You’re going home.

McCormick blood ran deep in the roots of Hingham Valley, Montana, and Luke was the last of his generation above the ground. He shouldn’t have been. His constant quest for a death wish was so far unfulfilled, though not for lack of trying. Between his attitude and Aleppo, one of them should’ve killed him by now -- yet he was the one pouring out Macallan in the September sun.

“Scotch for a dead man,” Luke muttered, sitting next to his brother’s grave.

Samuel McCormick
03/12/1986 - 7/21/2019
Loving Husband & Brother

Sam’s last words to him had been while Luke lay in a hospital bed in Germany. If you die, I’ll pour you out a scotch. His death hadn’t sunk in yet. Until Luke saw the farm without him, it wouldn’t be real.

“I was supposed to be first, you fucking asshole.”

As far as burial spots went, Sam had a pretty good view. It was in the Valley plot, sure, but most of the family was there anyway. Luke sipped from the bottle as he remembered the last few family funerals he’d attended with his brother. First had been Matthew, the third McCormick boy. Car accident. Then there was their mother. Cancer. Then their father. Suicide. Three deaths in three years. It got the point where people started to treat Luke strangely, like he was a package without a label on the front steps. When horrible things happen, people tend to either spread out or close in.

Sam had spread out. He wasn’t supposed to go -- because he was the responsible one. When Sam spoke, people listened. He had been on such good terms with everyone in the town that he had a bartering system with most of the businesses. Free pastries at the bakery in exchange for raw milk. Beer for fence mending. Eggs for bacon. Sam was the one who would’ve made their mother proud, and Luke was the one who would’ve made his mother sigh and say, “Jesus Christ, what have you done this time?”

Granted, Sam had a lot to do with the success of the farm. It had been their mother’s dream, after all. His brother, however, was only one man. Charlie was the other half of the magical equation. She had just as much to do with the farm’s prosperity as Sam had.

Luke took a swig from the scotch bottle and lit up a cigarette. He rested his shoulder against the cool granite of Sam’s headstone and looked up at the sun, through the oaks that framed the graveyard. On the inhale, a sharp pain poked between his ribs. It happened every now and then, since Germany. Ignoring it, he took another drag and screwed the cap back on the scotch. “Short visit,” he told Sam’s grave, “I know. You’re dead, so I don’t have a lot to say.”

His first order of business back in town was to see Sam -- Charlie would understand. He stuck the bottle in his Army bag and slung it over his shoulder. Cologne to Hingham Valley was one international flight, two domestic connects, a bus ride, and a hitch. Somehow, the walk from Sam’s grave to the farm was much longer.

After two more cigarettes, he turned up Lawson Hill, one of many dirt-to-farm roads in the county. It was a half-mile to the property, mostly uphill. Dusty in the summer, muddy in the spring, and a total icy bitch in the winter. He’d abandoned many trucks at the bottom in Januaries past.

You’re coming home.

The house was the first thing he saw. The barn and pasture quickly followed. If Luke hadn’t known better, his brother could have been still alive -- his truck was in the driveway and sheets were hung out on the line to dry. He half expected dinner to be in the oven and football on in the background, Sam sharing a beer with one of the neighbors on the porch.

“Charlie!” Luke called out.

It had taken him weeks to get cleared for a flight back to the States. She knew he was coming back, but she didn’t know when. Mostly because he didn’t tell her. Talking to her was harder than he wanted to admit. There was no way to have an easy, simple conversation now that Sam was gone.

She could be anywhere, and if he knew her at all, then she certainly wasn’t in the house.

He stuck his thumb and index in his mouth and whistled. “Charlie!”

You're coming home.

It was easy to forget that Sam was gone sometimes. Most of the time it was the absence of things that reminded Charlie; it was in the way that she didn’t smell coffee when she awoke in the mornings, the way he didn’t barrel through the door in the late afternoon when her dinner was waiting for him. The lack of his presence was suffocating, making it hard to breathe when she walked around alone in the barn or when the house settled at night and it sounded like a footstep.

But there were little things, too. Charlotte had never realized how much Sam had tidied objects away after she’d long forgotten and tucked herself into bed. Such a thing was what caused her to curse, her shin catching the edge of the pitchfork she’d hung up hastily the night before in just the right way. “Shit!” Immediately she slid to the floor, grabbing the area of injury and holding pressure as if it would take the pain away.

As if anything would take the pain away.

Tears welled in her eyes as she sat in the midst of the straw and animal shit that littered the barn floor. Sam had been the dependable one, the one who always did what he was supposed to and – what was more – he was good at it. He didn’t get attached to the animals he raised, understood that hard decisions often meant good outcomes, and that each piece of equipment had its own special place. He excelled at anything he set his mind to and it didn’t take him forever to get the job done… although that was, arguably, what had caused his death.

The white farmhouse became increasingly blurry the longer Charlie sat in the floor. It was only when she thought she was incapable of tears that more came and she wiped at them furiously. This stupid fucking farm. Stupid fucking Sam.

She could still see the way that his brown eyes crinkled in happiness when she got angry at him and the way they’d looked up at her, glossy and empty, when she’d found him trapped beneath Sadie. The poor cow had gotten out of the pen and meandered towards one of the muddiest parts of the farm, not that she had known that. The recent rain had caused the normally dry land to transform into a sticky, sloppy mess; a small rockslide from the hill had caused the animal to misstep, falling onto its side.

There wasn’t much else she knew. Charlie assumed Sadie couldn’t get up on her own and that Sam had attempted to help her stand again. She easily weighed 1800 pounds, thanks to the calf growing in her belly, which Charlie guessed had been why Sam had tried to do what he had on his own. She knew she’d woken up around two in the morning and turned over to grab onto her husband when her hands only gripped sheets. She knew she’d trudged out onto the land with a flashlight and boots, checking all the normal places before worry set in.

She knew that when she found him, she couldn’t do anything but stare. When she finally moved, she’d ran towards the beast that trapped him and pushed without any results. She didn’t blink or breathe for what seemed like hours but Sam hadn’t for even longer. When dawn broke, Charlie had made her way back to the house and called 911.

The neighbors had been kind. They’d brought her food, asked her if she needed anything. They were willing to help but Charlie couldn’t let herself take their offers for assistance. Instead she had thrown herself even further into the work of the farm, tending to the cattle that reminded her constantly of her husband’s death and the chickens that followed him around like dogs.

A wet tongue licked at her face, causing Charlie to refocus on the present. The perked ears of a German Shepherd tilted down and concerned brown eyes looked over the human’s features, searching for some sign of reassurance. Charlie sniffed, raising a hand to scratch at the dog. “I’m okay,” she said softly, as if to convince herself as well as the dog.

Jack’s ears perked and he moved away, stalking off towards a new sound that garnered his attention. The woman sighed softly and stood, bracing herself against the pitchfork that had caused her pain. Her brows furrowed as she heard a voice so familiar that caused her heart to begin aching once more. It wasn’t until the whistle started her into movement did Charlie bother peaking her head around the barndoor.

“Luke?” She’d known he’d be arriving at some point but had little idea regarding the details. Jack moved towards the man with a wagging tail, looking up and pleading for affection; Charlie did much the same, wrapping her arms around the man as soon as they closed the distance between each other. It was almost enough to cause her to cry again but Charlie bit back tears as her cheek found the solid plane of Luke’s chest. “It’s so good to see you!” she said when she pulled away, summoning a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“C’mon. Let’s get you into the house and settled. I swear, every year it gets colder earlier. No sense staying out here without anything to do.” Of course, there was plenty to do. She hadn’t seemed to have accomplished anything since Sam’s death but she had managed to keep the animals alive, if only barely. Jake yipped with excitement and moved towards the farmhouse, his tail continuing to wag playfully as he stood by the front door.

The house was old but tastefully restored thanks to Charlie’s decorative palate and Sam’s handyman abilities. Some parts still had a small amount of work but, as a whole, the home was cozy and livable. The old oak hardwood floors creaked as she stepped across them and into the kitchen, grabbing at two mugs. “You want coffee?” she asked, going through the motions regardless of Luke’s answer.

“How was the trip?”

Luke had last been on the property the winter previous, and as he followed the sounds of Jack’s barks and Charlie’s voice, he found it hard to forget the way he’d left. The whole conversation sat malignant under his skin, flaring up every now and then to bother him. There had been plenty of phone calls and emails since then, but Luke hadn’t thought that Sam would go and get himself killed.

