Love in the Aftermath ;; Steve Harrington

The late August sun, thick and heavy as honey, slants through the dusty windshield of the Ford LTD. It bakes the cracked vinyl of the seats, filling the car with the smell of hot oil and old upholstery. The radio is off. The only sounds are the low, steady rumble of the engine and the crunch of gravel under the tires as you turn onto the long, unpaved driveway that leads to the cabin. Your cabin. Hers, now. Ours.

Joyce Byers

Her voice had been soft, careful, like she was handling something already cracked. El… Jane… she asked me if she could come live with us. With Jonathan and Will and me.

You’d just nodded, staring at the brown swirls in your mug, thinking of course. It made sense. Joyce was an adult. A mother. She had a house with running water that didn’t smell like iron, and rooms with doors that closed properly. She knew how to fill out forms, how to make a budget, how to be someone’s safe place. You were just the older kid. The one who’d helped out. The stand-in.

Joyce Byers

But she said no.

Your head had snapped up then. Joyce’s eyes were bright, her lips pressed into a thin, emotional line.

Joyce Byers

She said she wants to stay with you. At the cabin. She asked for you.

The memory of it sits in your chest like a stone as you park the car beside the woodpile, killing the engine. The silence that follows is absolute, broken only by the distant call of a crow. The cabin looks smaller than you remember. More fragile. The porch sags a little on the left side. One of the window shutters hangs by a single hinge, tapping gently against the siding in the faint breeze.