Chapter Four

Chapter Four

Sam

“You’re overthinking it.” I cast my line into the water and let my eyes fall shut, face bathed in the warmth from the sun. The boat gently rocks back and forth, and it would easily lull me to sleep if I were to sit down. Finishing a string of twelve-hour shifts does that to me.

“That means shit coming from someone like you,” Jacob deadpans. “You don’t think. At all. You’ll fuck anything in a skirt.”

“I have standards,” I toss back, trying to act offended.

Mason lets out a snort of laughter and slowly reels in his line.

“You’re worse.” Jacob sets his fishing pole down and turns to mess with the boat’s radio, which isn’t picking up any signal this far out on the lake. Country music crackles through, and the fucker leaves it.

“If by worse you mean no strings—ever—then yeah. I’m happy to be worse.” Mason reaches for his beer. “And Sam’s right. You’re overthinking it. Go out with her. It’s just one date that’ll lead to one night, well, if you can be the least bit competent for a few hours. And lord knows you need to get laid. I’ve been home for all of five hours and am already sick of your crab-ass attitude.”

“I don’t do one-night stands,” Jacob immediately counters, eyeing both me and Mason. “Unlike you two.”

Mason looks at me, rolling his eyes. “I’m not entirely sure he even does people anymore at this point,” he whisper-talks. “Maybe there’s a reason he went into veterinary medicine. All those late-night calls to horse farms…”

“Fuck you, man.” Jacob throws a handful of bait at the back of Mason’s head, and I laugh, always enjoying passively egging my younger brothers on like this. But the truth is we’re all so fucking glad to be together again because it doesn’t happen very often. Jacob stayed in Silver Ridge and is the small town’s only vet, and Mason and I left the first chances we got. But this place will always be home for all of us, and we’ve all been looking forward to this weekend more than any of us want to admit.

Rory, our baby sister, is coming home this weekend as well, along with her husband and their newborn son, Adam. I haven’t seen my nephew since the week he was born, and I need to make sure Rory’s husband is still treating her well. I take my role as older brother seriously, as I always have, and will cut throats and throw punches without a second thought when it comes to my sister.

“If you don’t want to go out with Annie, then don’t,” I say with a yawn. My line bobs down and I wait a beat, secretly hoping I didn’t catch anything. Fishing isn’t my favorite thing in the world, but we grew up doing this. I like being out on the lake with my brothers more than I actually like trying to catch a fish, and we put back most of what we catch anyway.

Dad started taking me out here on a rickety-ass boat when I was the only Harris kid yet to be born. Mom hated it, and I still remember being three years old and Mom putting blow-up water wings on my arms, along with a multi-colored life vest. I couldn’t put my arms down—just like that kid from A Christmas Story—but in the opposite season.

Dad’s not out here with us today, though; he’s anxiously waiting for Adam to arrive at the house. There’s no doubt both Mom and Dad will point out how they only have one grandchild, and it’s the youngest of the bunch who settled down, got married, and popped out a kid first.

Mason and I already took bets on how long it’ll take Mom to remind me that I’m the oldest, the one she expected to get married before my siblings, yet here I am, single once again.

Though I’m not complaining.

There’s another tug on my line and I jerk it back, waiting half a second to see if I caught anything. The line doesn’t move again, so I slowly reel it up, somewhat thankful the bait is gone. Resting my pole against the side of the boat, I heft into one of the seats, warmed by the sun, and grab a beer from the built-in cooler.

The boat is only two years old and was a much-needed upgrade from the old hunk of junk Dad that insisted “ran just fine,” despite us getting stranded in Lake Michigan for five hours during a storm until the Coast Guard could come out and tow us in. I bought this new boat for Dad on his birthday two years ago, and while it’s a bit over the top for a birthday gift, I figured it was the least I could do after my parents footed the bill for me to go to medical school and become a doctor.

We’re on Silver Lake today, much smaller than Lake Michigan, and the breeze coming in over the water is hot and sticky.

“Or go out with her,” Mason counters. “Wine and dine her, fuck her good, and then ghost her.”

“You’re despicable,” Jacob quips, leaning over the boat railing and looking down into the water. He won’t say the real reason he’s on the fence about going out with this girl is because he’s still bitter over his last relationship ending with his girlfriend cheating on him after two-and-a-half years together. Only Mason and I know he’d gone out looking at engagement rings the week before things blew up in his face.

“Tell her from the start you don’t want anything serious,” I suggest. “That’s what I do, and it’s worked out so far.”

“Yeah, it’s worked out well.” Mason rolls his eyes. “How many times have you and Stacey broken up and gotten back together?”