They were all well and properly greased from their holiday drinks. It was customary that the brothers share a bottle of something too expensive for Christmas, but for all of Sam’s merits, Luke could better hold his alcohol. He remembered that it was nice -- to just drink and sit and enjoy friendly company, until Charlie left the room. That’s when Sam’s smile faltered and he tapped his empty glass against the table. More bourbon? He tinkered with the bottle some, twisting it around and picking at the label before he topped them both off.

You doing all right? Luke asked.

Sam took a sip of his drink, rolled up his sleeves, and put his elbows on the table. Luke eyed his brother, wary, as he chewed on a hangnail. The house was silent for a few seconds until they heard Charlie’s voice in the hall. She was on the phone with someone.

Sam cleared his throat. When’d you fuck her? Like a dog clawing at the door, he insisted on getting a response. Last week? Last month? Or during any of the other dozens of times I put you the fuck up in my fucking house --

Charlie? Cut your bullshit. You’re drunk.

Answer me.

Get out of my face. And shut up, or she’ll hear you -- and you’ll have to deal with that fucking mess.

It was just bickering at first, but when Luke got up to end the conversation, he felt Sam’s grip at the front of his shirt. Everything happened so quickly. Tell me, or I swear to God, I will bury you under this goddamn house.

Luke shoved his brother back and hissed, Calm the fuck down. Listen to yourself. Enough. He carefully considered what he was going to say next. The words came out of his mouth slowly, as if against his own will. Did she tell you we had sex?

No.

Jesus Christ, Sammy.

No -- He put up his hands. No, but listen. She was asleep and started touching me and saying your name and all this shit --

Oh for fuck’s sake, Luke groaned. Give me a break. Stop. No. I don't care about your bedroom life. I don't give a single fuck.

She did it the night you came back. Last week.

What part of “stop” don’t you get? Huh? I need a cigarette. I’m done with this conversation.

Sam had started to come down, but now he was back at it with a freshly poured drink, playing surgeon with every word that Luke said. You never answered my question. His anger was a snakebite when Luke tried to leave for a smoke. Sit back down. You’re gonna say it to my face.

I did not fuck your wife. The chair creaked under his weight as he sat back, pushing his empty glass towards Sam. I will not fuck your wife. With a few clicks of his lighter he started his cigarette. Even if you’re dead I won’t touch her. He took a drag and went out onto the porch before anything else could be said. It was several minutes -- well after his cigarette was done -- until Charlie opened the door to let out the dog. She said something about how cold it was, that Sam got too drunk and went to bed, that he should have a cup of coffee with her, that she was so happy to have him home for the holidays.

---

Luke grabbed her waist and pulled her into him once she was close enough. Sam’s absence only sharpened Charlie’s presence, and he didn’t even know where to begin talking about it. So he didn’t. He only let the fact that she was there wash over him. Her weight, warmth, and smell hit him all at once. “It’s so good to see you too,” he said, squeezing her shoulders once she eased back. To say her spark was gone was an understatement, but her focus on behaving normally made him a little more comfortable.

The knot in his chest tightened as they walked across the property and into the house. Jake weaved through his legs, something he only did when he was excited and eager for attention, and Luke had to take a few minutes to pet him down before he calmed. Seeing all of Sam’s things peppered through the living room and kitchen made the knot bury further, somewhere far behind his ribs. If Charlie could keep existing in this house, then he could too.

The mug she gave him had a chip on the edge from years of washing, exchanging hands, and moving from counter to table. It had the state flag on it, faded blue and yellow letters. He traced the chip with his thumb, fixating on something so he wouldn’t keep looking around at all the things that reminded him of the man that was so very clearly gone.

“Trip was long,” he said finally. “There were no crying babies during any part of it, so that’s good. Decent weather. No delays. I, uh…” He closed his eyes, grasping at word straws. His brain pulsed, picturing himself as Charlie was probably seeing him. Most of it was his normal self -- short hair, clean shaven, no new tattoos (he was running out of arm space anyway). Some of it was abnormal -- bruised knuckles, the red edge of a fresh scar peeking out from the collar of his shirt, the dark circles under his eyes. Luke opened his eyes and started again. “I stopped to see Sam right before I got here. I’m sorry I couldn’t leave sooner. I would’ve fucking swam here if I thought that would be faster.”

I’m sorry that you had to do it all by yourself, was what he actually meant to say.

“Listen, I know I can’t do everything that he did. But you’re only one person and nobody can run this farm by themselves. Not even he could’ve. And I know people are gonna be coming around here soon -- shit, I mean if they haven’t already -- to buy parts of the land, or some of the equipment or animals. I’m here, Charlie. To help. I want to be here.”

The vast majority of Charlie’s being leaned into Luke’s touch.

A small portion of her mind reminded her that being too touchy with the soldier had caused problems in her marriage. That Sam had mentioned in passing plenty of times how he was thankful that she got along with her brother, but she saw the way his eyes lingered on their easy touches, the conversations where her laughter was loud and drew a hint of a smile from Luke’s mouth.

Charlotte couldn’t remember how many Christmas’ it had been when she’d overheard bits and pieces of hissed words and raised voices from the boys in the living room. The house hadn’t been close to finished yet and she’d answered a call from her best friend, Camille.

“How’s it going? Any better?”

Charlie had laughed mirthlessly. “You mean is my husband any less pissed after I whispered his brother’s name in bed?” She’d been asleep, in the middle of turning over and finding a body under the covers. She could still remember the way Luke’s name had fallen from her lips in her sleep induced confusion, fingers running over familiar shoulders until she realized what she’d done. “I’m going to go with a hard no.”

“It’s not your fault, Char. It’s not like you knew what you were doing.” No, she hadn’t, but there wasn’t any way in hell that she could say that it was okay for her to say Luke’s name as her hands had continued down, down, down...

“It doesn’t exactly inspire trust and confidence, does it? You know he asked me if we fucked.” Charlie had initially been hurt through that quickly transitioned into being pissed.

“And you said?”

“I said no! Jesus, Milly, I didn’t fuck my brother-in-law! Don’t you think I would have told you that?” the woman hissed into the phone, her nose scrunching. She hadn’t slept with Luke, but that didn’t mean she hadn’t thought about it. God, what type of horrible person was she? Maybe it was because they knew they would never act on it and there was something tantalizing about wanting something that could never be had.

“Well, yeah, but you gotta admit it’s the first question that people would ask,” Camille said, and Charlie swore she could see the shrug that her friend gave her through the phone.

“I guess, but not from the man I married. You’d think he’d have some trust -- “

“Yeah, Charlie, but even I’ve seen you all together and it’s damn incriminating.”

Charlie knew that. She knew that plenty of people in town mentioned that she’d married the ‘better choice’, the ‘safer option’. All she could do was smile and act like she wasn’t offended, but when push came to shove, she had known that it had been very much a choice. The woman could still remember how safe Sam could make her feel, how he talked her down off of ledges and averted crises that were now laughable. That didn’t mean she could stop herself from thinking about Luke when he was on tour, or from being excited when he came back.

He was her brother-in-law. She was allowed to care, wasn’t she?

So when Sam was so angry and announced he was going to bed, Charlie went to let Jake out onto the porch. Her eyes had turned to Luke, who had just sat there in the goddamn dark. She said something about how cold it was, that Sam got too drunk and went to bed, that Luke should have a cup of coffee with her, that she was so happy to have him home for the holidays.

The house didn’t look like it had on that Christmas. Redecorated and rearranged, it was like any other house in a magazine. The palette was of mints, sky blues, and calming grays and whites, with dark wood accents… coupled with an ugly recliner that looked very lived in. Charlie had begged Sam more times than she could count to get rid of the damn thing but now she wasn’t sure she’d ever bring herself to pull it out of the house and towards the fire pit like she’d once threatened.

Her jade gaze flickered from the black coffee in her mug and up toward Luke, studying him as he spoke. He looked tired, like he hadn’t slept in months; neither had she. Ever since she’d called him, she’d worried about him; but what could she do from a country away? And even if he had been here, what would she have done differently? Charlie wasn’t exact fit for company, despite the attempts of neighbors to prove otherwise.

Sam had always been the friendlier one. He knew everyone. He’d grown up here, and he was the only reason she’d felt like she fit in. Now, every time she went to the damn store she was stared at, and whispered flooded her with grief and uncertainty.

