ONE

Three miles into a six-mile morning run, Will Spellman realizes he’s done it again. After twenty-nine years, he should know how to recognize his masochism for what it is and tell it—politely—to fuck off. But somehow, it always manages to catch him by surprise. A long run on a school day is a risk on its own, given the early hour and the short time frame. A long run on a school day when he’s already past the point of exhaustion is, he sees now, base-level torture.

A normal human being would have recognized such torture and burrowed deeper into their blankets when they woke up aching, content to sleep until at least six a.m., when most other schoolteachers woke for their seven-fifty start. But Will had ignored the weight in his chest and the weariness in his legs and forced himself out of bed at four-thirty.

And it’s not until he turns onto Quellin’s Main Street that it dawns on him what a totally shit choice it was.

“You’re in it now, dumbass.” Wiping the sweat from his brow, he pauses on the street corner.

The dawn washes the town in a pink haze, pretty enough to breathe some life back into Will’s tired muscles. The monastic silence is part of the reason he enjoys morning runs. For the briefest of moments, Quellin, with its pastel storefronts and its ever-blooming dogwoods, seems to belong to him and him alone.

Most people in North Carolina call his childhood home a birthday cake town. Southern Living, Better Homes and Gardens, they all swear the air tastes sweeter here, like spun sugar. Like magic. And it’s all a bit too cotton candy for Will’s tastes, given his childhood memories, everything he knows about America’s Southern slice of Heaven. 

Still, in the first moments of a warm dawn, the town’s charm is undeniable. Ahead of him, fog veils the bridge arching over the train tracks. Fairy lights wink from the windows of the otherwise dark boutiques and restaurants resting on the other side of the “schism” as Alba calls it, only because the shopowners on the east side of the tracks never can get along with those on the right. Overhead, the rose-streaked sky promises another pleasant day.

Because that’s the thing about living in Quellin. Every day is perfect. The rain falls at night. The temperature is always exactly what it should be. In other parts of the state, dry, sweltering summers ruin crop yields and dreams of white Christmases remain dreams. Here, the corn grows tall and strong, and kids wake every December 25th to find a blanket of snow on the ground.

Sucking in another lungful of crisp September air, Will turns east toward home. When he reaches Alba’s Coffee House, nestled between the end of the sidewalk and the place where the railroad curves south, he peeks through the window. White light emanates from the cash register’s screen, and the Coca-Cola machine flickers and hums in front of the counter. Behind the pastry case, Alba’s silhouette bends low, He can just make out Alba’s silhouette as she bends lows, stuffing the pastry box full of fresh-baked conchas, orejas, and besos.

He taps on the glass. Her hand flies to her chest and she leaps a good two feet in the air, because unless they’re opening a coffee shop, no one should be awake this early in the goddamn morning. He flashes her a mischevious grin and mouths ’see you later,’ ignoring the scowl on her leathered face because they both know she doesn’t mean it.

The giant clock on the wall behind her reads five o’clock. Nervous energy jolts through his body, and he offers a hurried wave and takes off at a half-sprint. Sure, he’s still got an hour before he really needs to even be awake, but by the time he showers, grades a few papers, and wrestles Jo out of bed, it’ll be late enough to tie his stomach in knots.

He reaches the end of Main Street and follows the curve. Once he sets foot onto Silverthorne Lane, he books it. A long row of historical homes, some of them dating as far back as the colonial period, line the right side of the street. They’re beautiful, the Victorian architecture positively fascinating, but they stand careful guard over the skeletal pines and gnarled oaks that make up Barrow Wood, and he doesn’t care to linger in the shadows of those ancient trees for longer than the minute and a half it takes to skirt past them. He would take another route, but this is the only path with a sidewalk, and people drive like maniacs on backcountry roads.

He was both surprised and relieved to find a ’Land for Sale—Resale and Development’ sign posted up in front of the wood last week. Barrow is a legendary piece of land in Quellin, fodder for fairytales and horror stories alike. Children who wandered in and never came out. Men and women found with mysterious bruising on their arms and neck, incapable of saying anything. He’s poured over Barrow Wood lore, re-created some of the stories in his college creative writing classes.

And then of course, there’s what happened with Ellis.

