He fell in love with her the very first day he saw her, but loving her is like trying to hold starlight in his hands. She loves him, leaves him, loves him again. And after she's gone for good, he might as well be gone, too.
All that remains of him...
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Mist curls through the pines this morning, wrapping itself around the lowest branches and the leaves and twigs scattered across the forest floor. The last of the snow will melt soon, and the fiddleheads will start their slow unfurling into ferns. The birds will come back.
It's funny how much of your humanity comes down to such small things: going outside when you want to, wearing your own clothes, watching the forest wake. I've been out of jail now for five years and I'm still grateful for every single morning. In spite of everything.
Still, my mood shadows when I get closer to my mom's coffee shop. My boots crunch across the icy gravel lot, the only sound around for miles. I notice a car I've never seen before and wonder who will be there today to stare at me and whisper. My mom tells me all the time not to let them rattle me, but it's not that I feel rattled—it's that each little glance or whispered piece of gossip is a sharp, painful reminder of everything I've lost.
I steel myself and push open the door. The hum of happy voices falls silent. The usual townies turn eagerly to stare at me. But I hardly register their presence, because I only have eyes for the girl standing in front of my mom's counter. She's a stranger, and she is beautiful—long black hair, golden-brown skin, dark eyes. She glances up at me. And in her eyes is that same flicker of fear as always. I don't know why it hurts when I see it. Everybody is afraid of me—why shouldn't she be?
The only difference is that I don't know this girl. At first, it leaves a bad taste in my mouth, reminding me of the handful of journalists who came to stay here after I got out of jail. They all wanted the story of the murderer who went free.
But as I walk up to the counter, trying to ignore her, I can't help noticing the way fear in her eyes ebbs away. As if she was afraid I'd be someone else, and when it's just me, she's relieved. I've never seen that before. It's sort of... hypnotic.
"Morning, sweetie," my mother says cheerfully from behind the counter. "Owen, this is Miranda Lewis. She's new in town. Isn't that nice?"
I hesitate by the pastry case, drumming my fingers on the glass. She can't be a journalist, can she? The story is so old now. And she doesn't look on point and curious. She looks like a runaway: her long hair falls in tangled waves around her elegant neck and down along the curves of her breasts. Her clothes are nice—high-heeled boots and a snug leather jacket—but it's like she slept in them.
"By yourself this morning?" my mother asks me. She's glad about that, of course.
"Jenny has to work," I say, tearing myself away from the girl. Jenny teaches piano, so her hours are odd. So are mine. It seemed like a good fit, once.
"Owen, bless his heart, helps me with my dogs on his days off," Claire tells the girl. "I don't know what I'd do without him. I have six Great Danes, you know."