“You saw -- “ God damn the hope that surged through her at the thought of just seeing Sam again. What she wouldn’t do to feel his fingers trail over her cheeks or push strands of sable hair away from her eyes...

“Oh, yeah. No problem. I, uh,” Charlie searched for the right words but all of them would hurt. “I wanted him somewhere pretty but, I’ve got to be honest, I haven’t been since everything. I just feel closer to him here, I guess?” It made sense to her; she knew Sam walking through the doors, laughing as she cursed after she’d stubbed her toe on the corner of the kitchen island. She took a sip of coffee as bittersweet memories rushed over her.

Sam McCormick had been 33 when he’d been taken by her incompetence. She should have been there, searching for him. Making sure that he came to bed safely. Never whispering his brother’s name as her hands went to slide underneath the band of his boxers.

“I can’t ask you to do anything of that,” came Charlie’s hoarse voice, emotions causing her tone to lower. She couldn’t accept Luke’s help on the farm, even if everything he said was true. Because, truthfully, she couldn’t feed all the animals, run any of the equipment, or fight off people who wanted to buy parts of the land she knew she couldn’t tend to. “You’ve got your own life, Luke. I can’t pull you away from that.”

I want to be here.

“Look, I really appreciate the offer. But you can’t uproot your life to help me here.” Charlie tried to offer Luke a smile, though she was certain it turned into a grimace and attempted to hide in the cup of Joe. “And, for what it’s worth, everyone has kept away so far.” That time, a genuine smile found its way to her features, the corners of her lips twitching upward. “You gonna run ‘em off with a gun? Tell ‘em to get off your lawn?”

The mere prospect of anyone even attempting to get a fraction of McCormick property pissed Luke off. The Ambrose brothers had all but moved up Sam’s ass once their mother died to get a few acres on the sly. While arable land wasn’t rare in Hingham Valley, all of it was private property or protected by the state forestry service. When Charlie told him that nobody had bothered her yet about Sam’s assets, he was surprised, but he said nothing. All the property had belonged to Sam -- and Charlie by extension -- and that was for a very good reason. If this was ten years ago, Luke would’ve lost the deed in a card game.

But this wasn’t ten years ago. This was now, and Sam was gone. Luke was the last McCormick left. The lack of kids kind of baffled everyone, but it was Luke’s understanding that Sam wanted to wait until the farm and house were fully operational before adding another responsibility to the mix. However, every time Sam tried to talk about his sex life, Luke made it very apparent that was a no-fly zone. His responses ranged from “I don’t care” to “shut the fuck up.”

There had been a few times when Luke was home on leave and the thought of Sam shooting him in the backyard was the only thing that kept him from pushing Charlie against the fridge until all the magnets clattered to the floor. It would have been different if it was one-sided, if he was just making up this shit in his head.

The closest he’d come to crossing the line was a few summers back when Sam was gone for five days at a business conference in Bozeman. A huge fight between them ensued when Charlie insisted on looking for a missing goat that had gotten scared during a storm, and they both said some mean things to each other. Luke was furious that she was jeopardizing her safety for an animal, and she was mad at him for thinking he had any right to tell her how to run a farm when he was gone most of the time. When she came back, she was soaked to the bone and started to peel off her wet clothes in the mud room. He didn’t speak to her when he handed her a towel and one of his work shirts from the hooks on the wall.

She still had the shirt on in the morning, open at the collar and with the sleeves rolled up. Their silent apology to each other consisted of small touches while they moved around the kitchen -- her fingers on his elbow when she placed his coffee on the counter; his hand at her back when he moved around her with a hot pan.

I was worried about you, he said finally.

You went to Fallujah. Then Baghdad. Then Syria.

Charlie --

Fuck you. What you felt when I looked for a goddamn goat in the rain is not even a fraction of what I feel when you go on tour.

He stared at her, and she stared at him back, flush and bright-eyed. His gaze moved up each button of his shirt she wore, over her throat, and stopped at her mouth. She swallowed, jaw hard, and put their plates on the table. Even years later, he remembered what it was like to eat breakfast with her in silence, refusing to look when she brought her coffee cup to her lips. They both knew that fucking shirt should’ve been twisted in his fist, tight around her waist while he pushed her up against the fridge…

You’ve got your own life, Luke. I can’t pull you away from that.

Since stepping foot in the house, his memories clicked and slipped from one snapshot to another. The entire property was layered with the past. Each time he returned was like forcing himself to relive certain moments -- the good as well as the bad.

“You gonna make me stay in the motel?” he teased, trying to find a piece of levity in their haunted kitchen. “I dunno. It’s hard to stay, and it’s hard to go. But if you need space, I understand that too.” Jack nosed at his knee, and Luke bent down to the ground to pet him. “Wilson Ambrose has been after parts of the property for the last decade. He always listened to Sam, so I know he’d give two shits about me. He’s probably more inclined to take something with me here.” Luke’s slow, easy grin spread across his face. “It may even be better for you if I’m gone.”

It was all pleasantries, as there was a zero percent chance of him leaving. He knew she didn’t want him to feel obligated to stick around. The “life” she’d mentioned was years of him trying to inject purpose into his existence with the military.

He filled Jake's water dish, wiped his hands off on his pants, and took a long sip of his coffee. “I’ve got a few months of down time at least.”

What he had to say next was the hardest part. It was hard because he knew if he waited, then it would be thousands of times worse later. At this point he was only looking at her, eyes fixed on her every movement. “I’m mostly here to see how much you want it. The farm. Because right now, I think you should sell.”

It was the first New Year’s Eve that Sam and Charlie had spent together in Nashville. They drank, socialized with her friends and family, and couldn’t keep their hands off each other; but as the clock’s hands finally passed 11:45, Sam became antsy, twisting the empty beer bottle in his hands as they had escaped to a quiet corner of the roof.

What’s wrong?

Nothing.

Charlie had scoffed, shaking her head. Her dark hair was pulled into a chic, low ponytail, conflicting sharply with the bright red of her slinky cocktail dress that hugged every curve. Something is clearly wrong, or you wouldn’t be acting like this.

Like what? Sam had shot back, his dark eyes roaming over her quickly before returning to the empty drink in his hands.

Like you’re ten and you’re pouting. Can we just go ahead and skip to the raucous make-up sex? She’d attempted to lighten the mood, flashing a smile and letting her breasts rub against his arm as she turned to face him fully.

Do you love him?

Who?

I’ve seen the way you look him, Charlie. Luke. Pain flashed across Sam's handsome face. C’mon. Don’t do this.

Your brother? She’d asked with evident confusion, her brows furrowing. Luke was attractive, sure, and it was fun to bicker with him, but she’d been with Sam for a year and a half. She’d barely figured out she loved him, much less been able to develop a crush on anyone else.

Yes, my goddamn brother. Do you love him?

I barely know him, Sam! Charlie laughed, shaking her head. Christ. It was true, though; yeah, she enjoyed the harmless banter she shared with Luke, but there was nothing past that except for a minimal amount of sexual tension. So, no. I don’t love your brother. Her green eyes flashed to find his honeyed hues. I love you, you idiot. So come here and let's ring in the new year.

---

It would absolutely, indubitably, unquestionably be easier for Charlotte McCormick if Luke wanted to stay at a motel.

But the last thing she wanted was to be in this goddamn house alone. It was huge, with four bedrooms and just as many bathrooms. Charlie hadn’t realized how suffocating so much empty space could be, or how cloying and smothering Luke’s presence would be without Sam’s to balance the scales.

Sam had been kind. Gentle. Loving. Patient.

Luke was none of those things.

It was amazing the contrasts she could draw now that one of them was gone. She’d cursed herself plenty of times for thinking that God had taken the wrong one but staring at Luke made her realize that it had been unfair for her to think that, too. That she didn’t really think that Luke would be the right one to have died, either, and that consumed the woman with guilt. He brought back a lot of damn memories, most of them shameful, especially as she leaned over the counter of the island they’d almost fucked on.

It’s hard to stay, and it’s hard to go.

That should have been his motto, and if Charlie had been more than a shadow of the woman who had fought over a damn goat, she would have told him that.

The Ambroses and the Addisons were giving her time to grieve. The brunette was well aware that the town was observing a mourning time for her, but with Luke’s arrival her peace would likely soon end. She knew that as certainly as she did that it would be better to have him gone, especially as that smirk found his features. Charlie’s jaw set, taking another drink of coffee as she watched Sam’s brother lean down to fill a bowl that she’d been neglecting.

