Page 83 of Lotus

There’s a hurricane in her eyes, and it’s either going to swallow me whole or leave me crippled, on my knees, lost and alone amongst the wreckage.

T W E N T Y

PART OF ME EXPECTS—HOPES, EVEN—TO DISCOVERSYDNEYon the other side of my front door when incessant knocking rumbles through the house a few days later.

I’m not entirely delighted to find Lorna Gibson, instead.

“Good day, Oliver,” she greets, holding out a few envelopes and advertisements she must have collected from the mailbox. “I brought you your mail. I wanted to thank you for shoveling my driveway yesterday—that was very kind of you. I know Charlene is looking down, beaming with pride at what a wonderful young man you’ve turned out to be.”

I reach for the mail in a robotic fashion, mustering a smile. “I, uh, didn’t shovel your driveway, Mrs. Gibson. That was Sydney.”

Images of Sydney bundled up with wind-burned cheeks are still fresh in my mind as I caught her finishing up the good deed for the crotchety neighbor woman the prior afternoon. By the time I’d gathered my winter gear and zipped my jacket, she was already headed back inside.

“Come again?” Lorna wonders, her tone portraying her disbelief. “That can’t be right.”

“I assure you, it is. I would have assisted, but I didn’t notice until she was already done.”

Lorna’s wrinkles move and furrow as she processes this revelation. The old woman glances to her left, towards Sydney’s house, her darkly shaded eyebrows pinched in contemplation. “Well, I’ll be,” she says in a low breath, as if she can’t even fathom such a thing. The haze lifts from her tempered glass eyes and she returns her attention to me, a partially toothless smile growing. “Anyway, have a lovely day, Oliver. Tell your dreadful stepbrother to keep his noise down.”

“His music?” I blink.

“Noise.” She shuffles down the salted walkway, wobbly and unsteady. “Good day.”

I watch her leave before closing the door, the cold draft prickling my skin. Sifting through the letters as I pace back up the staircase, Gabe saunters out of the bathroom, towel-drying his mop of hair. Before I’m able to greet him, a return address stamp catches my eye.

It’s from the police department.

“Who was at the door?” Gabe wonders, sans shirt, his polyester shorts hanging low on his lean hips. “Sydney?”

“She would never knock,” I reply absently, my attention focused on tearing open the envelope. “Lorna fetched the mail for us.”

“Aw, shucks. That old bat has a beating heart in there, after all.” Gabe’s humorous grin fades when he notices my heavy distraction. “Anything interesting?”

Yes. Yes, indeed.

I can’t help the smile that spreads when I read the letter. “My comics. I’m able to go pick them up at the police station.”

“Shit. That’s excellent. They don’t need them for evidence anymore?”

A swift shake of my head. “They are closing the case,” I respond.

“Oh. Is that…good?” Gabe inquires with caution, flicking the damp towel over his left shoulder. “Doesn’t that mean you’ll probably never get any real answers?”

“I suppose it does.”

My tone is neutral like my thoughts on the matter. I was desperate for answers during those first few weeks, months even, but now I’m settled. I’m content. I’m finally accepting that what happened to me…happenedto me. It is no longer a part of my present—a present I am growing quite fond of, save for my romantic interest in a woman who desperately confuses me.

I see no point in revisiting the past. Answers won’t change anything. They will only hinder my healing.

It’s better this way.

Gabe chews his cheek as he studies me, fingers aimlessly fiddling with the end of the bath towel. “Well, I was going to head up to Lake Geneva after work and grab dinner with Pops, but I can reschedule if you want. I’ll take you to the station instead.”

The generous offer pulls my gaze up from the letter that I’ve reread twice now, touched. “That’s not necessary, as much as I appreciate the sentiment. Perhaps we can go tomorrow.”

“That works. Otherwise, I’m sure Sydney would take you.”

My skin heats, and my reaction must be noticeable as I shift from one foot to the other, stepping away to set the mail on the coffee table.

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