Gone Away Home (Bringing Home Trouble)

CHAPTER 2

ZAYLA

My vision starts to blur a little as I stare at the screen in front of me. I know I shouldn’t push myself so much, but it’s so easy to do. It certainly helps that the book I’m editing is amazing, and I’ve been hooked from the moment I read the blurb, not to mention the first page.

How am I supposed to walk away for something as trivial as stretching or food? It’s just not going to happen. I need to know if the man in the shadows stalking the heroine is the person I think it is. Or is it someone we haven’t even met? I can see a twist coming up, but I have no idea what it is.

And that’s why I love what I do.

Not only am I sucker for romance, which is the only genre I edit, but I love to get lost in the worlds and lives created in the imagination of a talented author. The world can be rough, and we all need to find a way to escape to somewhere the bad can be balanced by the good.

Not everyone gets that balance in their real lives.

When I reach the end of a story, my reality sets back in. Sure, I don’t have it as bad as a lot of people, but that doesn’t matter when the sadness and the loneliness is almost too much to face. Everyone struggles, everyone has things they wish they could change in their lives, everyone is looking for more, for a purpose. Everyone needs someone at their side to help shore them up for the curve balls and the parts of the path which are hard to traverse.

I love my family and they’re as supportive as I allow them to be. I even have some people I consider my friends.

But there’s a gaping hole in my soul that I yearn to have filled. I feel incomplete. It’s a feeling which is bleeding into all aspects of my life now, no matter how good I’ve gotten at pretending like I’m whole, happy, and fulfilled.

It’s all a lie.

When I get to the end of the chapter, I force myself to minimize the document and lean back in my ergonomically rated chair to stretch my back. My eyes snag on the file icon for the book I’ve been trying to write.

I figured since I love the genre so much and read a lot of romance, even when I’m not working, I could write a novel. It hasn’t gone well. When I started, I was all in and the words were flowing; it felt like I was on the top of the world.

Then I got to the part where the hero and the heroine come together for the first time. All the tension and the reasons why they shouldn’t have been together fall away. The kiss they share is hot and heavy, but then, just as his hands reached for her to take it further…the words dried up.

There is nothing more frustrating than feeling like everything I want to say, all the beauty of love that I want to express, is right there but unreachable.

It would help if I knew what the kind of passion I want my readers to be able to almost taste actually feels like. But I don’t.

It’s a huge problem, one I have no idea how to fix. It’s not like I can put an ad in the Jasper Ridge Gazette for a soul mate who is going to stand by my side and never let me down. If I thought I could do it and be successful, I would have done it a long time ago.

That damn file has been mocking me for far too long. I’ll pull it up on my computer and try to work on it here and there, but I think my block has only gotten worse.

You know what could help and give you the inspiration you need.

I shove the thought right off a mental cliff to its death. Because it’s safer than facing the truth of it.

I do know what could help me with my writer’s block when it comes to my book. But I can’t conjure up a mental image of the one person who I’ve felt a true, deep, and right connection with. He’s off limits and when I think about him, pain is inevitable.

For all I know Dustin is on leave right now and shacked up with some girlfriend. I don’t think he’s married, but only because our parents would have mentioned it. Well, assuming he would tell them.

Dustin graduated from high school a year ahead of me, and then disappeared. He didn’t leave many traces of himself behind in Jasper Ridge and I’ve felt the loss of him for the last 14 years.

At first, honestly, I was worried something had happened to him. My imagination was running wild and all I could picture was him somewhere dead in a ditch. But when Thad, his dad, and my stepfather, finally got ahold of him almost a week after he left, he found out Dustin had enlisted.

Enlisted.

He didn’t even say goodbye to me.

I suppose he didn’t owe it to me to say goodbye. It’s not like we were close, but I thought—no, it doesn’t matter what I thought.

With a shake of my head I stand up to head to the kitchen in my little cottage style house. I’m in desperate need of something to eat, but right now the only thing that sounds even remotely appealing is the pint of cookie dough ice cream in the freezer. Over the years I’ve learned it’s one of the few things that help with the feelings of desolation and loss which always creep in when I think about Dustin.

I’ve gotten much better when it comes to thinking about him over the years. It helped when I stopped writing him letters after I graduated college. Up until then I thought, maybe, we could have some sort of relationship. Be family.