She let a hand drop, her fingers brushing over Jake’s silky ears. The poor creature looked up at her with happy, oblivious brown eyes that had been the color of Sam’s and –

“You think I should sell,” Charlie said flatly, her eyes flaring with indignation. She could feel heat travelling up her chest, overcoming her neck, and advancing into her cheeks. “Why the fuck would I sell it?” This had been their family home. They’d sunk a fortune into the farmhouse, getting it up to her standards; they were going to start a family soon. One of the rooms upstairs had been painted a pretty, gender-neutral gray for when she got pregnant, another a sweet, creamy yellow that would suit the next baby.

Charlie knew she couldn’t take care of anything on her own. She didn’t know the first things about when to bale hay, what to plant, when to kill animals (not that she would), or anything else that had to do with a farm. Hell, she wasn’t even a fan of collecting the eggs from the fucking chickens, but she’d be damned if she didn’t give it a try. Didn’t she owe that to Sam?

She’d always had a terrible mouth when it came to Luke. He’d never held back, and she’d taken it as an invitation to do the same. “Wait. You’re ‘mostly here’ to see how much I want to keep the land and the farm that your brother restored? That my husband died while working on it?” She let out a mirthless laugh and shook her head, finally able to look directly at Luke. “You’ve lost your goddamn mind.”

The woman sat her coffee on the counter and stood, moving to lean on the refrigerator, before finally crossing her arms over her chest and deciding to play Devil’s advocate. “What exactly am I supposed to do if I sell it, Luke? Where the fuck am I supposed to go?” Charlie still had family in Nashville, but Hingham Valley had been her home for six years. She’d fought against her parents to come here, and they’d all but disowned her for throwing away the opportunities they’d lined up for her in the South. “I don’t have the luxury of running away when shit happens.”

The words flew out of her mouth before she could stop them and, instantly, she regretted them.

The “your brother” and “my husband” shit Charlie sometimes liked to pull was another layer of guilt on top of the several he already had. Though Luke bristled, he didn’t take the bait. She knew damn well what Sam meant to the both of them. Sure, Charlie could have wet dreams all she wanted about the McCormick she’d never touched, but that didn’t hold a candle to the fact that she’d married the other one. Luke liked to remind himself of this whenever he threatened to get taken away by Charlie’s claims. As far as selling the property went, he supposed her reaction wasn’t the worst outcome -- but he was certain that saying “hey, you should sell” would have gone much more poorly if they’d played house together for a few weeks first.

He spread his arms wide and pointed at the ceiling. “Look at this place! It’s full of rooms for kids you’re never going to have with him. His fucking picture is on almost every fucking wall. His truck is still in the driveway, Charlie. You’re going to live here? Really? In this mausoleum of a house? Or say you do move on -- what’s the new guy supposed to do? Recreate your dead husband’s dream with you?” Luke couldn’t argue and sit still. He was moving, pacing, tense. Further, he was cagey from travelling for two days, and being in Sam’s space without him was odd. A stubborn part of him still believed that Sam was going to walk through the door. Maybe Luke’s lack of acceptance was why he wanted to force Charlie into selling. Or maybe it was because selling his childhood home had been the quickest way to get rid of his father’s memory after he’d finally, finally died.

I don’t have the luxury of running away when shit happens.

Luke wasn’t going to forget or ignore what had just come out of her mouth, but if they snapped at each other after each jab, then the rebuilding process was going to be incredibly difficult for the both of them. “I said I wanted to be here,” he reminded her, “and you’re not going to change my mind.” Hopefully the yelling, pacing, and pointing was over. As he started to cool, he went back to his coffee, feeling a slight headache build behind his eyes. The scotch he’d drank at Sam’s grave was wearing off.

“I don’t know. I’m sure you don’t know either. But selling is my opinion. I can’t make you. If keeping it is what you want, then maybe you can prove me wrong. I want to help you. I do. I really do.” Exhausted eyes found hers. “It’s just the hardest option.”

Every word that Luke spit was a hammer that drove the nail of hurt and depression further into Charlie’s heart.

Kids that she’d never have with Sam.

A mausoleum of a house that would never feel right again.

Her jaw set and her arms crossed over her chest, green eyes still ablaze with absolute unhappiness; part of it felt like a betrayal, to hear Luke all but say she’d be living in the shadow of Sam’s memories, but it was true. Charlie watched him stalk around the kitchen like a caged animal getting ready to pounce, but she would hold her ground. That didn’t mean she couldn’t feel the ball of emotion building in her chest, beginning to claw its way up her throat with sharp talons.

It had only been a few months. She wasn’t even thinking about ‘a new guy’. She wanted her husband back, and she definitely wasn’t looking for a replacement any time soon… neither was she looking to use those upstairs bedrooms and fill them with bassinets and mobiles or baby monitors. Part of her knew that Luke was right: she couldn’t just stay here, keeping everything in the same, pristine condition Sam had left it in, but she couldn’t move on, either.

They’d built a life here. They’d had a plan. He’d wanted a working farm and they’d been damn close to it.

What’s the new guy supposed to do? Recreate your dead husband’s dream with you?

“Why even fucking ask, then, if you’ve already decided what to do?” Charlie muttered tiredly over the cup, shaking her head before taking another drink of coffee. She was too drained to keep fighting, and the outburst had left her spent. There were plenty of rebuttals she could have made, starting with it wasn’t any of his goddamn business how quickly she made a life that wasn’t centered around Sam.

“I said I wanted to stay.” Her eyes flashed back to Luke’s with renewed conviction. “I’m gonna stay. So, you can help me or not, I don’t care.” The brunette allowed a shuddered exhale to escape her, sipping the cold, black liquid again. “Christ, Luke. I don’t know what to do, or how to do it.”

She needed help, as much as it pained her to admit it. Luke had helped Sam around the land more than she had, especially when he spent his leave there. “I…” Charlie wet her lips, her fingers playing with the mug nervously. She should have offered some apology, but it would have only been half-hearted. She’d meant every word she said, just as much as he likely had, too. “There’s always a room for you here. You know that.” If he didn’t, he fucking should have by then.

Charlie knew it was going to be difficult; there wasn’t a part of her that expected to be easy to stay there, with Sam’s truck and the dreams of unborn children filling the house, but it was the right thing to do.

She would need help to do Sam’s job around the farm. She hadn’t exactly had a great income since moving to Montana, but she’d managed. The time she took away from illustrating meant that it was even less money, and -- The words were quiet as Charlie hung her head. “I need you.” She placed the mug gently onto the counter, burying her fingers in Jake's fur as he nudged up against her. "So tell me what you've been doing over the past few months and maybe we can catch up over some bad reality TV?" Charlie's head nodded toward the living room.

That was it then. She was going to stay. And he was going to stay with her. Their only attempt to run the farm together still hung in the air -- hot for days, digging out a new fence, the damn goat running away --

Having a farm had always been Melissa McCormick’s vision, but she’d only started to buy land and get a few chickens before she got sick. Luke remembered what it was like to watch his mother, barely through her mid-thirties and so frail that it was a major accomplishment for her just to sit on the front porch. After everything, Sam was the one most likely to take up the mantle, then probably Matthew. Luke couldn’t and wouldn’t run a farm. He was too irresponsible and hot-tempered. Now, all of a sudden, he was the only one left. Just him, Charlie, and an entire business that depended on them. The truth was, he needed her too. She was his last connection to home, to his brothers, to his family. In many ways, she was all he had left.

I need you.

His jaw tightened and he looked down into his empty coffee mug. He made a noise that was something between a grunt and a sigh. “I don’t think you want to hear about my last few months. I was mostly in rehab in Germany. Bad food, bad TV, shitty weather.” The scar on his neck was small compared to the one that spiderwebbed closer to his chest. His shoulder, where there was more mottled tissue, had given him the most trouble in Syria. It was so bad that they threatened to send him back to the States to recover. This prospect made Luke furious, and the only way he got them to compromise was by taking care of himself. He had to prove that he could still use his shoulder and arm. The process had been complicated because they had to drill plates into a few parts of the bone. It’d more or less been crushed. He was in rehab when Sam died.

The skin and tissue damage far exceeded anything he wanted to show Charlie, so he didn’t talk about it. Ideally, she would never see it. He didn’t want to know what her reaction would be.

