As promised, I fly home for the weekend. It’s a relief to step off the plane in Nebraska and only receive a couple of side glances, rather than the mob I left behind in South Carolina.

My entire family is there waiting when I walk out of the baggage claim, and I can’t help but smile at the sight. I’m passed through them all for hugs of greeting. Aside from my mother, I haven’t seen any of them since the hospital, and that was a brief interaction, considering I was dazed from the hit and from seeing Viv.

I feel myself de-stress further when my dad starts up the long dirt driveway that leads to the farmhouse I grew up in. The media and its endless speculation feel distant now that I’m surrounded by rolling fields. One thing that doesn’t feel distant? Vivienne. I’ve only been back home once since we were here together, and I’m immediately reminded why as my dad parks next to the faded red truck we drove here together in.

I lived here for eighteen years before leaving for Lincoln. I returned for countless breaks once I had. But in the five days she was here, she somehow managed to brand everything. There’s the cart she got stuck that’s parked next to the barn, the stairs she shucked corn with Max on straight ahead, the black horse she rode grazing in the pasture. It’s even worse in the house. I’ve made a point not to enter the laundry room where she stayed.

My mom sends me a concerned look as we head indoors, as though she’s aware of the direction my thoughts have taken.

I spend the day throwing myself into every task around the farm I can find. I chop wood, mow the lawn, scrub buckets, harvest crops, and generally do everything I can to stay occupied. No one mentions her. Not even Claire. Since she doesn’t have much of a filter, I’m guessing my family had a conversation before I arrived.

The following morning, Mike and I head into town to pick up the paper. It’s early enough we only encounter a few of Fulton’s other residents.

I leave Mike chatting with a high school friend at the general store and head across the street to get us coffee. I’ve just grabbed the steaming cups of liquid and am turning to leave when I encounter Gretchen, who’s just entered the small shop. She looks startled to see me.

“Jace!”

“Hey, Gretchen,” I reply. We exchange a brief hug.

“How are you doing? I was so worried when I saw the reports you were injured…” Her voice trails off as she undoubtedly recalls the other topic prominently featured in the reporting. She doesn’t bring the subject of Vivienne up, however, which I’m grateful for.

“I’m okay. Thanks for asking.”

Gretchen nods awkwardly. “I’m glad.” A brief pause ensues as I try to come up with an excuse to leave.

“I have to get to work,” she tells me, glancing at the clock on the wall. “But would you want to catch up tonight? We could meet up at Jerry’s?” she asks, referencing the only bar in our small town.