Page 3 of Return To You

“Cool. I’ll tell Coach,” the girl says as she saunters back to the bay, pulling her phone from her pocket.

Ah shit. I guess there’s no getting around saying hello to the old man. And what’s wrong with that, anyway? Except that I was hoping to make my stay here painless. Absent of memories. I’m not big on nostalgic reunions.

The girl comes back running to us. “Mister K, can I get a selfie?” She nudges herself against me, holding her phone at arm’s length.

Colton frowns. “You don’t have to, man.”

I smile toward the phone while the girl takes several pictures. I’m not used to fake-smiling—or smiling—and my cheeks kinda hurt.

“Thanks!” The girl runs back to the bay and shouts out to Colton. “Boss, gonna start on the Bronco!”

“Not without me you’re not. Be just a sec.”

“I should go,” I say.

“It’s okay. She’s just messing with me. Funny girl.”

“She looks familiar. Do I know her?”

Colton shrugs. “I doubt it—she’s barely fifteen. Tracy Prescott. Big family. They live above Chandler’s Knoll. Dad’s with Fish and Game.”

I suppose I know the family. That’s what life in a small town is like. Everyone’s linked one way or another. You can’t step foot anywhere without meeting someone you know.

The feeling sits uncomfortably in the pit of my stomach. On base, people come and go all the time. You quickly learn to make new friends or risk having no friends at all. You’re also free to feed them whatever backstory you make up for your own sorry life, and no one cares if you’re pretending to be who you’re not, as long as you do an honest job and buy a round of beers every once in a while.

Here, there’s no escaping who you are. Your past. Your present actions. People’s opinions on what your future should look like. Who you’re with, who you should be with, and especially—especially—who you shouldn’t be with.

I roll out of Colton’s garage on an empty promise of a beer together, feeling a little bit like a jerk. Why did I need to tell him about not wanting to settle here? And why did I agree to a beer at my brother’s pub, when I know darn well I’m going to find an excuse to get out of it? The last thing I want is to hear about his sister, and she’s bound to come up in conversation if we share a drink.

I take the long way alongside the river, down Deweys’ Hollow. I thought this would be a fun bike ride—and it is—but fuck. So many memories suddenly resurfacing.

Heading back into the village through the covered bridge, I notice how the downtown looks busier than I expected. There’s a banner across main street announcing the town fair this Saturday, and another one congratulating Christopher Wright for being New England’s Best Baker. Shit, Chris won New England’s Best Baker? That’s huge. Colton must be proud of his cousin.

Main street is crawling with stop-and-go traffic and jaywalkers. A car pulls out of a parking spot in front of a flower shop where the video store used to be.

I slide in and minutes later, I’m walking out with a gorgeous bouquet that set me back… a lot. But hey. I’ve missed so many of Mom’s birthdays, I can splurge a little.

“Well if it isn’t Ethan King in the flesh!”

I look down to the petite woman in a modest flowery dress. “Ms. Angela!” I bend down to hug her, the instinct strong, then hesitate. Is it appropriate to hug your third-grade teacher?

“Come here, you big goof!” She takes me in a strong hug that surprises me. “Are these for me? Why, you shouldn’t have,” she says, laughing.

I laugh with her. “They’re for Ma.”

She frowns. “She didn’t mention you were coming.”

“It’s a surprise,” I confirm.

She rolls her eyes and looks around, at the line in front of the ice cream place—now expanded to cover the corner of the block— at the patrons going in and out of the general store—looking spiffy with fresh paint and overflowing window boxes—at the people sifting through boxes of books on sale in front of the bookshop. “Well, if you want to keep this a surprise, you should get there before she hears it from someone else.” She gives me a friendly tap on the arm. “I’ll see you later!”

By the time I get to the farm, I’ve seen a new coffee shop, a sign for the hotel I didn’t even know we had, the bookshop with a new, weird name, my brother Justin’s pub, packed with patrons at their outdoor seating, and a restaurant right next to it that I don’t remember. There are signs for a hot dog shack, the local history museum, an art exhibit, a summer fair, numerous kids’ camps.

The town is hopping and nothing like I remember it. It makes me happy and vaguely unsettled at the same time. Like there’s something important that I’m missing.

After the covered bridge, it’s a familiar ride up to the farm on a winding road that’s fucking fun on a bike. King Knoll’s Farm soon spreads ahead, and a gentle hum takes ahold of me.

It’s about time I’m able to come back here and visit.

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