While Luke was attracted to just sitting and catching up, he knew that he couldn’t. He needed to check on the fences, equipment, and animals to see if anything had changed since he was last at the house. He needed to shower, change, and put his bags away. He needed to get used to being in Sam’s space without him. He needed constant things to do or he’d just drink and fuck off. If he sat down with Charlie, and they started talking, and she got going about Sam...Luke wasn’t sure what he’d do then.

“I can’t sit,” he said bluntly. One by one, he went through the fridge, pantry, cabinets, and freezer. “Do you want to eat? Dinner? Are you hungry? I have to go to town anyway. I have a few errands to run.”

One of his errands included stopping by the police station -- and he wasn’t very thrilled by that prospect.

The woman’s mouth opened slightly, as if she were going to interrupt Luke’s words, but lips promptly pressed together and let him speak. Truthfully, Charlie didn’t know the man in front of her anymore. God only knew what he had seen, and what he’d been exposed to. She’d tried desperately to forget the moments between them that had sowed so much doubt into Sam’s mind. She’d tried to make herself scarce when her husband had finally reached the overseas soldier, and she’d damn sure tried to keep questions or conversations with Sam about Luke to a minimum.

She wanted to ask about the details of whatever event had caused him to need help, but she managed to just listen. Luke had never struck her as the type to want or ask for assistance; she could only imagine the injury he would have needed to sustain to accept a stint in rehab. Charlie shifted in her chair, finishing the lukewarm coffee she’d had in her mug. “Luke, I—“

I can’t sit. Her eyes watched balefully as he pulled open every door in the kitchen he could find. While they’d had an ample amount of cabinet space, the shelves were the barest they had ever been. With no family or friends here, there was no one to bother her about eating. Many of the dishes her neighbors had made spoiled in the refrigerator or immediately were placed in compost for the pigs. How could she be hungry when Sam had been robbed of that sensation forever?

Charlie looked down at her fingers, studying the reddened cuticles and bitten nails while Luke continued to rummage. At least he’d taken the hint and moved the conversation away from selling the farm. In truth, she’d had some interest but people remained mindful that she’d just suffered a loss. She wasn’t sure how long she would be afforded that luxury and tended to agree with Luke: once people realized he was there, they would apply pressure as they always had.

Perhaps more.

“Dinner sounds good,” Charlie replied, ignoring the bile that rose at the mere thought of an actual meal. “Not that I have much here anyway.” Again she bit her tongue, wanting to immediately inquire as to the errands Luke had already managed to stack up during his short stay here.

I said I wanted to be here, and you’re not going to change my mind.

“I just have to clean up. I was trying to get the barn…” Her words trailed into silence, one hand drifting to lay on Jake’s head. There weren’t many integral parts of farming that Charlie was capable of doing, therefore she’d tried to make herself useful in any way she could. They were menial tasks, even though Sam would take offense when she called them such, but tidying the barn had been her job. Now, she couldn’t even do that.

She placed the mug in the sink before throwing a look over her shoulder. While Sam and Luke had never looked that much alike, it was more difficult to tell them apart if they didn't face her. Her eyes softened, taking in the moment and imagining that it was Sam standing there. At one point, she had envisioned Luke in Sam’s place, but now it seemed the opposite. Times had certainly changed. “We never got around to doing too much more to the house, so don’t think you need a tour.”

As she passed him, Charlie allowed herself to touch Luke’s arm. “Thank you.”

---

It wasn’t much later that Charlie made her way back downstairs. She’d managed to put on some concealer to hide the dark circles under her eyes, for the last thing she needed was people talking about how shitty she looked, particularly while she walked around with her dead husband's brother. Otherwise she still looked a mess, opting for jeans and a gray sweatshirt with ‘Glacier National’ across it.

Jake moved back and worth at the top of the stairs and whined, as if he couldn’t decide whether to join Charlie or if he could deign to leave Luke. Charlie tutted, shaking her head slightly as she moved back into the kitchen. She couldn’t stand looking at that recliner.

The touch at his elbow and small “thank you” made Luke train his eyes on the back of the empty cabinet. After getting in a pissing match with her about selling the farm, the least he could do was make her dinner. “Give me an hour,” was all he said before she went up the stairs.

He wasn’t an idiot. He knew it was exactly that kind of shit – the looks, the touches, the talking without using words – that made people talk. It made the old woman who used to cut his hair ask about his wife, when it had just been Charlie flipping through a magazine in the waiting room, insistent that she had “other errands to run in town too.” It made his brother paranoid and self-deprecating when he was too drunk. It made the buddies from his unit say “sure, whatever” when he explained that it was his sister-in-law who sent him pictures and letters from home.

Sometimes he thought that with all the talk, they just should’ve done it. They should’ve fucked it out against the side of the barn, after any of their numerous fights, laughs, lingering looks, or frustrations. Other times, he saw how Charlie looked at Sam like he was responsible for the sun rising and setting each day, and Luke knew that they would never. Could never. Even if they were simultaneously stupid enough to be that degree of selfish, they couldn’t. It would ruin their dynamic, their friendship, their relationships with Sam. Everything.

And now when Luke looked at Charlie, his entire chest fucking hurt. Her effort to be normal was not strong enough to overcome her grief. At least, not to him. He let his gaze linger on the family photos on the fridge before taking a deep breath and shifting his brain into a different mental gear. Dinner.

The cellar yielded promising results in the form of a small canning “apocalypse” shelf (as Sam had called it) and a chest freezer. Underneath a disconcerting amount of frozen casseroles that Luke knew were, in fact, funeral dinners, was a package of chicken thighs without too much freezer burn. He defrosted them in a microwave, browned them in a cast iron, and sauteed a hearty onion and few sad carrots from the crisper drawer in the chicken fat. While the chicken cooled, he smoked a cigarette outside and tossed Jake a ratty tennis ball. His little cooking task had distracted him from the fact that Sam was gone for thirty minutes. Well, he figured, it was better than nothing.

When Charlie came downstairs, she found him digging around in the back of the fridge for chicken bouillon, but as how everything goes with Luke, one project became three others. While he’d gotten rid of everything expired, reorganized the shelves by putting most perishable in the front and least perishable in the back, and tossed everything that he recognized from his last visit over Christmas, eight months ago – dinner was only halfway cooked. This was the part where he usually would’ve joked about how she trusted him, didn’t she – that she had four fewer weird fridge mustards than she did an hour ago. He would ask her for baking powder and make fun of her when she gave him baking soda.

Instead, Luke leaned against the counter and cleared his throat, fiddling with the lid of the chicken bouillon. “Another hour. I promise.” He was normally much better about it, but being exhausted made Luke’s “idiot brother” traits come out. The lack of focus, the temper, the tangents, the general affinity for being up to no good. Despite his obvious fatigue and exhaustion, he did offer her the smallest of grins. “It’ll be worth it.”

He got out a stockpot and made a roux with some flour, milk and chicken fat. He added the shredded chicken, carrots, and onion back. Water. Bouillon. High heat. Stir. Frequently. “Chicken and biscuits,” he finally told her. The Army had taught Luke that he really enjoyed cooking. And goddamn if he wasn’t thrilled to eat something besides a MRE. Once everything reduced to a stew, he made a loose biscuit mix (which was thankfully barebones because Charlie’s baking supplies were horribly lackluster), he dropped them on top of the stew and put the lid on.

At Jake’s whining insistence, Luke threw him another tennis ball off the back porch.

He couldn’t avoid the elephant in the room any longer.

“You can’t live like this, Charlie. We can’t. We have to paint the walls, put things in storage, burn that fucking chair. Sell his fishing rods in the basement.” Luke itched for a cigarette, but he tried not to do it directly in front of her face. “He didn’t even like fucking fishing!” he yelled, throwing his hands up. “Change your bedroom. Raise baby chickens. Find a new normal.”

Luke’s eyes begged, and he wasn’t sure if he was trying to convince Charlie to change, or if he was trying to convince himself.

All Charlie could do was watch as the man moved around the kitchen, the aromas of homemade cooking wafting towards her. She hadn’t turned on the oven in weeks, and was sure that most of the pots and pans had a small film of dust that she typically would have been embarrassed about. The shame of watching Luke, after his long journey from Europe with dark circles that rivaled her own, in her kitchen to make them something was far more severe than her lack of cleanliness since Sam had died. She felt heat rise in her cheeks as he turned and gave her a shadow of a smile.