We still had a connection, even though the last thing I wanted was for Dustin to think of me as his sister. I have never considered him to be my brother.

Stepbrother.

Thinking back to the day at Millie’s Diner when our parents dropped bomb after bomb on us is difficult. I had no idea Mom was dating anyone, let alone seeing Dustin’s dad. From the look of shock on Dustin’s face, which was so handsome even then, he had no idea either. We were blindsided.

I felt something die that day. It became shriveled up and black. I had no idea what it was, but I hoped it was the crush I had on Dustin from the moment I saw him on the first day of school. Everything in me leaned toward him, but he barely looked my way.

Now, I know it wasn’t my crush which took a header the day our parents told us they were together and getting married. It was my heart.

The rest of high school was a blur of awkward moments while I tried to play the role of the perfect daughter and the loyal sister. Stepsister. It was exhausting.

When Dustin left, things felt lighter in terms of the house and the tension there, but something was missing in my life. I wasn’t ready, or able, to identify what it was. It’s one of the reasons I wrote to Dustin.

I wanted him to have a little bit of home, and maybe some hope, while he was off and doing something which wasn’t easy to do and required sacrifice. I knew the choice he made in his life would challenge him and I was sure he would excel, but the thought of him not feeling supported hurt me. I needed him to feel a connection to where he came from.

Nothing stopped me from missing him. The loneliness was difficult to breathe through and I didn’t have anyone I could talk to about it.

That’s why, when I graduated with only Mom and Thad cheering for me in the stands—not Dustin, because he never came back to Jasper Ridge again—I was looking forward to going off to college. It felt like it could be a fresh start and I’d be able to find myself while filling the void I had been steadily ignoring for years.

I wrote to Dustin all throughout college because I was still clinging to the idea of him needing family. Right after I graduated and was trying to figure out what to do next, I realized I missed Jasper Ridge. It wasn’t a difficult decision to head home and figure out my next steps from there.

Coming to that conclusion made something very clear—Dustin was gone, and he wasn’t coming back. He didn’t have the same need to find a home. He was thriving in his life, one which had nothing to do with me or our small hometown.

With a long, hard look at myself, I faced some truths. One of them was the fact that I was in love with Dustin and had been since my first day of high school. I was angry, so fucking angry. At myself for trying to bury the feelings instead of moving past them. At Dustin for leaving and never looking back. At our parents for falling in love.

The last one made me feel like a shitty person because Thad loves my mom the way she deserves to be loved. It’s the whole reason I buried my feelings for Dustin and exhausted myself trying to create something normal out of my own heartbreak, blind to it as I was.

I sent him one last letter and I said goodbye. I had to. For myself.

Letting go? Well, it still hasn’t happened. I’ve tried. Moving on isn’t easy when your soul feels like an anchor instead of wings.

My phone ringing has me practically jumping out of my skin. Was I just staring into space, something I do whenever I think about Dustin for too long? Maybe, but I’ll never admit it out loud.

I’ve never admitted anything when it comes to Dustin out loud. That would make it all too real and the feelings I have for him shouldn’t be real. They can’t be real.

If only that made them go away.

A picture of Mom and me flashes on the screen, and I force a smile on my face to prevent her from asking if anything is wrong as I answer cheerfully, “Hi, Mom. What’s up?”

There’s a cheeky quality to her voice, “What do you mean ‘what’s up’? Can’t I just call my favorite daughter?”

I roll my eyes and huff out a small laugh with her antics. This. This is why I have to figure out a way to let go of my feelings for Dustin. Mom is happy. She’s blissful even. It’s all because of Thad.

I remember the shell of a person Mom was before Thad came into her life. When I was able to get past the shock of finding out they were together and getting married, I was able to look back on the six months of they had been dating and realized I should have known something was up.

But no. Instead, I was focused on myself and my first year of high school. Sure, navigating such a big change and trying to find my place, when I felt like I didn’t belong a lot of the time, wasn’t easy, but Mom was my person. She always had my back and was the only parent I had in my life.

My dad, the biological one, left the moment he found out Mom was pregnant with me. I’ve never heard a peep from him and I’m certainly not holding my breath for it to ever change. When I was younger, sure, I had a sliver of hope. Now, at 31, I’m no longer under those delusions.

