Travis by Mia Sheridan

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

 

Haven

 

A buzz of voices welcomed us as we pulled the door to the town hall open. A few heads turned, some smiled, some looked mildly curious as they sipped from Styrofoam cups. I took a deep breath of the air redolent with coffee and baked goods, running my hands over my thighs. “Come on,” Easton said, leading me toward the table where three large silver urns sat beside platters of cookies and baked goods.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” I asked under my breath.

Easton picked up a donut, taking a big, sugary bite and not bothering to chew or swallow before answering, “Yesh.” He paused, gulped. “The Pelion firehouse guys will all be here. There’s the captain right over there,” he said, lifting his chin and giving a small wave to the stern-looking man near the stage. The man gave a head nod in acknowledgment. “Might as well jump right in if we’re going to join this community.”

Easton moved from one foot to the other. His tell. He was nervous. He’d never admit it but he wanted to be accepted. He’d always been the odd man out, the kid who couldn’t invite others over.

The one whose mother never showed.

The one who’d waited anyway.

He deserved this. To make friends. To be accepted.

I was doing this for him. But I was also doing this for me. My nerves felt frayed, heart quickening with both excitement—hope—and trepidation. It had been two long years, and I was about to take my first big risk.

You can do this. It’s time.

I helped myself to a cup of coffee, sipping tentatively at the scalding liquid. All the seats were taken, but Easton and I stood against the back wall, watching as the community members chatted and laughed, enjoying each other.

You can be part of this. That hope soared in my chest again, and yes, fear accompanied it, but wouldn’t that always be the case? Easton was right. I couldn’t wait for the doubt to disappear entirely, because that might never happen. I had to make the choice to embrace it and lean in to what I wanted, despite the worry.

I deserved to have dreams.

And how would they ever come true if I wasn’t willing to stop, face my past, and then move on, unencumbered, into my future?

And I wouldn’t be doing it alone.

My heart gave a jolt and then soared as Travis came into view, standing near the low stage, taking a stack of papers from a younger man who was also wearing a police uniform. Travis took a portion of the stack of papers off the top and handed them to a short, slender woman with a brunette bob haircut who began handing them to the people at the end of each row to pass down to the others.

For several minutes I simply watched him in his element, listening as people passed by and said a word or two, laughing along with them, squeezing one man’s shoulder, and patting him on the back as he gave Travis a grateful look and walked away.

Give us a chance, Haven.

Yes. Yes.

The man next to him—the young cop with the buzz cut—elbowed Travis and leaned in, speaking in a hurried manner. Travis froze, frowning, glancing down at the papers in his hand for several seconds, squinting, holding it away slightly, and then blinking in what looked like confusion, before his head shot up and he met my eyes. The young cop was staring at me too and even from the distance, I saw his throat move in a swallow.

Travis stared in shock as I bit my lip, shy, happy, and hoping to God he understood why I’d come. Vulnerability made me feel breakable, shaky, and yet that hope continued to flutter inside.

I’m going to stay.

I saw him take in a quickened breath, his expression morphing into . . . horror.

My heart dipped and distractedly I took the papers that had made it to us, handing one to Easton as well.

Why was Travis looking at me like that? A buzz started in the back of my head. Was he not glad I was here? A tremor took up inside me, those excited nerves taking a sudden nosedive.

“Oh God,” I heard Easton say, his voice choked.

I glanced at him to see he’d started to read the flyer we’d been handed and, confused, looked down at my own, everything inside me going frigid as I saw what it said, my heart plunging lower and lower as I read.

 

The newly formed community relations committee, along with the Pelion Police Department, will be putting out this monthly bulletin in an effort to protect the safety, well-being, and happiness of our fellow citizens. It has come to our attention that a seasonal employee of The Calliope Golf and Tennis Club has hurt and disrespected our very own chief of police. For that reason, Easton and Haven Torres are listed on this edition of PELION’S MOST UNWANTED. Encourage these individuals to move on from our close-knit community as quickly as possible. When one citizen is hurt by an outsider, all citizens are hurt. Pelion is a family-friendly town, and the community relations committee vets all residents, both permanent and temporary.

 

And there were pictures of us below the caption, photos I recognized as ones Easton had posted on social media, only blown-up and made into close-ups of our faces.

A small strangled sound came from my throat as I felt eyes turning toward us.

These individuals.

I kept reading. I couldn’t stop. I was glued to my spot, unable to lift my head, my eyes refusing to stop taking in line after line after line of Easton’s exploits and my own enabling of his behavior. All the destruction left in our wake. Arrests, divorce filings, public altercations.

“How did they . . . how did they . . .” I choked.

“My social media,” Easton said, and his voice sounded flat, devoid of emotion. “I’ve posted from every community we’ve stopped in since the day we left LA.”

I felt numb, confused, sick with distress, my mind reeling with how much work had gone into compiling a list like this. I felt all the eyes on me. Judging.

Most unwanted.

Most unwanted.

Most unwanted.