Another hour or two… it hardly mattered. Charlie was past the point of hunger. She’d assumed they’d go out and get something; had she known he would have pulled out all the stops, she would have lied and said she’d just had something to eat earlier. The woman lifted onto a chair near the island, propping her head up with a hand as her eyes followed Luke’s movements. He had always seemed comfortable here, something that on occasion irked Sam.

He walks around here like he owns the damn place. Charlie’s shoulders dropped as she realized how difficult it had become to remember the way his voice sounded, the gruffness of his voice that became more prevalent the more he drank or the way his voice raised when his favorite football team ruined a play. She hadn’t realized how deep in thought she was until she heard Luke’s low voice break the silence that had grown between them. It was for that very reason it took her a few moments to grasp onto his words and what he was truly saying, the way she flinched when his voice raised. Charlie adjusted herself, again looking down at the hands that had travelled to her lap.

How could she do any of the things he suggested? Paint over the walls and forget how Sam had laughed when she’d turned to him, covered in splattered paint from the roller? Take the things in the house that reminded her of Sam and lock them away so that they couldn’t touch the light of day? Burn the chair that Sam had picked himself and swore religiously by after a long day of working on their farm?

Unadulterated rage quickly overtook Charlie, her eyes narrowing as she met Luke’s. “You want me to erase him?” She asked, her voice quiet with seething. “You want me to act like he wasn’t the one was here with me every single day?” The way you weren’t. She fought tooth and nail to keep the unbated insult from reaching her lips. It wasn’t fair to say that, not when they were both hurting.

Because, despite everything, she had chosen Sam. Luke had never expressly discussed how he felt about her and vice versa. That was a conversation that would happen only over her dead body, and she’d be damned if she spoke it into existence when they were looking at another argument.

“I owe him that, Luke. I made a promise.” Charlie’s voice was raising now. “You act like it should be so easy to move on! Like you can just come here and take charge, like you don’t know what my life has been like over the past few weeks.” She felt the tell-tale signs of emotion welling up in her throat and fought the tears that would have readily dropped if she let them. ”’What’s the new guy supposed to do?’ What fucking new guy, huh? I’ll never —”

The woman took a deep breath, unable to ignore how shuddered it was. “Why would I do any of that?” Her voice was quiet now. “Why would I want to forget him?”

Luke squeezed his eyes shut and pushed his thumbs into the sockets until he saw stars. She fucking killed him sometimes with her old “you weren’t the one who stayed” schtick, like he hadn’t been in the military for ten years before he met her. Like Sam didn’t have a farmer’s conference in Nashville years ago and went back every other month until he convinced Charlie to move up here with him. Like he somehow knew Charlie before Sam, like it was a choice to “leave” or “hide” or “abandon.” Besides, he wasn’t convinced that if he’d met Charlie first, then she wouldn’t have fallen in love with Sam anyway. Because she did love him. He saw it every time he came home in the last goddamn five years. Right in front of his face. Wedding shit, baby talk, renovation dreams. When he heard their bedframe hitting the wall before dawn, he’d get up early and muck out stalls in the dark. Maybe they had more sex whenever Luke had a weird tension snap with Charlie, like when he brought home a girl from the bar last year and he had to hear about how “this isn’t a hotel” for a week straight. Maybe he was making it up. Some fucking choice.

When he opened his eyes, he somehow seemed even more tired. He ran his tongue along the inside of his teeth and shook his head. “Jesus Christ, Charlie, give me a break. You know that’s not what I mean. Do you think I erased Matty? Our mom, our dad? Huh? Any of the dozens of guys I’ve seen killed in the desert?”

He plucked her wedding photo off the fridge, tossed it on the island, and pointed. “He loved you, to hell and back. I’ve never seen him care about someone more, I fucking swear to God. And when you love someone like that – ” His voice got quiet and his jaw tightened. “When you love someone like that,” he repeated, “it never goes away. You don’t forget it. You don’t get over it. It stays with you, forever.”

Luke took some steps away from her, having gotten too close during his monologue, and he turned his back while he checked the stove. Not done yet. He put the lid back on, a little too forcefully. “A part of you will always belong to him,” he said to the backsplash behind the oven. Even the spices she had stacked along the top of it were dusty. “I promise.”

As he willed dinner to finish cooking, he got a club soda from the fridge. He wanted a drink more than life itself, but lately alcohol only just highlighted everything he was feeling. And he sure as hell didn’t want to feel more of it. Three hours back in the house, and he’d already told Charlie to sell and to hurry up and get over her dead husband because he found it depressing. Luke stared at the pot on the stove. He wasn’t going to burn dinner on top of it.

In her mourning, Charlie found it difficult to extend grace to others who had also lost. It was if she had developed some blind spot that allowed her to ignore the fact that others, too, were affected by death… it allowed her not to care. Sure, they’d experienced loss, but had they experienced seeing the man who talked about renovations and babies and life trapped underneath something else dead? Seen the waxy, near yellow color of their significant other, unresponsive to pleas and begging or felt the pop of a socket as they tried to pull them out from under what killed them?

This moment was no different. She’d known all along that Luke had been about to as accustomed to death as one could be, but it didn’t matter. Sam had been his brother, but he’d been her husband. She was supposed to be with him forever, and now he wasn’t here. All Charlie had were these memories that Luke had not only suggested to take away but now threw in her face. She tore her eyes from the photo, tears blurring her vision as she continued to stare angrily at Luke even when he turned to tend the food.

“I don’t need to be reminded of that,” she snapped, eyes still narrowed. She would forever remember how fiercely Sam had loved her and that she would likely never experience it again. Milly told her that things would get better and, eventually, she would have the chance to be happy again. She, too, had mentioned moving on, offering to come to the farm and help pack things up but it was all too soon.

How could she get rid of him?

Rage turned to sorrow again, causing Charlie to stand and move towards Luke. “I know you miss him,” she started quietly, breaching the gap between them with only a few steps. “And I know it’s hard to see him here. Everywhere.” God, she was tired. “But if you could just give me a little bit of time. Maybe you being here will make it easier to deal with his absence.” It wasn’t the best thing to say, but it was the most truthful.

She looked up at Luke, offering what she hoped was a convincing smile. “Maybe we can paint.” Her fingers fell over the ones that held the club soda, lingering for more than they should have, before taking it from him. “And maybe not drink from the can.” Once she’d pried it from him, she grabbed a glass and washed it out, then filling it with ice and emptying the drink into it. “You know there’s probably eight different types of shit on that, right?”

Charlie held out the glass. “You wanna tell me about what errands you already have to do?”

Charlie had lost her husband, yes. She’d found his body. Slept beside his empty space in the bed each night. Saw his clothes in the closet. Dealt with everyone’s apologies, for weeks, while Luke was getting surgeries at a hospital half the world away. She was the one with her boots on the ground. Still didn’t change his resolution that they didn’t have to live in a haunted house because of it all. Maybe you being here will make it easier to deal with his absence. Luke’s shoulders lost some of their tension as he let the words settle under his skin. The statement bothered him for some reason, but he couldn’t explain why. It was clear that they dealt with loss differently, and if he had to look at Sam’s old things every day and every night, then he’d do it. He already said his piece. He wasn’t going to beat the subject to death.

When she came to take the club soda can, his hold was so loose that he almost dropped it. Over the years, small touches became their way of telling each other that everything was going to be ok. Or that everything was going to shit. For some reason, words made all their feelings seem much more real, which would be their damnation. Touch could be misconstrued. Tell me that you need me. Say that you think about it too. Beg me to stay, and I will – that was crystal fucking clear. Her hand on his elbow or his back while he poured coffee? That could mean anything.

Luke’s own hands were worn and scarred from being a shithead teenager, working on a farm, and being in the military. The Army was selectively lenient with arm tattoos, but anything on his hands was a hard no. Instead of ink, he had callouses, marks, and one missing fingernail on his left pinky finger. He’d gotten it caught while trying to fix the tractor two summer ago, and Christ if it didn’t bleed so much that Sam joked about him sleeping outside so he wouldn’t flood the house. The nail never grew back. There was a scar on across his palm from when he tried to get a rabbit out of a fox trap. The rabbit got free, but Luke hadn’t. His hands never truly seemed clean, no matter how hard he scrubbed them.

