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1.
To the rest of the world, I was Jackson Ricks. To my neighbors, I was just Noel Sanders, the quiet man next door. Writing let me be braver men, men with swords and scars, men whose lives mattered.
It was more appealing than living the life of Mrs Withersome down the road. Hers was long and drab, like a wet sweater, but what most people would call a ‘happy life’. There was no excitement, no imminent danger, bloodthirst, or revenge—just day-to-day living.
Hiding behind a pen name allowed me to avoid close contact with anyone. But somehow, the thing you try to run from always catches up, just like the past will always come back to haunt you.
Sometimes, you get the adventure you’ve always dreamed of.
All I can say is: be careful what you wish for.
2.
“We moved here to get away from the past, Johnny,” I said, shaking my head as I poured the coffee.
“That house is just sitting there,” he said.
“What house?”
“Don’t try to hide it. I saw the government letter. They’re pretty pissed because it’s not being maintained.” He took a sip of his coffee. “You hate the town, I get it. But for me? That town was my first home after my parents passed.”
I rolled my eyes. “Don’t guilt me, man. C’mon.”
I didn’t want to lose this battle. I didn’t want to go back to the town that took everything from me. Bad things happened there. Maybe it was my experience, but I didn’t want to test fate.
“No.” I carried my lukewarm coffee to the office like it was armor.
“You can’t just say no,” he said.
“No.”
He sighed. I smiled. “You haven’t won. This is a conversation, not an argument,” he said.
To me, it was an argument. I could travel anywhere in the world for inspiration—Finland, Antarctica, Netherlands, Australia—but no, he wanted to go back to Pendova, the armpit of the world.
Pendova was where everything went wrong for me; where I got the power I never asked for. Johnny called it home. I called it hell.
Leaving had been my idea. Johnny knew I was going to leave, with or without him. But he’d rather follow me away from the place he felt safe than stay behind alone. A part of me felt like I owed him something.
“You can still keep your ‘I’m-a-famous-writer’ secret. Everyone who lives there probably won’t even know us. Most of them probably left to find greener pastures. The old people have probably all died.”
I wasn’t going to acknowledge him talking, but I was listening. He had paused, contemplating what he said. I stared at the blank page on my screen like every day.
Then he continued. “The screen won’t change until you do. You need to face some demons, and maybe you’ll find inspiration. Write a different book. Try a different genre. But you need to get out of this house and the city. Your books don’t take place in cities.”
I swivelled my chair around. “I’ll think about it.”
He left with shoulders less slumped than before, but I still wasn’t sure of returning to the place that brought me so much pain. The thought of going back made my blood pressure rise, and I felt like I was drowning. I turned in my chair, opened my desk drawer, and pulled out my asthma pump. I shook it, pressed the canister, and let the pharmaceutical air scrape into my lungs.
Johnny was my brother. He was the man I’d depended on since we were eleven. He believed me when I told him about what he called my ‘superpower’. He believed me when I said I wanted to write for a living. He followed me away from his safe place into the unknown.
Maybe it was time to do something for him.
3.
“Fine,” I said, my voice heavy as I made my way to the bar.
Johnny was halfway through a sip of his beer, his brows furrowing as he glanced over his shoulder at me. He turned back to the bartender, pointed at his glass, and then shifted his attention back to me as I slid onto the barstool next to him.
The place was quieter than usual. A handful of couples sat scattered at tables, hunched over burgers and baskets of chips. The speakers murmured something soft. Dire Straits, maybe. The bartender moved with all the enthusiasm of a man pulling a double shift, his face slack as he poured my draft.
“Fine, what?” Johnny asked as though he didn’t already know. He wanted me to say it.
“We can go back,” I muttered.
He smirked. “Really?”
The bartender set my glass down with a dull thud. I nodded and wrapped my gloved hand around the cold glass while he frowned at me.
“Germophobe,” Johnny told him. The bartender nodded and walked away.
“We go back for you,” I said, taking a long drink.
Johnny turned to face me, his expression lighter than mine had been in weeks. “Three months tops. Then we can decide to stay or leave.” I said nothing. “It’ll be good for you too, you know,” he said.
I gave a noncommittal nod, one that said yeah, yeah, without actually agreeing.
“Maybe it’ll spark something. You’re driving yourself nuts, staring at that blank screen every day.”
“You’re right,” I said quietly.
“So?” His smirk widened. “When are we leaving?”
“Whenever you’re ready. I’ll need to call a moving company.”
“Do it tomorrow,” he said, draining the last of his beer before standing and tossing some cash on the counter. “We’ll leave on Friday.” He clapped me on the back once, light but firm, and walked out, that stupid grin still on his face.
I sat there for a moment, staring at the half-empty glass in front of me, the words we’ll leave on Friday rattling around in my head. I gripped the glass tighter, the glove wrinkling under the pressure.
4.
“Ready?” Johnny said, grinning that stupid grin again. We sat in his truck while the rest of my possessions were on their way to Pendova.
I rolled my eyes, but I couldn’t help but smile. “Let’s just go, okay?”
We drove for five long hours, stopping once at a half-dead mall—dusty furniture, fast food, and a gas pump keeping the place alive.
Finally, we arrived. We passed the WELCOME TO PENDOVA sign, the roads and homes looked the same, but fewer children filled the streets than twenty years ago. Many lawns were slightly overgrown, but it wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be. It was a classic middle-class suburbia.
We pulled into the driveway and my jaw hung slack as I stared. I wasn’t sure what I expected, but this wasn’t it.
“We’re going to need a lawnmower,” Johnny said.
“You think?” The grass grew lush with weeds and dandelions, vines creeping along the side of the house.
We both laughed. I hadn’t laughed in a while; it felt good. It stopped feeling good when I realized I had to open that front door.
“Ready?” Johnny slapped the steering wheel. He didn’t wait for me to respond before getting out of the car.
I held one shaky hand on the door while the other held my inhaler.