Page 1 of Always You

Chapter One

JAZZ

Standing across the street,I held the coffee cup close, its warmth providing a brief reprieve from the biting Chicago wind. The old building in Humboldt Park loomed ahead—a weary, weathered structure. Its brickwork was faded and chipped, with windows gleaming on the first floor, but above that, grimy and dark, the windowsills and surrounds needed repairs everywhere. Around the house, the neighborhood stretched out in a patchwork of neglect and survival. Graffiti-covered walls displayed various tags, while trash blew and collected on the snowy sidewalks.

Someone bumped into me, jolting me from my reverie. “Sorry,” I muttered, but the girl glanced back, her nose wrinkling in disdain, before she hurried away, disappearing into the flurry of thickening snow that swirled around streetlamps and piled up in dirty mounds. She might’ve been reacting to the way I looked—homeless, piles of rags, unwanted, and scary. Or maybe the way I smelled—given I hadn’t washed in days—not since leaving the hospital where the cops had dropped me off. My appearance must have been unsettling—hands cracked from the cold, hair unkempt, clothes a mismatched ensemble from some thrift shopclinging to my skinny body, a backpack with all I owned slung over my shoulder. She and other people—the ordinary people of this world—were why I didn’t stay inside the café. I knew no one would want to sit next to me, so I used loose change, ignored the comments, and hurried outside to take my position as a ghost, haunting the fringes of a world that had moved on without me.

Cars inched along the road, their tires crunching over the fresh layer of snow, and I watched them and their drivers, so worried they’d slip and knock their vehicles as if a few scratches mattered. What were they all doing out here, anyway? Didn’ttheyall have homes to go to, with people who cared about them?

I sipped the dark coffee, its bitterness awful compared to the sugar-laden or salty drinks I’d grown used to in the desert. That arid, endless expanse of sand and heat felt a world away. Here, the air was heavy with the smell of cold—that crisp, almost metallic scent that comes with snow. It mingled with distant whiffs of exhaust fumes and an urban winter's faint, underlying decay.

The desert was silent and had vast open spaces until it was torn apart by explosions and drenched in screams, but here, the city was a constant hum of life, even in its most rundown corners. The sound of distant traffic, the muffled conversations of passersby, the occasional siren in the distance—it was all so alien and tight and close—too much.

I took another sip—my hand shaking, the coffee scalding my tongue—and stared at the building that was supposed to be my refuge. Fear gripped me—not just of the four walls waiting to enclose me, but of what lay beyond them.

I wanted to return to the heat, friends, and having a reason and purpose every day. So, I should head south to Texas, the tip of Florida, the islands, or the ocean. It may not be the desert, but the heat in my bones would be enough to thaw me out, right?

But then, I wouldn’t be near Harper, and whatever my ex-wife, Ava, thought of me now, I deserved to be near my daughter. If only to check in on her from a distance.

She was in Chicago, living her normal teenage life.

I was in Chicago, trying to stay alive any way I knew how.

And maybe one day, I’d talk to her.

One day, when my head wasn’t so messed up and I didn’t smell like five-day-old garbage.

I drew in a lungful of icy air and stepped off the curb, intent on closing the distance between me and the building as the world seemed to slow down. A silver Toyota lost its battle with the slick, snow-covered street, fishtailing wildly. It skidded past me, missing me by mere inches. My heart didn’t race. No adrenaline-fueled shock coursed through me. Instead, there was an eerie calm, a detachment, and I heard music blaring although the car windows were closed. The driver, face twisted in frustration, shot me an angry gesture before steering the car back on track and disappearing around the next corner.

I stood on the road, the cold seeping through my worn shoes, watching the taillights fade into the distance. The lack of fear, the absence of reaction, was unsettling. Once, a moment like that would have sparked a surge of adrenaline, a rush of instincts perfected in far more dangerous situations. But now, there was nothing—just a hollow emptiness, a numbness that had become a constant companion since returning stateside.

“Hey, you’re in the middle of the road, man. You okay?” someone asked, snapping me out of the fugue state I had going on.

I waved a hand as if I were telling him it was okay, then, with one glance left and right, I crossed to the sidewalk and ended up outside the door ofGuardian Hall, Private Residence. There was a discreet plate with a button to push, and I stared at it.

Guardian Hall?

I needed to press the buzzer.

I reached for it.

But I didn’t press it.

I couldn’t.

I stared some more, my feet unmoving, my backpack digging into my shoulders, the snow swirling harder around me.

Then, the door opened.

I couldn’t see into the shadows, and until the person stepped into the light, I wasn’t sure it would be him, but I recognized those dark eyes, that ruffled dark hair, and how he dressed was a throwback to twenty years ago. He looked older, wiser, maybe, but, like me he was only a few weeks from his thirty-eighth birthday, so he would never again be the boy I remembered. He was silent and watchful in the way he stared at me.

“Do you want to come in?” he said with a kind, understanding smile.

He didn’t sneer, wrinkle his nose, or judge me; instead, he invited me inside.

“Alex,” I murmured.

He grinned. “That’s me, for my sins.” Then, he held out a hand. “Alex Richardson, manager of Guardian Hall.”

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