AS A FIRST STOP, I RETREAT to my dorm. My actual home sits ten minutes down the road, but I need a space completely my own after the past year. Dad understood this and never fought me on the dorms. My roommate, Jason from Biloxi, spends most of his time at his girlfriend’s apartment. Older woman, sophomore. Haha. His joke, which pretty much sums up the extent of our relationship.

Jason is away. Thank the gods. Somehow, I manage to chase away the absolute batshit craziness of the day long enough to finish my creative writing edits. Not the best, but they’ll have to do. Prof ain’t giving out grief points.

Temporary distraction over with, I can’t help but play today’s events on repeat.

Surprisingly, the whole of it turns out to be better than I thought. Sam checks in a couple of times to make sure I’m doing okay. More than anyone, he kept me from doing anything drastic last year. And, he continues to make sure I live life instead of just float around in it. Mrs. P, mine and Graham’s high school counselor, calls. She makes me snot up like a kindergartner when she does, but it’s a good call. Then, there’s Wes Ansley.

Beyond Dad’s ranting and raving, I never think much about their family. Never thought I would actually meet any of them. Never actually knew an Ansley my age exists. Now, I’ve done this awkward flirty thing with Wes before realizing who he is. ‘Course, I could tell as soon as he read my profile, he hadn’t known me either.

For the most part, I couldn’t care less. Who our great, great whatever-the-hells are shouldn’t matter anymore. Not like anyone with more brain cells than a koala lives by nineteenth century rules anyway. Yes, I’m awwing over the guy, but it can’t be helped. No one’s ever done something real-life romantic for me before, and buying Graythistle for me is low-key, real-life romantic as hell.

Much as I know how much it might complicate my life, I really want to message him. I resist the urge and go for the next best thing—Insta stalking. He wouldn’t have the link as part of his open ClassX profile if he didn’t want me to see. Right?

He’s active and popular. Not influencer level or anything, but he’s got a respectable following. His latest post sets off a Monarch migration in my stomach. The shot zooms in on the Beans and Books’ mug, my hands wrapping around it. An unrecognizable me smiling blurs into the background. I don’t know when he snapped it, but it’s great. The caption is just a wide-open smiley face with a question mark.

Well damn, tell me how you really feel.

I scroll through his pics of campus, shots of him with the cross team. I slow down on the photos of the old Ansley place, his family’s new home. Much as Dad harped about the spot, I’ve never seen it before. It really is a beautiful house. Don’t know why Dad wants it so bad though. A few more flicks transport me to his life in Austin. Waving goodbye at the city limit sign, packing what I assume to be his old room, a summer run along a very cool trail, his life reverses in front of me. And then I stop, the butterflies in my chest going cold.

From early May, a perspective shot. Wes’s hand extends in the foreground, clasping another. A lean, wolfish girl with dark eyes and jet black hair smiles into the lens. The caption bears a lightning bolt and reads: After all this time… A hesitant check of the grid view reveals dozens more shots of @do_Tal.

I tap her name, but do_Tal’s profile is locked up like a bank vault. And, no, I would not like to follow or send a request. I go back to the shot from May and read the comments. All conciliations, sad faces, and ‘it’ll get better’ messages. His months-old breakup shouldn’t make me happy, but the butterflies do stretch their wings again.

While I’m busy plucking imaginary petals off their imaginary stem—to text, not to text—Gran calls and wants me to come for dinner at the house. We haven’t seen each other today, and we should. I stow Wes Ansley’s info for later and tell her I’m on my way.

∞ ∞ ∞

The heavy, earthy smell of fried catfish smacks me as soon as I open the front door, almost makes me drool. Almost. It’s a scent never smelt in the house anymore—Graham’s favorite meal. My stomach knots as much as my mouth waters, and I’m unsure whether hunger or nausea will win.

Between finishing my edits, whatever adhoc meditation I did in the dorm, and ogling Wes, I’d managed to tuck the worst memories of today out of sight. Now, they flood back with a vengeance on whiffs of hot grease and the ghost of Graham’s laugh in my head.

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I glance down the hall as I pass through the living room. Dad’s truck is in the driveway, and the door to his bedroom remains closed. Not a good sign for him to be cooped up in there when he’s at home, especially right now.

Not that Dad would forbid his mother from cooking anything or that she’d listen if he tried. They just seem to have some unspoken agreement on the point. Seemed to have, I guess.

That Gran cooked this meal, tonight, gives away her state of mind more than anything. Maybe, she’s saying something to all of us in a way words never could. I’m sure she visited Graham’s graveside at some point today, but cooking is her general cure-all. This may be one more step of closure for her, and she wants to share with us.