Gently, he took the fresh glass from Charlie, and his gaze found her wedding ring. His father never took his off after his mom had died. “Then I won’t tell you what I ate out in the desert,” he said, unable to stop his smirk. “You won’t like it.”

The look on his face changed when she asked him about his errands. He took a large sip from the glass, draining most of it, and turned his attention back to the pot on the stove. It was done. He flipped the burner and removed the lid.

“I have to stop by the police station. Anna messaged me when I was in Germany, and she said I still had personal effects from last summer.”

Anna Bowers was the Hingham Valley Chief of Police. She was also the girl who smoked cigarettes with him under the bleachers in high school. If time and life were different, he probably would’ve married her, but she wanted kids, a house, and roots. She wanted everything that Luke couldn’t give her. He never wanted to be locked in this town. He wasn’t Sam. He never would be. Even still, when he was in town, they would go out for beers and have sex. Just familiar people doing familiar things.

She was also exactly the type of person who would show up unannounced if Luke said he was going to do something and then didn’t.

Luke put his tongue in his cheek and didn’t look at Charlie. Instead, he got plates from the cabinet and made a big deal out of making sure that the silverware matched. He’d rather inspect the patterns on the fork handles than watch her remember exactly why he’d spent a night downtown a year ago. He’d gotten in a bar fight with one of the Atkinson brothers, a drunk who liked to say stupid shit. Shit like if Sam and Charlie had a baby, then Sam needed to get a DNA test to make sure it was his. So jail it was for Luke. And he couldn’t call Sam about it because he’d spiral, so he’d called Charlie. And that was the story.

He handed her a plate. “We’re going to have this all week, so you better like it.” Either way, it was better than funeral casserole.

There. A small semblance of normalcy had finally woven its way towards them, a small joke that typically would have caused Charlie to slap him playfully on the arm and convince him to tell her exactly what he had consumed. Instead, her eyes found his, taking some comfort in the way his lips had turned up genuinely instead of forced, as they had since he’d been here. She moved when he did, going to the sink to tidy up what she could. She’d never been a fan of mess and had recently learned that there wouldn’t be anything to clean if there wasn’t anything dirtied. It had been yet another reason why the house looked untouched; some days she couldn’t get out of bed, and the ones she managed to she spent out in the barn. As much as she hated to admit it, Luke’s visit was the only time she could remember spending outside of her bedroom. Their bedroom.

“Anna?” Charlie’s nose wrinkled slightly as she dried her hands, turning to Luke again. Her hip made contact with the counter as she rested there, crossing her arms. Last summer?

The bedside table rattled with vibration, causing Charlie to crack open one eye and immediately look at the time. 3:05 in the morning, who the fuck would be calling her? She fought a groan as she propped herself up, sight clearing just enough to read her caller ID. She immediately grabbed the phone and looked at Sam, who was sound asleep and snoring. Charlie swore someone could be breaking in and the man would sleep through the racket.

“Hello?”

“Charlie.” She hated how rough his voice was, how it made her heart beat faster, how it made her carefully remove herself from the sheets and exit the room as quickly as possible. Had she ever heard him sound so sheepish? There was only one reason he’d be calling from ‘Hingham Valley Pol’ at this time of night.

“What the fuck did you do?” And then she listened. She could feel her stomach drop, anxiety coursing through her. She wouldn’t ask him if he was alright; he always was.

“Don’t tell Sam.”

Of course, ‘don’t tell Sam’. She would have lied through her teeth if her husband woke up and came to the door, asking who she was talking to. But he didn’t, and she tried to stifle the nervousness that had surfaced… like she was doing something wrong. “Give me twenty minutes.”

Last summer. “Oh.”

Her brother-in-law, defending her honor. There shouldn’t have been anything to defend, and she certainly should have never accompanied him into town as much as she did. To the hair place, the grocery store. Never should have been seen laughing with him, or putting a ‘friendly’ arm through his as they walked. “Thank you,” Charlie managed, grabbing the plate and once more moving towards the chairs at the island again. She couldn’t sit at the table where she and Sam had dinner every night, breakfast every morning. She picked at the food, not yet able to bring herself to eat. How could it smell so good and yet so nauseating at the same time?

“She came out, you know. When…” Her voice trailed off. “I forgot you always had a thing for her.” She never pried into Luke’s love life, though she was aware nothing ever seemed to last for him. He’d never seemed the type to settle down, unlike his brother. “I bet she wouldn’t say no if you wanted to take her for dinner sometime. Since you’ll be here for awhile.”

The words slipped out before she could think about what she was saying and immediately her stomach turned. There had been times where she and Sam had suggested he go on more dates, find someone that could tame him… and each time, she’d felt the same knot develop. Charlie could still remember the time he'd brought a girl home and she could hear the telltale sound of the headboard hitting the wall. Had that been Anna? She could also easily recall how jealousy had reared without warning and that she had told Luke her house wasn't a brothel.

Luke preferred eating at the island. The kitchen table was a stuffy relic from his childhood that his father insisted on keeping as the “moral foundation of the household.” His dad got worse as his mother’s health declined. When he was sixteen, he’d gotten in a fist fight at school and had to later sit at that ridiculous table with a black eye while his father ripped him a new asshole. Sam’s going to run a business. What are you going to do, huh? Besides give me a goddamn stroke. Luke remembered laughing at him. I’m getting as far away from here as I can, and I’m never coming back.

If he ever convinced Charlie to get rid of some of this shit, the table was going first.

The trouble with the island was that he’d pictured her sitting on it with her legs wrapped around his waist – more than once. He blamed it on all the time they spent together in kitchen. Proximity. That was all.

The biscuits were slightly underdone, but it made no difference to Luke as he cut into his dinner. His habit of always eating like he never would again made it strikingly obvious that Charlie had barely even taken a bite. Her lack of an appetite critically concerned him, in addition to the fatigue she couldn’t hide. He didn’t address it because the only thing it would likely do was embarrass her. Luke would make her three meals a day for the next several months if that’s what it took.

“Me and Anna are friends.” Now that he was no longer moving, he was acutely aware of how terribly his new scarring itched under his shirt. The angry, red start of it was just visible over the tee’s collar. He pressed a palm to the side of his chest and took another bite of his dinner. “I don’t have a ‘thing’ for her, Charlie,” he teased gently. “I sneak her notes in math class and we make out at the lockers after school, but that’s it.”

She had a point. He could very well ask Anna to dinner. The likelihood he was going to pass a physical and psych evaluation for another deployment was low. Plus he wasn’t sure how long it was going to take to collect the rubble and get the building blocks of the farm standing up again. He didn’t know what the goal was. When he found Charlie on the back porch, smiling for the hell of it? When the house felt like a home again? When she laughed and it didn’t feel forced?

He conceded. “I will. Later. Not now. I want to…” Luke gestured at the sliding door behind them and the farm beyond that with his fork. “You know.” Fix this.

The movement caused another sharp pain in his ribs. Maybe it was his ribs. All of it ached, so he couldn’t tell exactly where the problem was. Everything from his shoulder to the middle of his chest was the equivalent of hamburger meat stitched back together. A muscle tightening in his neck was the only indicator that something was wrong. He ignored it. Charlie didn’t need to know that he couldn’t lift anything above his head. She didn’t need to see all the medication in his green duffel that he needed to fall asleep at night. Another reason why he wasn’t drinking as much. He refused to be another thing she had to worry about it. He could do this. Just a few more weeks and he’d be fine. “I need a game plan before I can – ”

Luke dropped his fork and gripped the side of the island. "Jesus fuck,” he hissed. His small window of ignoring it was gone. He pushed his stool back and put more pressure to the left side of his chest with his palm, taking a moment to breathe and focus on what was wrong. The weight of his hand helped. Jake picked his head off the floor, ears up, a small whine in his throat.

He swallowed and swore again.

“It’s from all the moving and travelling. It’s healing. It seems worse than it is. I tried to leave when they told me about Sam, and I made everything worse and had to get another surgery. I bet he was watching, fucking laughing at me.” He was talking in circular nonsense now – not to Charlie, but to himself. Luke grit his teeth as the pain spread. The stitches had only just barely healed, but the muscle needed much more time.

Dark eyes begged when he looked up at her, voice hoarse. “Nothing bad is going to happen to me. Please. I promise.”

