In the middle of Des Plaines Illinois three boys find themselves in a tangled knot of angsty lust and amateur love.
Evan Webster has an average American life. When he isn't at swim practice or the movie theater, he's trying to make time to study bi...
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JUNE1989
Jackson knocked twice, dropping his hand with a sigh. He stared forward, eyeing the classic metal object. It was one of those fancy brass knockers that had to be lifted and thwacked. The flat sound seemed to drag him back in time, as if Heather would be the one to swing open the door with her big smile and blonde hair
But it wasn't Heather who greeted him—it was Mrs. Hagley. Just as Jackson suspected, she bore the same sympathetic expression he had given Danny.
"Come in," she said, as if she knew he needed to talk. Like a mother reading a child's eyes.
It had been years since Jackson had walked into the Hagley home, but the house seemed to welcome him like an old friend. The wobbly floorboards creaked in greeting, the smell of burning sage wrapped around him like a hug, and the colorful furniture was so loud and familiar that it felt like joining a family reunion. It was the only real home he had ever known.
"Sorry about the mess," Mrs. Hagley spoke. She picked up a toy while stepping through the dining room. Chris and Heather's engagement photos hung on the hallway walls. "I watch Clem whenever Nadine is working at the beauty shop. It's difficult to keep things organized with a toddler running around."
"I've seen worse," the redhead assured her.
"I saw your mom last week," Mrs. Hagley announced. "I try to bring her a chicken roast every Friday. She said rehab food tastes like dish soap and armpit." She chuckled. "I said, 'Dottie, they can't make it too good otherwise you'll want to stay'...You should bring her one of your lemon truffles. She can't be getting enough Vitamin C, I'll tell you that."
They sat at the kitchen table, churning more memories in Jackson's mind. Mrs. Hagley took the seat across from him, letting her beads rattle against the wooden top. She set aside Clem's toy, stretched forward, and reached to cover Jackson's hands with her own.
Gently, she asked, "How are you?"
"I'm alright, Mrs. H."
Mrs. Hagley leaned backwards, letting go of Jackson and settling into the chair. "Since when do I tolerate lying in my house?" One of her eyebrows jolted.
Jackson jostled his weight between the edges of his seat. "I've been better," he admitted, making his thumbs twiddle.
"You spoke to Danny?" She had been the one to share the news with Jackson—via a letter. He had read it a hundred times, not believing the content. It didn't feel real until he was holding Danny in his arms.
Jackson gave her a shallow nod.
"And how is he doing?"
Jackson cast his eyes to a nearby window, avoiding Mrs. Hagley's gaze. "I'm not allowed to be as sad as him."
"You're allowed to miss him, Jackson." He didn't just miss him. He came home to grieve him properly. The news of his death was barely a month old.
The redhead examined the stuffed animals in the hallway, remembering Clem as baby. She had probably grown so much. He wondered if she missed her uncle too.