The familiar tingle, a curious mixture of dread and grief that knots in his gut, comes and goes as he rushes past the trees. The memories press in—Ellis’ glassy eyes, the stickiness on Will’s fingers as he cradled his head, Teo’s “no” tearing the world in half. He keeps his focus on the row of houses, on the West family’s enormous-as-fuck rainbow flag flapping in the gentle breeze. It’s a new addition, one Quinn West went on ad nauseum about last Saturday.

“Raise your hand if you’re surprised by Andy and Paula’s sudden support for the LGBTQ community?” Quinn lifted both hands into the air as they lounged across Will’s couch.

Jo, perched on the armrest, shrugged. “I mean, yes, they’re baby boomers born and raised in the South, but there’s a Mondale-Ferraro bumper sticker on the fridge in your garage, so I feel like maybe we’re stereotyping here.”

“Jo, my father wears pleated khakis. Pleated fucking khakis.” Quinn looked at Will, pouring a glass of iced coffee in the kitchen. “Back me up here, Spellman. Pleated khakis equals conservative.”

“Think you’re confusing pleated khakis with fascism,” Will told them. What he hadn’t said—what he would never say—was how relieved he was that Quinn’s coming out as non-binary had been so seamless. Apart from a few questions, their parents had taken it in stride.

The only reason it had stressed Will at all was that he wasn’t sure he could afford to officially adopt Quinn as a second sibling. He had enough trouble affording the first.

By the time he gets to the apartment complex, it’s five-thirty. He dashes up the stairs, wincing at the top as a twinge tears through his knee. He curls the joint in, flinching when it pops. In three months, his twenties will be gone, and he tries not to think about how, in the last year, he’s noticed more and more spots that hurt more than they used to, how he’s had to drink an extra cup of coffee to start his engines in the morning.

He tries not to think about all the books he hasn’t written, the trips he hasn’t taken, the life he’s put on hold.

You need new shoes is all. Maybe, if he repeats the lie long enough, it will become the truth.

The discomfort and regret dwindle as he strolls across the landing and through 2E’s somewhat crooked door. Slipping out of his sneakers, he bounds through the living room and down the hall, then bursts through Jo’s bedroom door with a huge, “Wake up!”

“Worlds to conquer, shit to do, Little Bit!” He flicks the lights on and off, feigning a cackle as Jo groans, burying her head under her pillow. “Come on, up, up, up!”

“I’m gonna stab you.” She sits up, and while her long brown curls veil her face, he can hear the pout in her voice. “Right between the ribs. You’ll be dead before you even feel it.”

“You’d have to catch me first.” He drums his hands on top of the doorframe. “Ready in half an hour, got it?”

“Between. The. Ribs.”

In the shower, Will looks straight up into the stream. The sweat and grime let go, and he rakes his hands through his brown curls, rinsing them clean. In his head, he runs through the list of things he has to do when he gets to school: check emails. Finish grading three essays to stay caught up with his daily count. Talk to Pragathi Rajan about Martin Bailey. Something’s been off about the kid ever since school started, and he wants to get it on Pragathi’s radar before the college applications roll in and her limited window to talk to kids closes completely.

The water’s blistering heat washes the harsher aches away, and he emerges feeling like a new man—or as much of a new man as any English teacher can be on the third Tuesday of the school year.

It’s nearly six by the time he strolls out of the bedroom, comfortable in a pair of black jeans and a green button-up. He walks into the kitchen to find Jo spreading peanut butter carefully, meticulously, onto an English muffin, treating the knife like a paint brush, the muffin like one of her canvases. 

“Here.” She sets it down on a paper plate and slides it across the counter. “Made this for you.”

Will grabs the edge of the plate and pulls it toward him. “To what do I owe this rare stroke of selflessness?”

 Jo’s eyes, blue as a September sky, flick up from her bowl of Fruit Loops. “I can be nice.”

Will squints at her. His sister can be selfless, it’s true, and she takes care of him where she can.

She’s also seventeen.

“Kay, so it’s something nice,” she says, “and I need you to read my SCAD essay tonight.”

 Will’s heart hammers the back of his ribs, like it always does whenever college creeps into the conversation. Savannah College of Art and Design is one of the best art schools in the country. It’s also out-of-state and expensive as all hell, and while their father, in the few years he was sober, took out a decent life insurance policy before overdosing in their living room thirteen years ago, most of that money was gone already, spent on his own tuition. Will has spent the better part of the last seven years saving up for her turn, but he doesn’t even have half of what he would need for SCAD or RISD or the Art Institute of Chicago.