Some of the information was mostly accurate, and some was wildly off-base. Not that it mattered. Whoever had done this, had put in a lot of time and much effort contacting local townships from California to Maine.

Why?

I was focused on revenge.

Revenge?

Yes. What’s wrong with exacting revenge when a wrong is done to you?

The Pelion Police Department, along with the newly formed community relations committee . . .

He’d done this. Travis had done this. I felt hot, woozy. Whispers picked up, people murmuring. I heard my name, the person’s tone full of scorn.

“Well, they don’t seem like people we’d want here permanently,” someone said.

“It seems kind of mean,” someone else answered. “But I agree,” they amended softly.

“Can you imagine the trouble they’d cause?” someone else asked. “It seems like they’ve already started.”

“What trash.”

I dared a glance at Easton to see his gaze focused in the direction of the firehouse captain, whose head was bent as he read over the paper outlining all Easton’s sins. My brother’s gaze lowered. I’d seen that expression before. He’d worn it as he’d sat on the sidewalk, two fingers pressed to our mother’s wrist, her track marks glaringly red in the light from the raging fire.

This was killing him. I was watching his soul slowly die. Again.

My gaze flew to Travis’s stunned face and he seemed to suddenly remember how to move, dropping the remaining flyers and moving toward me.

Run.

Only I didn’t seem to be able to.

I stood, trying desperately to sink into the floor as Travis approached. “Haven,” he said, his voice a mere whisper as though he was having trouble breathing. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”

“No, evidently not,” I said, and my voice sounded dull and lifeless even to my own ears. I held the flyer up, my hand trembling. “Did you do this?”

He swallowed, his eyes clenching shut momentarily. “I . . . no. I did not have this flyer printed, but it’s my fault. I asked my recruit to look into Easton.” He glanced at my brother, then away. “I take responsibility for this. But I didn’t think . . .” He breathed out a sharp breath, running his hand through his hair as my heart slowly shriveled.

“Your . . . revenge,” I said.

His shoulders dropped and he looked at me pleadingly. “Yes. My revenge.”

Voices began to rise as more people gossiped about what they were reading. It looked bad. It looked terrible. I wouldn’t have wanted us as part of this idyllic community either.

What trash.

We were. We were trash, and this flyer didn’t even detail the half of it.

Easton made terrible choices. There was a list of them grasped in my hand. But I had dragged him across the country because of my issues, and he’d acted out because of it. I was selfish and thoughtless. He’d needed to stay home and heal, to remain with the people and things familiar to him and I hadn’t let him. I was the one who’d caused the trail of wreckage in our wake. Me.

Travis reached out. “Haven, please,” he said, “Let me make this right. I’m so sorry.”

The loud whir of a plane flying low overhead could be heard above the murmurs. “It’s trailing a banner,” someone near the window could be heard saying.

Travis’s eyes widened. “Oh, dear God, no,” he gasped.

“It’s an ad for parasailing lessons over in Calliope,” another person answered, turning away from the window back to the more interesting drama unfolding in front of the crowded room. Travis’s eyes closed briefly and his shoulders dropped and he exhaled a big gust of breath, evidently relieved about something.

Most unwanted.

Us.

Travis looked at Easton and then back at me. “Let me explain this,” he said.

My gaze moved slowly over the room, the people a blur, hurt a gray pulsating fog before my eyes. Perhaps Travis hadn’t meant this to happen, or perhaps not to this extent, or in this way, but he’d had a hand in it nonetheless, and now the damage was done.

Give us a chance, Haven.

His words, they’d been lies.

And I’d been lied to over and over and over and yet I’d kept on hoping.

I’m clean.

I’ll never use again.

I won’t spend the grocery money on drugs.

And the worst of them all: I’ll be there this time.

All those old wounds ripped wide open and I bled, fresh pain in the light of this betrayal. He’d said he cared for me and he’d let this happen. Somehow.

“Congratulations,” Easton said, his voice still dull, his lips tipping humorlessly. “You exacted the perfect revenge. You waited, and you struck, just like you said.” He held his hand out. “Brilliant strategy. The win goes to you.”

Travis’s lips thinned, and his jaw ticked as though he was clenching it. He looked down at Easton’s hand, but didn’t take it. “This isn’t how it seems—”

“It doesn’t matter,” I said, lifting my chin. I felt a sob moving up my throat and I could not cry in front of these people. I could not. “There was no need to make flyers to get rid of us,” I said to the crowd at large. “I’m sorry you wasted the ink. And the research time. We were never staying anyway. Let’s go.” I batted Easton’s hand down, still held out in the air, yanking at his sleeve.

Easton only hesitated a moment before he took my hand. We turned just as Travis reached toward me, but I avoided him, walking on legs that felt like rubber, my deep self-consciousness making my muscles twitch as I focused solely on moving. Away. Away. Run.

I waited until we’d gotten in the car and Easton was pulling out of the lot before I allowed the tears to flow, my heart and my pride in utter ruin.