Page 4 of The Space Between
They’re always there.
Phantoms that live in my soul. Unrelenting.
My failure playing over and over and over within my head.
Until I wake up gasping.
Until I dive in again.
Morning hits hard,like it always does. I’m up before dawn, boots on, shirt off, coffee black. I keep a tight schedule. I don’t like surprises… except today, there’s one standing in my driveway.
She’s got on a grey tank top and cutoff shorts. Cheap sunglasses are pushed on top of her head. Her long, dark hair is pulled into a loose braid and is falling over her shoulder. She’sholding a muffin in one hand and a water bottle in the other. Both are shaking. She’s trespassing on sacred ground.
Stepping out onto the porch, I cross my arms. “Can I help you?” My voice is brusque.
She jumps, almost dropping the muffin. “Hi! I—uh. I wasn’t trying to be weird. I just thought… I brought you something. To say thanks.”
“Thanks for what?” My brow rises.
She shrugs, cheeks turning pink. “For not calling the cops on me when I showed up last night.” She fidgets, still holding the muffin and the water.
“I’m assuming you now live there,” I deadpan. “Not much to call in.”
She laughs nervously, then holds the muffin out like a peace offering. “Still. Thanks. I wasn’t spying… Last night, I mean.” I just stare at her. “It’s banana nut… from a mix. I know not everyone likes bananas… or nuts. But it’s good. I swear I didn’t poison it.” She looks at me, expectantly.
I don’t take the muffin as I continue to look at her.
She shifts her weight from foot to foot. Her smile falters just a little, and a pang hits me in the gut. “Okay, well. I tried. Have a good day. Sorry to bother you.”
She turns to leave.
“Wait.” It comes out before I even realize I was going to say anything.
She stops, glancing over her shoulder at me. Her brow arches.
Sighing, I step down the porch and take the muffin from her. It’s warm. Wrapped in a paper napkin with a tiny smiley face drawn on it.
Who the hell still does that?
“Thank you… for the muffin. I’m Gruene,” I say after a beat, because the silence is uncomfortable.
“Blakelyn. Blakelyn… Wa—Vaughn. She smiles. “It’s nice to meet you, Gruene. I’ll uh… I’ll be going back to my cabin now.”
I nod once and retreat back to my porch, the muffin in my hand like some kind of cursed relic. She heads toward the riverbank, not her cabin, barefoot and easy, like she’s lived here forever. Like she belongs.
I watch her walk. The braid bounces against her back. Her hand trails over the wildflowers by the path. I know I should look away, but I don’t.
She doesn’t look afraid.
I’d bet money she is.
Just like me.
By noon,the heat settles in like a second skin. My tubing shop—Cavanaugh River Outfitters—is open for business, and the usual crowd’s already gathering. Tourists with sunburned shoulders. College kids with coolers full of cheap beer. Locals who want to float and forget.
I run the register, load the buses, and check the life jackets.
I do the work. But I don’t smile. I don’t chat.