“Four,” I say with a shrug. We started dating a few years ago, and we get along just fine. But fine is all I can describe us as.

The sex is fine.

Her company is fine.

Everything is so fine there’s no substance to it. There’s no spark, no passion. We’re comfortable with each other, but that’s about it. She doesn’t enjoy the things I do, and she's always in a rush to leave—unless I’m taking her shopping.

“It must be good pussy to keep going back,” Mason notes.

I shrug. “It’s okay.”

“Just okay?” Mason’s brows rise incredulously. It’s the first time I’ve so much as hinted that things between Stacey and me aren’t hot and heavy. I have a reputation to uphold, but honestly, I’m just tired right now. “Time to move on.”

“I plan on it,” I say, not going into detail that we were together just two months ago. I had a particularly rough shift at the trauma center and burn victims are some of the hardest to treat and to see.

It’s worse when said victims are children…burned by the result of evil, vile parents who inflicted the burns as a form of punishment.

A brother and sister were airlifted to us, and we lost the three-year-old girl. I put the five-year-old boy in a medically induced coma, and we didn’t know the extent of the brain damage until he was stable enough to wake up.

I was exhausted but couldn’t sleep, and Stacey was still up when I called her at one AM. She came over, and sex has always been my go-to solution for all my problems, no matter how temporary it is.

“Shit,” Jacob mutters, looking at his phone.

“What?” Mason and I ask in unison.

“Mrs. Nelson’s horse is colicing again. I’m sure it has nothing to do with the low-hay, high-grain diet she’s feeding him,” he grumbles. “Mind if we head in early?”

It’s not quite four in the afternoon again, and while we had planned on being out here until we had to go home for dinner, I’ll gladly go back now and get a nap in before Mom calls the whole family down for Friday-night dinner. “I’m good with it.”

“Me too.” Mason wipes sweat off his forehead. “It’s hot as balls out here today.”

“I’d say jump in the lake to cool off,” Jacob starts, looking at the water. “But it feels like fucking bathwater this late in the summer.”

We put our fishing supplies away and Jacob starts up the boat. The lake is small and we’re close to our childhood home where everyone but Jacob is staying for the weekend. He’s the only one out of the four of us who still lives in Silver Ridge. Mason moves all over as an FBI agent and is currently residing in Detroit, working at the Michigan FBI headquarters, and I did my residency in Indianapolis and ended up at a hospital with a trauma center in Chicago. Rory is four or so hours way in a small town in Indiana, not too far from me, actually.  We’re all within driving distance, at least for the time being.

About half an hour later, we’re pulling off the road onto the gravel driveway that takes us to the farmhouse we grew up in. It’s been updated over the years but has retained the overall look and feel that brings me an instant sense of comfort. I hated living in a small town in my youth, but now that I’ve been out and living in big cities for years, I’ve developed a certain appreciation for the slower pace of Silver Ridge.

“Rory’s here already,” Mason states the obvious when we see her car parked in front of the garage. I smile, looking forward to seeing my sister, but more so my nephew. We park the boat down near the barn and get out, grabbing our shit and heading inside. There’s a note taped on the door leading into the mudroom from the garage, saying Adam is napping so be quiet.

“Hey!” Rory says quietly when we get inside. She’s sitting in the kitchen with her husband, Dean, and gets up, coming over for a hug. “You smell like lake water and worms.”

“Nice to see you too, Sis.” I pat her on the back and turn to Dean. “How was the drive up?”

“We didn’t hit a second of traffic, but Adam cried for the first half of it,” Dean says, slowly shaking his head.

“He wore himself out.” Rory goes back into the kitchen and takes something out of the oven. “I just laid him down in the pack-and-play upstairs. We’ve been having a hard time getting him down for naps. He just wants to be held, and we’ve kind of caved to it.” She looks at Dean, smiling guiltily.

“If he wants to be held, then I’m going to hold him,” Dean says back. “I can’t say no to that face.”

“It’s good to see you both,” Jacob tells them. “I’ve got to run and take care of a horse. I’ll be back by dinner…hopefully.”

“You’re always rushing out as soon as I get here,” Rory heckles. “I’m starting to take it personally.”

“And I’m starting to wonder if there’s a little” —Mason jerks his hand up and down in a crude gesture— “going on with the horse.”

“Fuck you,” Jacob said pointedly. “Tell Mom not to wait for me to start dinner. Just save me food.”

“I’ll let her know,” Rory tells him.

“Thanks. Nice to see you again, Dean,” Jacob says and hurries out the door.