Hard for me to imagine closing anything with vivid snapshots of Graham’s every birthday now on a scroll through my mind. Him stuffing down two, three platefuls of Gran’s fish. Dares between us to out-eat the other. Graham crushing up leftover hushpuppies in milk the morning after a fry—a habit he got from Dad—like some Depression-era farmer.

I swallow the lump in my throat. Yeah, I’m really not sure this is a good idea, but I have to give it a try. I hope Dad will.

“Smells awesome, Gran.” The three words and half-smile are the best I can manage, as I climb the mountainous three stairs from the living room into the dining room.

She rounds out of the kitchen with a steaming bowl of corn. “Figured now was good a time as any.” The corn touches down gently beside the towel-covered plates of fish and hushpuppies.

As good a time as any. Huh? Would Graham feel the same way? He never said anything about the family secret. I’m too afraid to ask what he knew. If he knew, I guess I know why he didn’t tell me. Did he feel the same way Dad did? Would he be as fixated on the Ansleys? Could he help me understand all of this shit better? I’ll never know.

I nod and pull out my seat. She looks at me, and yeah, she’s done some crying today, too. Her mouth opens to say something just as a door closes in the back of the house.

We turn to face the familiar sound of Dad’s luggage clacking over the joints in our tile. He parks the bag halfway across to the front door and continues on to meet us.

His eyes go stony as he steps into the dining room.

“Franklin called from Hattiesburg. Best if I head down tonight instead of the morning.” His voice sounds hoarse, wrung out.

“Clay—” Gran starts. Dad cuts her off with a wave.

“I would’ve already been gone, but I got delayed at the main office.” The words tumble out of him. “I’ll be back Monday. Good to see you, son.” He gives my hair a rustle and starts to leave, sparing another glance at the spread in front of us. “Smells great, Mom. He would’ve—” Dad hiccups and whirls quickly, crosses to the bag, and leaves the house before Gran or I can respond.

The first ten minutes of the meal pass in silence. Gran is either fuming or devastated or both. She finally breaks the spell with a story about the first time Graham tried her fish when he was four. Every muscle in my body twitches, wanting to follow Dad’s trail from the room.

I keep my seat. I won’t shutout Gran like Dad. Slowly, my nibbles turn into bigger bites. She coaxes one or two of my own fondest stories of Graham out of me. Two hours later, we’ve cleaned up and gone back to our own business. Somehow, the meal, the stories, morph Graham’s lingering ghost into a calming spirit for at least enough time to heal a little more. I’m far from all better, but Gran’s version of therapy helps.

∞ ∞ ∞

Thursday and Friday pass in a blur. The Freemont Falcons’, my old high school, football team plays at home Friday night. Meaning, some of us will be there to cheer on the most celebrated athletes at the school. No sarcasm. They actually won state two years ago and might pull it off again this year.

I enjoy football, playing it and watching it, but cross country makes me feel more alive. I’m also a lot better at cross than crashing into someone else over and over again.

The Falcons squeak out a three-point win over DeSoto Central. I avoid a dozen invitations to Megan Sizemore’s house for an afterparty. Sam plans to hit the party up before the night’s over. But, he knows what I’ve got going tomorrow and doesn’t press me.

Back at the dorms, my gear is already prepped. The morning just needs a wake-up shower. Then, I’m off to the woods.

Sam heads to the party afterward. Five a.m. on a Saturday will come too soon for me. I’m taking my camera out at the butt-crack of dawn. In years past, I’d be taking a bow. I can’t anymore. Not after Graham and not after what I know about our family.

If things were normal between Dad and me or Graham were still here, I’d wait for their cue to head for the woods. But I know that cue won’t be coming. Not only is Dad a couple hundred miles away; Graham will never be asking again. I need this to show myself that the woods, nature can still be my thing. Everything might be different with Graham gone, but not everything has to change. Maybe, Dad can see something different in it, too—one day.

Lying in bed trying to get to sleep, I can’t help thinking about Wes Ansley. I have no idea why. We talked for like thirty minutes and nothing since. Maybe once he saw who I was, he did the same math as me and said to hell with it. I don’t have any reason to be mad at him. Either of us have a whole basket of reasons not to reach out. Though I’m not sure what they all might be. For as much as Dad and Gran told me, the history has a lot of holes.

My thoughts aren’t peaceful ones to sleep on, but somewhere in the middle of the churning waters of Wes Ansley I drift off.