Page 31 of How to Kiss a Hawthorne Brother
One of the things that makes me good at my job is my intuition. There are always the obvious stories. The ones that any journalist can spot the minute they land in a new location. But settling for the obvious story means writing a predictable piece—a take that’s just like any other journalist’s take. I’ve got a knack for sniffing out the stories that aren’t obvious. Like the couple in Italy who made wine for no other reason than because they loved to make it.
Why does that matter now?
Because my intuition is telling me there’s an untold story right here in Silver Creek.
And I’m pretty sure I’m the main character.
Chapter Nine
Brody
A hot shower afterseven days without one is a bliss not enough poets have used as inspiration. It is the only thing I’m thinking about when I pile my gear on my porch and push through my front door. I only pause long enough to pull my dirty laundry out of my bag, because it smells even worse than I do.
The house is a little musty—not surprising since it’s been closed up for two weeks—so after starting a load of laundry, I quickly open some windows on either side of the house, hoping a cross breeze will pull in some fresh air.
I peel off my clothes while I wait for the shower to warm up. I smell so bad. Unbelievably bad.
Tyler stopped for us in Newfound Gap after picking up half a dozen pygmies from a breeder up in Virginia. With the way his face turned green when he gave Perry a hug, I nearly offered to ride in the trailer with the goats.
I let out a long sigh when I finally step into the shower.
The hike was good.Mostlygood. Let’s say it was long stretches of good punctuated by short stretches of Perry trying to get me to talk about Kate.
I don’t want to talk about Kate.
That doesn’t mean I’m not thinking about her.
I just don’t know what Perry wants me to admit.
Was I excited to see her? Absolutely.
Am I glad she’s home for the summer? Sure.
Did seeing her wake up all the feelings I’ve managed to suppress over the years? Maybe?
I felt something when I saw her standing at the top of Siler Bald, and I felt a whole lotta things sitting across from her eating churros. But in the days since then, I’ve worked hard to tap into the same logic that has kept me from obsessing over her Instagram feed or framing a hard copy of every article she’s ever published. (It hasn’t stopped me fromcollectingsaid hard copies, but we don’t need to talk about that.)
I’ve been checking my feelings for Kate for years, keeping them so far in the periphery of my life they haven’t interfered with me functioning like a normal adult. I’ve had a lot of practice, so there’s no reason why I can’t keep it up.
Granted, keeping my feelings in the periphery is going to be more difficult when she is real and in person, living three houses down the street. But there’s nothing I can do about that but cross my fingers and soldier on.
After scrubbing myself near down to the bone, I turn to grab my razor only to realize it’s still in my backpack. On the porch.Outside.
I groan in frustration. I don’t have to shave.
I scratch my chin.
But I really want to. I could just wait and do it after, but I am a man who appreciates routine, and my routine has always been to shaveinthe shower.
I rinse the soap from my body then hop out and grab a towel to wrap around my waist. I don’t even take time to cut the water or dry off. I’m only going to be out for a matter of seconds. Iopen the front door and push through the storm door, leaving it propped open with my foot while I lean forward to dig through my bag. I’ve got my razor in my hand when the cross breeze, strengthened by the open storm door, slams the wooden front door shut.
I freeze, knowing before I even check the handle that my front door is locked. The lock has been broken for weeks. If you’ve got your key in the actual door, you can unlock it, but as soon as you take out your key, the internal mechanism falls right back into alockedposition.
I’d have fixed it by now, but most of the time, I park in the garage and go into the house that way. It usually doesn’t matter if the front door stays locked.
I hitch my towel a little tighter around my waist, razor in hand, and try the knob anyway, leaning my forehead against the wood when I confirm that yes, yes, I am locked out of my own house.
In nothing but a towel.