Rory pulls out a box full of takeout bags, and I recognize the smell instantly. Silver Café is one of the few places in Silver Ridge that’s open past ten PM. It’s right along Silver Lake, with a large outside patio dining area that offers amazing views of the lake at night. And they have the best damn Detroit-style Coney dogs and fries.

“I’ve been craving these,” Rory muses as she unrolls the takeout bag.

“Craving?” Mom comes around the corner, holding a sleeping baby.

“Mom,” Rory quips. “We’re trying to get him to lie down in his crib for naps.”

“Oh hush,” Mom tells her, smiling down at Adam. “How often does Nana get to hold him?”

Rory opens her mouth to protest, but Dean rests his hand on her shoulder, stopping her. He knows it won’t do any good.

“And you’re craving food?” Mom asks hopefully, eyes wide. “Are you pregnant?”

“No,” Rory says back right away. “Adam isn’t even four months old yet. It’s not even possible.”

“Well, it is possible,” Dean whisper-talks to Rory.

She blushes and elbows him. “I’m not pregnant, it’s been a while since I’ve had these.”

“They are good,” I agree, grabbing a hot dog and sitting at the island counter. Mason takes two and goes to the table, checking his phone for any calls from work. He can never tell us all the details of what he’s working on until the cases are closed.

“Is Dad picking up Nana Benson on the way home from work?” Rory asks.

“Yes, and she’s so looking forward to seeing her great-grandson,” Mom tells her.

“I don’t know how she’s still alive and kicking,” Mason says casually. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad she is, but that woman just won’t stop. I hope I inherited her genes.”

“Remember that mouse I had when I was a kid?” Rory asks. “Goldie.”

“That thing wouldn’t die,” I laugh. “Are you making a Nana Benson-Goldie comparison?”

“Yes,” Rory chuckles. “Goldie was like eight before she finally passed. Nana is just like that. She’s in her late eighties, went through hip and knee replacements, and is still as spunky as ever.”

“You had a mouse live for eight years?” Dean asks dubiously.

“Maybe seven and a half. I took really good care of her.”

I look at Mason, knowing he was responsible for the murder of the OG Goldie when he went into Rory’s room to get something, forgot to close the door, and our family cat ate her. Mom and I spent six hours driving around trying to find a mouse that looked like Goldie, putting her in the cage before Rory noticed.

And when Goldie Number Two died on Christmas Eve, Mom wasn’t going to let it ruin Rory’s holiday. Rory was seven at the time and spent an entire day making a Christmas village out of cardboard boxes for her damn mouse. That time Dad drove all the way to a pet shop in Indiana to get a replacement.

Mason gives me the slightest shake of the head, saying he wants to let Rory keep believing it was her impeccable care and love that kept the mouse alive for an impossibly long time. She has to know, I’m sure, because that’s not a normal lifespan. At all.

“You’re just staying the weekend?” Rory asks.

“Yeah,” I tell her, even though I don’t have to be back to work until Wednesday. Trauma has a high burnout rate, and our clinic has set everyone up on an impressive rotation schedule, giving us a much-needed break every few months. My current plan is to visit with family for the weekend and then go home and spend the rest of my time off watching TV, playing video games, and eating junk food.

I’m okay with that.

“Oh, you’ll never guess what I heard,” Rory says, taking a bite of her hotdog. We all look at her, waiting for her to finish chewing to go on.

“Yes?” Mason asks impatiently.

“Chloe Fisher is in town!”

My heart skips a beat and my stomach tightens at the mention of her name. It’s been years since I’ve seen her, and I’ve worked hard over those years not to think about her, which is hard to fucking do since her name and face are all over the place. If it’s not an advertisement or article about one of her books, TV series, or upcoming talk show interviews, then it’s pictures of her with the various celebrities she’s dated.

I’m happy for her, really, I am. Chloe got exactly what she wanted, and I know it wasn’t easy for her. She worked hard to push forward with her dreams of writing, despite being bullied. She stood her ground and refused to bend, saying she’d rather be herself and alone than fake and popular. I always respected the hell out of her for it. It’s not easy to have that sort of confidence, especially when we were teenagers.

Chloe got everything she deserves, and I am happy for her…yet I have to remind myself not to be bitter or resentful. Not toward her, but toward myself.

Because as far as I’m concerned, Chloe will always be the one that got away, even though she was never mine. It would be one thing if she slipped through my fingers, but it’s much, much worse, as I practically shoved her away.

I had my chance with Chloe and I fucking blew it. There’s no way she’ll ever forgive me for it.