North Country(7)

Now that you’re out, he doesn’t have to say. What does Emery think about my return? Has she pinned my mugshot up on their bulletin board yet? Strategized ways to nail me for breaking rules so I’m sent back to finish the remaining years of my sentence? “Do people know I’m out?”

“I’m sure some do. Everyone’ll know soon enough. Impossible to keep much quiet these days, with all this social media nonsense.” He shakes his head. I sense him wanting to say something else, but the front door to our house eases open. Two collies that look much like the ones we had when I went away charge down the steps and race toward us with excited barks.

My throat tightens as my mother follows them, her hand gripping the rail, her quilted jacket haphazardly thrown on.

I could count the number of times on my hands that I’ve seen her over the years. At first it was because I refused visitors. It was too hard, and I was in a dark place. I convinced myself that cutting everyone off was the best thing I could do for them.

The first—and only—letter my father ever wrote to me was about three years into my sentence, to tell me that my mother was battling depression, and it was all my fault. She’d taken a turn for the worse, unable to get out of bed. Also my fault. He wasn’t sure how much longer she could go on like that and, if there was any shred of myself left, I’d pick up a damn pen and paper and answer her.

So I did.

And it saved me, even if that wasn’t his goal.

“She’s been waitin’ a long time for this day. Don’t you dare ruin it for her, or it’ll be the last thing you do, I swear to God,” my father warns, low enough for only me to hear.

I know I should close the distance so she doesn’t have to come so far, but I’m frozen, watching her speed toward me, the slightest hobble in her step as if her hip is giving her issues.

She’s out of breath when she arrives. “Logan,” she manages, reaching around my shoulders.

It’s the first hug I’ve received in two decades that isn’t closely monitored by a guard, and I stiffen instinctively.

But she only squeezes tighter. “You’re home now, and you’re not ever leaving me again, you hear?” she whispers hoarsely.

Something about her voice, familiar and yet different—aged and reedy—relaxes me instantly. I wrap my arms around her tiny frame, sinking into her as my previous numbness gives way to a torrent of emotion. After all I put her through, and all those years of letters I didn’t answer, of visits I denied, this woman didn’t give up on me.

She’s the only one who never gave up on me.

The lump in my throat swells.

“Let me get a good look at you out of that place.” Her gray-blue eyes shine with tears as she pulls away and assesses me. “Gosh, you’re bigger than I remember,” she murmurs, her hands cupping my bristle-coated jaw as she inspects my face, wincing at the hooked scar at the outside corner of my left eye. “And so handsome.”

And you’re so much older. She’ll turn sixty-three in February. But still pretty. My dad always joked that his wife didn’t need him to go to the supply shop with her. All she’d have to do is smile and every male in the parking lot would trip over their work boots to haul the fifty-pound bags of seed into the back of the truck—not that she couldn’t do it herself. She’s stronger than her slim frame suggests.

But the years of life and worry have left their mark, creasing and spotting her once-smooth complexion and thinning her blond hair, now decisively gray and bound in a loose braid.

“How was the drive?” she asks.

“Long,” my dad grumbles, answering for me.

“I told you, I was gonna take the bus.” I’d already planned out the route and everything.

“And navigate all those terminals on your own? Heavens, no! So much has changed, and we were happy to meet you there. Right, Holt?” Where she had only softness in her eyes for me, her gaze is tight with warning as she stares down my father.

“Is the coffee on?” he asks, avoiding the need to lie.

She waves dismissively toward the house. “Fresh pot.”

He takes three steps before pausing. “Glad to have you home, Logan.”

“Uh-huh.” I watch him amble toward the porch, knowing that tiny olive branch wasn’t extended on my account. My granddad used to say that if Holt Landry has one glaring weakness in his life, it’s my mother. As far as I’m concerned, loving her has always been his greatest strength.

“Honestly, Mom, you didn’t have to send him. No one was going to kidnap me.” I’m six foot two and I’ve spent two decades working out in my cell to kill time and maintain my sanity. I can drop and give one hundred push-ups without breaking a sweat.

I learned quickly that my size would serve a purpose besides beating boredom. I wasn’t an enemy most wanted to make on the inside. And out here in the real world? I imagine people will go out of their way to avoid the guy who has forgotten how to smile.

My mother squeezes my biceps, as if needing more proof that I’m actually home. “That’s not what I was worried about.”

“I know.” It was the overwhelming anxiety that hit me when I stepped outside those concrete prison walls. I’ve been in a cage for twenty years, my life not my own. Told where to eat, sleep, piss, what I’m allowed to do but mostly what I’m not allowed to do.