Reclaimed (33 page)

I took a stack of clean dishes over to the china cabinet and began putting them away. We’d eaten on those dishes every Thanksgiving I could remember. They’d once sat in Mops’s kitchen. Now they sat in Mom’s.

“It helps that I’ve been where she is,” Mops said. “When things get bad, she calls me.”

Such a small thing, but for Mom, it was a huge step.

Mops stepped away from the sink and cracked her back. “I’m beat,” she said, smiling. “Think I might lie down on the couch and rest my eyes a bit.” She folded the dish towel and placed it on the counter. “Why don’t you go for a run.”

I’d been dying to. Being back in the house made me antsy, even if things were a little better. And I’d promised Coach I wouldn’t get soft over the break. I’d missed out on qualifying for the national championship meet by twenty seconds. I was determined not to let that happen next year.

I carried my bags upstairs and changed into my running clothes. My room looked like I’d never left. My bulletin board was still crammed with old pictures and cross-country ribbons. I stepped into the closet and pulled up the loose floorboard. My old writing notebooks were still there. My treasures were too, hidden now in the box he’d made me instead of the old shoebox I’d used before. I’d tried to leave everything behind when I’d left. Especially him.

I tiptoed downstairs, leaving one copy of my short story in the living room next to Mops and the other on Mom’s nightstand. Both were sleeping soundly. I hoped they’d wake up and read the story before I got back.

As I ran away from the house and onto the beaten path through the woods, it wasn’t so much an escape as it was a reclamation. Healing was going to take time. But there was hope. I’d chased my dreams all the way to Colorado State University. I hadn’t caught them all yet, but I was going to. I was getting faster.

I wasn’t surprised to find myself running toward Pops’s house. I would probably always think of it that way, no matter what had happened. The house had been empty since they’d left in the night. They hadn’t been able to sell it, but it was probably better that way. Too many memories for other people to keep adding to.

The smell of damp pine needles was so comforting, so very much home, that I wanted to bottle it and take it back with me. I stepped out of the trees and toward the pond. The house looked exactly the same, though the grass needed cutting.

The buzz of a saw cut through the still air, and my mouth went dry.

The shop drew me in. My heart slammed against my chest as I walked closer, and it had absolutely nothing to do with the three miles I’d just run.
Surely not
, I told myself.
Surely not
.

An unfamiliar truck was parked underneath the metal canopy of the workshop, and a new sign hung over the doors:
Solitude Cabinets and Millworks
.

I froze. I wasn’t a coward, but in that moment, I was too terrified to take a single step. My mind and heart kept singing his name, a tune I’d wanted to forget, but couldn’t. It couldn’t be true.

The shop doors opened, and a man stepped through, wiping his face with a towel. He stopped when he saw me, his face registering the shock I felt. There was a hint of the boy I’d once known in that face. He ran a hand through the dark hair that still curled at the edges of his collar. A tiny piece of what I’d lost was found.

“Luke?” I whispered.

He crossed the space between us in two long strides. I couldn’t look away. And while his jaw was now covered by dark stubble, I’d be lying if I said those blue eyes weren’t familiar.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I want to begin by thanking my editor, Danielle Ellison, who discovered my book, loved it, and gave it a home. I’m grateful to Patricia Riley, Cindy Thomas, and everyone else at Spencer Hill Contemporary and Spencer Hill Press. They are amazing people to work with and I feel so very lucky. Thanks also to Jenn Rush for designing this beautiful cover.

I want to thank my students, past and present, who always encouraged me and even begged me to print out copies of this manuscript just so they could read it. Thanks to my “crew” – you know who you are. Thank you specifically to Emily T., who was willing to read
Reclaimed
and give me her thoughts, and who has always encouraged me to keep writing.

I am grateful for my critique partners, Abigail and Kate, who went through this book line by line and helped make it so much stronger. They are amazing writers and friends, and I’m so honored they picked me.

Thank you to all of my family for their unending support and love, especially my grandmother, who told me stories, and my parents, who always believed I could do anything I wanted to.

My sister has always been one of my biggest supporters. She is my first reader, biggest cheerleader, and best friend. Thanks, Em, for believing in me and knowing just how to make me laugh.

Finally, thank you to my husband, who has always been so incredibly supportive in every single thing I’ve ever attempted in my life. He’s never once doubted me. I couldn’t have done any of this without him.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Sarah Guillory has always loved words and had a passion for literature. When she’s not reading or writing, Sarah runs marathons, which she credits with keeping her at least partially sane. Sarah teaches high school English and lives in Louisiana with her husband and their bloodhound, Gus.
Reclaimed
is her debut novel.