and noticed the changes.

Time with Stephanie meant less time with them, and now that I see them every day, the difference between the last time I lived here and now is stark.

The lines beside my dad’s eyes are carved deep and stay there, even when he’s not smiling.

My mom’s gentle hands are dotted with spots, her veins like tributaries flowing through thinner skin as she dishes the food onto our plates.

Mom waits until I’m into my first bite of a burger before she pounces.

“So, should I even bother asking where you were last night?”

I choke on a piece of lettuce, grasping for my glass of water and coughing through clearing my airway before I answer. “Why don’t you just ask me what you really want to know? Neither you nor dad really care that I didn’t come home. You’re just curious about the why.”

Both of them give me sheepish grins, and I wait it out to see who will be brave enough to call me out on it directly.

“Ooh, okay. We’ll ask you some one word questions and then guess.” My dad sounds way too excited about it but I don’t mind. These moments won’t last forever and even though it’s embarrassing, I’ve missed having them around to give me a hard time.

“Were you working all night?” My mom asks.

“No.”

“Were you with Logan?” My dad tries.

“Nope.”

“Was it a date?” The twinkle in my mom’s eye is a little alarming.

“In a way.”

My mom backhands my shoulder to scold me for being so vague. They share a look, that weird silent communication between them that comes with thirty-plus years of marriage, and the grin on my father’s face is borderline diabolical. “It was Rachel.”

My cheeks flame and I take another sip of water to try and play it off. “That wasn’t a question.”

“We didn’t need to ask. It’s all over your face.” Frank Dawson laughs like I’m the funniest joke he’s ever heard and my mom shakes her head at him.

“For the record, we really like her. She seems like a lovely woman—smart, driven, but still kind and approachable,” my mom says.

I can’t help but feel like my mother listed those first two attributes, ones that could have been ascribed to Stephanie, only to make sure she could juxtapose them with the qualities Rachel has that my ex lacked.

Clearing my throat, working up the courage, I nod. “It’s barely anything. We’ll see what happens, especially considering the escape room. Which—speaking of—how bad is it?”

The mirth on their faces disappears. “It’s not great.

Crunching the numbers, accounting for operating costs for the first three months, repair and renovation costs, you’ll have to open by the end of August or beginning of September in order to make it work.

And that's with the diminished room count I mentioned. Do you think that’s doable for you?

Six weeks or so? Since you’re working on most of this yourself? ”

My temples radiate with a headache that’s rapidly formed. Between being overheated and stressed there’s no avoiding it.

“Do I have a choice? I’ve already sunk half my savings and the money from the house sale into this. I’ve signed a year-long lease on the building and we’ve gutted one and a half rooms already. No, I’ve just got to push through. I might just have to ask for help wherever I can get it.”

My mom pats my hand, no doubt having noticed it’s turned into a fist. “Your dad and I are here and although we aren’t as spry as we once were, give us some painting or organizing. Heck, Logan will probably come as well if you told him what’s going on.”

“And there’s Rachel. She’s already been amazing from what you’ve told us and what we’ve seen,” Dad chimes in.

“I just don’t want to ask too much of her. The lines are blurring between us and the last thing I want is for her to think I’m exploiting that change to get more work out of her. She’s been such a help. I couldn’t do it without her.”

“Just make sure you show her that. I know you struggle with articulating what you’re feeling.

Like me, you’re a person of action when words fail.

I’m sure she already knows, but keep showing her how much her work means, and how much you admire her as a person, and you’ll be fine.

” My mom’s statement has me huffing out a shuddering breath.

Because she’s not wrong. Expressing my emotions in the right words has never been my strong suit.

Which is a freaking joke when considering I suck at picking up physical or other subtle cues myself anyway.

Communication is a struggle. No wonder I missed my marriage falling apart when I leaned on Steph’s words alone.

“Yes, but also, she deserves more than that. I have to at least try to say it as well as just showing it. I don’t want to make the same mistakes again.

” It seemed unfathomable to me when Steph first asked for a divorce that I would ever want to be with someone again—to put myself in a position to be vulnerable and potentially get hurt. But maybe things are changing.