It’s his loss. At least, that’s what Mom always told me when I was in my feelings about how easy it was for him to walk away from me and never look back.

Thad has been the only father I’ve ever known and he’s a damn good one. Mom and Thad are my biggest cheerleaders. Still, I’ve never been able to refer to Thad as my dad. It’s like the word won’t form on my lips. I’m pretty sure it hurts him, but he’s never pushed, and he’s never made me feel bad about it.

He’s a good man and he’s built a life with Mom. Part of me is jealous of them. I’m not sure I’ll ever find what they have. Not now.

You could if you didn’t care about what other people think.

I swallow hard with the thought because it’s dangerous. Not only could it destroy people I love, but it would also require Dustin to come home.

It hasn’t happened in 14 years; I don’t think it’s going to happen now.

“I’m your only daughter,” I tease my mom.

Her laughter is a reminder of why my shriveled up little heart isn’t important, at least not right now. “Still my favorite,” she chirps.

“Yeah, yeah,” I murmur. “So, really, what’s up?”

“Fine,” she holds the word out, amusement in her voice. She can’t get one over on me, she called me for a reason. “I was calling to make sure you’ll be here for Thanksgiving?”

I barely contain the sigh that wants to escape. Where the hell else would I be? She’s my only family and I’m not in a relationship. Nope, the last one I tried was years ago and it crashed and burned in glorious Hindenburg fashion.

It’s not worth trying at this point.

“Of course,” I force myself to keep my voice level and neutral. “You know I can’t miss your sweet potato casserole. I wait all year for it, and you only make it for Thanksgiving.”

“It wouldn’t be as special if I made it all the time,” she insists.

I chuckle; it’s the same argument she’s made for years. And she sticks to her guns by never making it any other day of the year. Not even Christmas when I’ve begged for it.

Could I make it on my own? I wish. I’ve tried over the years and there is something, a special ingredient that she’s holding close to her vest, that I’m missing. Every time I’ve tried on my own, it’s not the same and pales in comparison.

Hopefully, one day she’ll let me in on the secret, but it probably won’t be this year.

The woman makes sure to prep it the day before Thanksgiving because I try and pop over when she’s cooking it and see what the fuss is about for myself. She got wise to my attempt to crack the code a long time ago.

“I’m pretty sure it would be just as special on a random Tuesday, but I know you won’t give in, Mom,” I tease her.

“Nope,” she pops the p, the laughter clear in her voice. When she turns serious suddenly, I almost get whiplash, “Are you sure you won’t bring someone special this year for dinner?”

I try not to bristle at her question, but it’s not easy to hold myself in check. “That would require someone special in my life first,” I bite out the words and then immediately regret them. “I’m fine, Mom,” I try again, softer this time. “I’m happy.”

The words taste like a lie on my tongue, but they’re out there now. Just floating. With all their bullshit.

We both know it, but, thankfully, Mom doesn’t call me out. Instead, she changes the subject, and we chat for a few minutes until I’m able to get off the phone just as my stomach growls. Again.

I pull out some bread and a specialty peanut butter that is like eating dessert, because I deserve a damn treat, and get everything situated on my kitchen counter. Just as I’m about to start assembling my sandwich, there’s a knock on my door.

My head falls back on my shoulders, and I let a huff of annoyance. I mutter to myself, “Who the fuck could it be? Don’t they know I’m about to eat something?”

Abandoning my sandwich fixings, I head toward the front door and swing it open without bothering to ask who it is or look out the sidelight windows on either side of the door. When I see the man on my doorstep, just standing there like everything is right as rain, I freeze.

After closing my eyes, I open them slowly. Honestly, I fully expect my hunger to have caused me to hallucinate. There’s no way I’m really seeing what I’m seeing.

There’s no fucking way.

When I peel my eyelids open again, the same sight greets me. Just right there.

On my porch. At my house. In Jasper Ridge.

His eyes, the same soft mossy green eyes I haven’t seen in 14 years, take me in. The smile that spreads across his face is slow and filled with something I’m not nearly ready to examine.

My voice breaks, “Dustin?”

His voice is deeper than I remember, “Hey, Zayla.”