Metal prongs of the fork scraped against ceramic, causing Charlie to wince slightly. She managed to get a small bite of biscuit, bringing it up and into her mouth without managing to grimace. In all truth, food hadn’t tasted quite the same since Sam had died. She’d always been conscious of calories, not wanting the home cooking on a farm to go straight to her waist as it had a habit of doing, but she’d never turned down a meal before.

Friends. She had an inkling that Anna had wanted to be more than brushed off high school interactions. Charlie would run out of fingers on both hands if she counted all of the women’s hearts Luke had broken, at least per Sam’s report. It didn’t surprise her; he’d always been less than eager to stay in one place for too long. She briefly wondered how serious he was about spending his few months of leave here. Most of their previous visits had been a few weeks at their lengthiest and he always seemed to be itching to get away towards the end.

Her eyes briefly glanced up at his movement, knowing that what mess the farm had turned into in such a short span of time would be more than enough work for a while. Charlie’s utensil continued its fruitless motion of stabbing and moving food around as if she were a child trying to get out of eating dinner until she heard the clatter of Luke’s own fork drop.

Her eyes widened and she could feel her heart flutter in the worst way. Was he having a heart attack? She needed to call someone, but it would take half an hour for anyone to get here. Should she get the keys to the truck? Hell, the battery could be dead and the tires flat for all she knew. As much as she wanted to leap into action, the woman sat there petrified as she listened to the whispered curses.

She couldn’t do this again. She couldn’t watch another man she loved die on this fucking farm. Couldn’t see the tattooed arms gripping at his chest and the island go slack, couldn’t see his body to the floor, couldn’t see him turn a garish color as the life drained from his body. Move, she begged herself, frozen in panic as the palpitations continued, getting worse. She couldn’t even ask if he was alright, tongue suddenly swollen enough that it made it difficult to breathe.

All she could do was stare. His words didn’t even register, running together in a way that sounded like a different language to her. She couldn’t do anything for Sam - couldn’t save him - and now she couldn’t do anything for his brother. Any tear that she’d held back from minutes earlier began to cloud her vision.

Nothing bad is going to happen to me.

She couldn’t focus. Every fiber of her being told her that wasn’t true, that this was the last time she’d hear his voice.

I promise.

Sam had promised never to leave her, and look what had happened. She wasn’t equipped to deal with this. She hadn’t birthed cows, or seen combat, or ever had experience to fight the adrenaline and terror that kept her rooted in place.

Don’t leave me.

Pain. It was just pain. She could hear the sincerity in his voice, his eyes begging her not to lose her shit. “Tell me what to do,” she croaked, her own words thick with emotion as she wiped her face. “Tell me what to do to fix it. I can’t —“ As if speaking had finally broken the spell, she moved quickly to where she kept medication, grabbing a handful of pill bottles. They scattered as she nearly threw them on the island, searching frantically.

She never used to have so many medications. Tylenol, ibuprofen, and Tums were about the only thing she’d ever needed before Sam’s death but now she had to sort through things meant for anxiety, depression, panic attacks. “What do I do?” Shaky fingers grabbed ibuprofen, twisting the lid before pills littered the island. “Take something.”

Blood rushed to his chest, his body’s attempt to combat the threat in his muscles. A willowy lightheaded feeling threatened to take over Luke’s limbs, but he fought the urge to pass out, even though letting go would have brought him peace and relaxation. He mumbled something he himself couldn’t understand while Charlie dumped her medicine cabinet on the island. He tried to tell her that none of that would help.

“My bag. The front – oh, you fucking bitch,” he wheezed, pressing both hands to his side. It’d never hurt this bad. He couldn’t even make dinner without having an episode, which made disappointment and anger flood him. The letters on her sweatshirt became blurry. “The front pocket, baby. There’s a shot. Like a…like a…” He forced the words through clenched teeth. “Like an insulin pen.” Mostly slurred nonsense left his mouth. Luke had only called her “Charlie" before. Never, ever anything else.

His Army bag was still in the corner by the hutch. There were several hundred pockets, but the one at the top had random things like his passport, cigarettes, a ratty pack of chewing gum, several types of medication, his muscle shots, and envelopes that he hoped she either wouldn’t see – or would forget as soon as she saw them. There were only two, one addressed to Samuel McCormick and the other to Charlotte McCormick. Whenever he was deployed, he wrote them both letters in case he never came back. Once he was in Montana, he threw them out.

Orphenadrine. It was in a plastic bag with other pain meds and sleeping pills.

He could do the shot himself. Explaining how and where to do it would’ve been too much for him to explain.

Luke pulled the cap off his with his teeth and put the needle into his left pectoral, through his shirt. It took him a minute to adjust, but the pain blocker was immediate. Numbness crept through his chest and up to his shoulder. Color gradually came back to his face and he relaxed a bit, refocusing.

He gave Charlie a goofy smile, one that only happened when he was drunk. She was slowly coming back to focus, and when he registered how stricken she looked, he reached for her hand, arm, hip, anything. “Fuck the farm,” he mumbled. “You and me – we gotta open a Rite Aid.”

The island was covered in bottles. With the precision of a seasoned alcoholic, he tried to sit up in his seat. “A few minutes. Ten, and I’ll be back to normal. I just overworked everything." A pause. "I'm sorry you had to see that."

Focus ticked back into his brain every few seconds. Soon, he started to put the spilled medicine back into their containers and separated hers from his. Pain, fog, slurring, and then he was back down. The whole process was alarming but brief. It was impossible not to glaze over the bold letters on the sides of the bottles. Fluoxetine. Alprazolam. No bad pills. Nothing truly alarming. When Luke talked to the doctors, he was very insistent on not having opiates. At the end of his mother’s life, he’d seen what they did to her.

Once he was mostly back to himself, he looked up at Charlie. “How about that TV, huh? How do you feel about that? Something stupid.” He grinned, just slightly, unable to help it. “No Yellowstone.”

The bag.

Charlie had made to move away to begin searching for the bag - had even located it by glancing around the room - when his words stopped her immediately.

Baby?

She couldn’t think about that right now. If he’d said that shit six months ago, she would have skipped her way to the phone and promptly made a call to Milly, asking what she should do, if she should address it, what did it mean. But clearly Luke wasn’t in his right state of mind and now was not the time to dwell. So she started again, her pulse lowering slightly with each step, until she grabbed the dusky bag that had clearly been through more than just one or two international flights.

Front. Pen. But as she opened the flap, her eyes skimmed over the contents quickly until they landed on envelopes. Normally she wouldn’t pry, but she could see the tops of some letters, like an ’S’ on one and a ‘Ch’ no the other.

How did she suddenly have so many things to address with him?

A little more digging procured a small, plastic bag and she opened it hastily, the leftover surge of adrenaline causing her fingers to still shake as she handed it to him. All she could do was hand it to him and watch helplessly as Luke administered the medication.

Her eyes lingered on the scar; she hadn’t known it was so extensive, or so ugly. Emotion welled again in her throat as she wondered what he could have possibly endured to have that, but she refused to cry again. Refused to feel any relief as he looked up at her like she’d just caught him at the bar, refused to feel the way his hand had found its way to her waist.

So she just waited there, until he let go of her and had some of his senses back. She didn’t want to look at the other things he had stored in the bag. It wasn’t any of her business, was it? Charlie tried to calm herself while Luke waited out the meds. “It’s okay,” she replied quietly, wishing she could give him some support other than silence.

Fuck the farm. Fuck the farm exactly, if he said he overworked it and hadn’t got to much manual labor at all. It would have been nice had he been upfront about the injury but she knew better than to expect that from him. Charlie remembered throwing the words “If you don’t talk about it, it just didn’t happen then?” more than a few times, always in frustration at how eager he was to hide things from them.

From her.

She started to clean up, putting leftovers in tubs then washing the pots he’d used and the cutlery they’d dirtied. Charlie was quick to remove her plate and was thankful that Luke was still trying to recover from his episode, and by the time he spoke again, all that was left was his plate.

Looking up at him, anger replaced whatever nondescript feelings she had in that moment. “TV? You wanna watch fucking TV and not talk about a goddamn thing that just happened?” She scoffed, raised a brow, and crossed her arms, watching for changes in his expression. “You wanna have a complete come apart at dinner, not tell me how you got that scar, call me baby, tell me to get in your bag where there’s letters fucking addressed to me and your dead brother, then ask me if I want to watch TV?” She ran a frustrated hand through her hair. “Jesus Christ, Luke.”