Page 11 of Pretty Heartache

I didn’t tell my brother my reason for running away.

Archer and I are somewhat close, considering we’re twelve years apart, but we’ve never been close enough for him to ask questions that require him to dive into the details of my life. To him, I’m a happy-go-lucky twenty-one-year-old living out my dream. It’s all he needs to know.

Part of me still harbors bitterness for him not standing up for me. I used to dream he’d show up and demand to take care of me the way he knew our father couldn’t. He wasn’t naïve to our father’s abuse. But I guess the old saying rings true: ignorance is bliss.

Archer ran away and assumed the dynamic at home would change, but he never stuck around to check if it did. He never looked back.

I tried to do the same.

I rub my arm and take a step forward. My foot lands on the stone-paved driveway. This house isn’t surrounded by a large, wrought-iron fence. Instead, the stone driveway winds up the front lawn, stretching all the way to the house resting at the top of the hill. From where I’m standing, I can’t see the entire house. My feet slowly carry me closer to the large, brick exterior.

I tighten my grip on my duffle bag when the house comes into view.

It’s massive.

A large balcony sits off to the side of the house, facing the garden in the side yard. Brown, dried-out flowers and leafless branches cover what look like they used to be rows of garden boxes, as if the plants dying inside them have been rotting there longer than I’ve been alive.

As with some of the other houses, rich green vines of ivy cling to the brick exterior, sprawling over some of the windows alongthe top floor. A paved-covered patio in different stone than the driveway lines the front of the house. Complete with two old wooden rocking chairs.

One is empty.

The other isn’t.

I stop in my tracks at the sight of him.

I hold my breath, concentrating on keeping my chest moving.

I wasn’t expecting to see him here; at least not today. Archer told me he would leave the key in the black mailbox beside the front door.

He’s slumped in the chair, his tie loose around his neck, practically unraveled down to his stomach. With his long legs parted, his hands dangle between his thighs. The dark blue suit he’s wearing stretches across his muscles. Dark hair peppers the sharp line of his jaw, and his bottom lip is parted slightly to allow tiny breaths to pass through. His brown hair is a disheveled mess, with pieces clumped together, proving it must have been styled with some product before.

His eyes are closed as if he’s in a deep sleep.

“I know, I know,” he mumbles. “The grass needs to be cut, but I’d rather you didn’t walk in it.”

Half of his face is shielded from view, and he doesn’t move from his spot. If I didn’t already recognize his voice, I’d wonder if it came from someone else other than him.

I rub my toe across the long blades of green grass. “Your garden on the side of the house is more of an eyesore than the length of the grass. Don’t you think you should be more concerned with getting that cleaned up?”

He finally moves. Slowly.

One eye pops open, followed by the other. Shifting in his chair, it rocks as he repositions himself. Relaxing against the back, he peeks up at me.

His eyes are familiar. The same blue-gray eyes I used to dream about. He’s the same man I remember, but he’s different.

He’s a far cry from the Micah I saw that day at the pool.

Years later, I remember laying in my bed at night, reading the headlines sprawled across social media.

MICAH HARDING, YOUNGEST SON OF BILLIONAIRE JAMES HARDING, SENTENCED TO TWO YEARS IN PRISON AFTER ARREST FOR DRUG POSSESSION AND DRUG TRAFFICKING.

“Addy.” He sighs, pulling himself up by resting his elbows on the arms of the chair with a groan. “I didn’t realize it was you.”

“How would you?” I ask, shrugging, playing off the use of my childhood nickname. “Seems I caught you at a bad time. Do you normally sleep on your front porch?”

The corner of his mouth curves into a half grin. Three lines dip between his lip and his cheek. “No, this would be a first.” He rests his head back against the wood and peers up at me with a narrowed gaze. “Just a late night.”

“Oh.” I nod, tucking my lip under my teeth, unsure what to say. The last time I spoke to Micah Harding, I was a brokenhearted, eleven-year-old girl, who was embarrassed and ashamed that Micah felt the need to save me when I didn’t need saving.

---