Jo’s a gifted artist, though, and not the gifted that can be said of any kid who tries, but the gifted that might get her displayed in a museum one day, the gifted that needs SCAD to push and challenge and mold her into the genius she could be. If Will was half as talented a writer as Jo was a painter, he’d have won the Pulitzer twice over. But he’s just okay; she is extraordinary.

Exactly as he planned.

“When’s the application due?” Shoving the last of the English muffin into his mouth, he makes for the kitchen cabinets and grabs one of Mateo’s whiskey tumblers. The orange juice sits on the counter, and he pours himself a glass, sucking it down in three loud gulps.

“October,” she says, cereal bowl still cupped in her bony hand. “Don’t worry about the fees, though, Alba’s giving me extra shifts at the coffee house.”

“I can handle the fees.”

She cocks one of her thick, dark brows. “You’re sure?”

He nods. “Just don’t expect anything big for Christmas.” He rinses his glass in the sink and sets it down. “Kay, let’s go.”

She rolls her eyes. “’You realize we’ve still got an hour before any other human being will even be at school, right?”

“Yes, but I’ve got a mountain’s worth of shit to do.” He ticks his head toward the door. “Vamanos.”

But Jo doesn’t listen. Instead, she hoists herself up onto the countertop, paint-splattered Chucks pounding against the bottom row of cabinets. Her eyes narrow as she studies him.

The frustration spindles his spine. “Josephine Marie, I swear to—”

The door across the living room open, cutting him off. Teo steps out of the master bedroom, straightening a purple tie covered in lavender paisley. After decades of seeing him in nothing but graphic tees and basketball shorts, Will isn’t sure he will ever get used to his best friend’s tailored suits and starched shirts.

Teo freezes in the face of Will and Jo’s stand-off.

“What’s happening?” He struts up to the countertop. Ever since accepting his fancy job at Bank of America, he’s stopped walking and started strutting. “Do I need to call Ma, get her to smooth things over with you two?”

“Teo, important question.” Jo still squints at Will.

Teo makes a ’hmm’ as he steps into the kitchen and grabs one of the coffee mugs. “Hit me.”

“Don’t you think Will needs a girlfriend?” She sets her bowl down, flattens her palms on the counter. “I think Will needs a girlfriend.”

Will scoffs. “Yeah, cuz I’ve got the time for that.”

But Teo’s face lights up, like it’s the most ingenious idea in the world. Like he—or Jo, or Will for that matter—has any say in the matter. “You know, now you mention it, when was the last time you even went on a date, bro, fucking college?”

“Mkay, both of you? Fuck off.” Will snaps his fingers at his sister. “School. Now or you ride the bus.”

“Rude.” Jo hops off the counter and skips over to the couch, where her backpack swells with her Calc and History textbooks. Grunting, she slings the straps over her shoulders and gives him a sarcastic salute. “Ready when you are, captain.”

“Trivia tonight?” Teo asks as the two of them head out the door.

Will props it open with his elbow and turns to answer. “Can’t. Getting a whole thing of essays.”

“You, sir, are a traitor to your generation.”

“And you work at a bank, so shut the fuck up.” With an apologetic grin, he leaves him standing in the kitchen.

“So. Went to the bathroom last night and saw your light on,” Jo says as Will ducks into the Corolla. “Were you working on something?”

Will snorts. Truth be told, yes, he’d spent an hour last night staring at a blank screen, trying to bleed the image of an old man drinking whiskey onto the page. But every time he typed a sentence, it came out wrong. He’s rusty, and it will take months of practice to get back to where he wants to be. Months he doesn’t have to give. 

“Not seriously. Don’t really have the energy for writing right now.”

“Will, you’re never not moving.”

“That’s nervous energy, Little Bit.” And like talking about it has opened some kind of door, the haze of exhaustion settles over his mind. “Not the same thing.”

She bows her head, swallows. “You know, you don’t have to…” She pauses, and Will waits before starting the car, giving her a second to finish her thought, but she straightens up and waves it off. “Never mind. Let’s go, I want you to have enough time.”

He gives her a smile and turns the key in the ignition. America’s 'Ventura Highway' strums on the radio. And he can see she wants to say something, knows it’s all knocking behind her teeth, because she makes the same faces he makes when he’s biting something back. But she holds it in, and he knows better than to press. Instead, he turns the music up, driving the silence out.