Page 11 of Everything We Left Behind

Good question. Hopefully there are beds.

It’s past ten. Too late to find a hotel in an area that typically has a 100 percent occupancy rate during the workweek. He leads his sons through the house, tossing the pizza box with their leftover dinner on the kitchen countertop.

Marc sniffs the air and scrunches his face. “It stinks in here.”

Yeah, it does. James noticed the stale, sour “old house” smell he once associated with his dying father as soon as they opened the front door. He also smelled a subtle, powdery aroma as though his mother’s perfume had gone bad. It reminded him too much of growing up here and why he spent so much time at Aimee’s house.

“The house has been closed up for a long time. It’ll go away when we open the windows,” he tells his son.

Marc wanders over to the great room’s French doors and presses his nose and hands to the glass. He peers into the darkness of the backyard. “Where’s the beach?”

“There isn’t one.” Julian flops onto a leather couch. That piece is too new to have belonged to his mother. Thomas must have brought it over from the Donatos’ warehouse. Hopefully he had beds delivered, too.

“There is a beach.” James cuts Julian a look and joins Marc at the door. “But it’s twenty minutes from here. Back there is a forest. I’ll show you in the morning. We can walk the trail. We might see a bobcat if we’re lucky.”

Marc’s fingers curl against the glass. He gnaws his lower lip. James takes it as a sign of interest.

“So, wheredowe sleep? The floor?” Julian slips on his Beats and cranks up the music on his iPhone.

James sighs. God, he hopes they don’t have to sleep on the floor. Thomas said he stocked the house with the basics. Towels, dishware, milk, a few dry goods. He hopes he remembered sheets and pillows. And beer.

His mouth salivates. He could really use a cold, dark brew after today. They’ve been awake for almost twenty-four hours. The boys caught a few hours of sleep during their layover in Mexico City, but James had been afraid if he closed his eyes, the boys wouldn’t be there when he woke. So, he stayed awake.

Selling their home and his gallery in Puerto Escondido had been an easy decision for him. He would have returned to California sooner if it hadn’t been for his sons. They didn’t want to leave. After he first told them, he only mentioned their “grand adventure” every so often, giving them a chance to get used to the idea. He also had them finish the school year. Better to wait for summer when they had time to get used to their new surroundings. Besides, he had to wait on the boys’ visas and his own identification paperwork.

Soon, Julian and Marcus took to the idea of a big move, until theFORSALEsign was posted in their front yard. That was when the idea became reality and James became the instant family “bad guy.”

And he’s tired of being assigned that role. All he wants is to get settled and get on with his life. Kids adjust. Eventually they’ll get used to the move, and to him. He hopes.

Marc yawns. James gives his shirtsleeve a gentle tug. “Come on, kiddo. Let’s find a bed for you.”

They find queen-size beds made up with sheets, blankets, and pillows in James’s and Thomas’s old rooms. Marc whines. He doesn’t want to sleep alone. After a bit of prodding from James, Julian reluctantly offers to share a bed with his little brother.

James retrieves the luggage from the car his eco-conscious brother bought him—a freaking Prius—and leads the boys down the hallway. “Which room?” He points to his old door, then Thomas’s.

“This one.” Julian walks into the room on their left. James’s old room. He’s surprised how good that makes him feel, and he doesn’t breathe a word about that to Julian. The kid will just change his mind.

James shows them the bathroom, then waits nearby as they ready for bed. Once they’re under the covers, James leans over as if to kiss Marc’s head. Marc’s fingers squeeze the sheet he’s pulled to his chin. James hesitates, hovering over his son. All of Julian’s talk about James not being their “real dad” has left Marc confused and withdrawn where James is concerned. The kid was more affectionate with his teachers and the neighbor’s dog. At least he hugged them. James can’t remember the last time someone has hugged him, let alone touched him, other than resting a hand on his shoulder, or poking an arm to get his attention.

James straightens and does his usual hair ruffling. Anything more than that and he chances Marc’s receding further than he already has.

Marc smiles and shimmies deeper under the covers. The air is cooler here compared to Puerto Escondido’s dry, salty nights.

Julian is sprawled on top of the covers on the other side of the bed, sporting a ratty T-shirt and gym shorts that reach his knees, still plugged into his music. James points to his own ears and motions for Julian to put away the headphones. “Sleep. Now.”

Julian exhales, cheeks puffing like a fish. Rolling to his side, he slips off the Beats and tosses them, along with his phone, onto the side table. He keeps his back to James, and within seconds, his breathing evens. He’s already fallen asleep.

“Good night,” James murmurs from the doorway. He flicks off the light and closes the door, leaving it cracked to allow in a ribbon of light from the bathroom down the hall.

A whispered “Good night” reaches him as he turns away. James stills, blinking away the burn. As Marc’s words sink in, James sends up a silent prayer.

He gives the door frame a couple of knocks and returns to the kitchen. When he puts the pizza in the fridge, he finds a six-pack of Newcastle on the top shelf.Thank God.Popping the top, he breathes in the ale’s roasted-nut aroma. Muscles bunched from traveling unwind. He tosses back half the beer before leaning against the countertop. He crosses his arms, letting the bottle dangle from his fingers, and inhales, long and deep. His eyes drift close.

He is finally home, but not really home.

This isn’t his home.

But he didn’t belong in Mexico either, so he left that life behind. Not just because California is familiar, but because Carlos had everything James wanted before the accident—an art gallery to display his work, a classroom to teach others, and a studio ideally situated to take advantage of a full day’s natural light. Then there was Carlos’s artwork, paintings well beyond James’s expertise.

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