Chapter 1 — Arrival and Apprehension

Josiah

The house looked smaller than I’d imagined, the pale blue siding and white trim half-buried under a blanket of snow. It sat at the end of a quiet cul-de-sac, with a single maple tree in the front yard, its bare branches dusted with frost. A faint light glowed from the living room window, spilling warmth onto the porch. In another life, maybe this scene would’ve felt like the perfect welcome. But as the car idled in the driveway, all I felt was the familiar churn of nerves in my stomach.

“You ready to head in, Josiah?” Dad asked, his voice strained, like he was searching for the right tone but couldn’t quite find it. It hovered somewhere between too casual and too careful.

I kept my eyes fixed on the house, my hands clenching the straps of my backpack. The air inside the car smelled faintly of old coffee and cleaned upholstery—sharp, artificial, and oddly suffocating. “Yeah,” I said, my voice cracking slightly. “Totally ready.”

He hesitated, his fingers tapping against the steering wheel. For a second, I thought he might say something meaningful, but instead, he just sighed and stepped out of the car. His boots crunched against the icy driveway, the sound louder than it needed to be. I followed, my legs stiff from the long drive, the cold biting at my exposed cheeks as soon as I stepped outside.

The porch light flickered on as the front door swung open, and there was Mindy, bundled in a cream-colored sweater that somehow made the cold seem irrelevant. Her smile was broad and bright—a little too bright—and it made something sharp twist in my chest.

“Josiah! You made it!” she said, her excitement bursting out like she’d been waiting for this exact moment all day. She pulled me into a hug before I could react, her arms solid and certain around my shoulders. I froze, my hands twitching awkwardly at my sides. It had been a while since anyone hugged me like this—too long.

Her sweater was soft, and she smelled faintly of cinnamon and something floral, like the candles they always advertise during the holidays. The kind my mom used to light before everything fell apart.

“Yeah,” I mumbled when she pulled back, my voice muffled by the scarf Dad had insisted I wear. “Thanks for… uh, letting me stay.”

“Oh, sweetheart, you’re not ‘staying.’ You’re home now.” Her voice was warm, like a blanket fresh out of the dryer, but it landed somewhere between a promise and a dare. Home. The word hit me square in the chest, heavy and unwieldy. I wanted to believe it, but it felt impossible, like it was meant for someone else.

The house smelled like cinnamon and freshly baked cookies—a sharp contrast to the cool, sterile scent of the house I’d left behind. My boots squeaked on the floor as I stepped inside, shifting awkwardly under the weight of this new place. Mindy’s warmth lingered in the air, but my unease stayed stubbornly rooted, like a splinter I couldn’t pull free.

Josh appeared in the hallway, his lanky frame swallowed up in an oversized sweater. His bangs flopped into his eyes, and he shoved his hands into his pockets. “Hey,” he said, his voice soft and careful, like he didn’t want to risk saying the wrong thing.

“Hey,” I echoed. My voice sounded flat, even to me.

He fidgeted, his foot tapping lightly against the floor for a moment before he glanced at the fairy lights lining the staircase. “Uh… Mom made cookies. They’re chocolate chip, if you’re into that.”

I nodded, unsure how else to respond. His tone wasn’t unfriendly—it was almost curious, like he was trying to figure me out without getting too close.

“Alright, why don’t you go settle in?” Mindy jumped in, her tone breezy but decisive. She clapped her hands together with a gentle finality. “The cookies will be waiting when you’re ready.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

Dad lingered in the entryway, watching silently as Mindy led me upstairs. My room was at the end of the hall, small but cozy, with a twin bed pushed against one wall and a desk under the window. Soft, amber-hued fairy lights lined the headboard of the bed, their glow spilling over the room like the warmest possible invitation.

“I hope it’s okay,” Mindy said, tucking a strand of auburn hair behind her ear. “Josh helped me pick out the lights. He said they were ‘cool,’ but if you don’t like them, we can change them.”

“No, it’s fine,” I said quickly. “They’re… cool. Thanks.”

Her smile widened, but it didn’t demand anything from me. “I’ll let you get settled,” she said, stepping back toward the door. “Come down whenever you’re ready.”

The door clicked shut behind her, and I let out a long breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. I dropped my backpack onto the bed and glanced around the room. The desk was bare except for a new notebook and lamp. The closet door hung slightly ajar, showing a neat row of empty hangers. It was all too clean, like it belonged to someone else.

I knelt beside my duffel bag, unzipping it slowly. The first thing I pulled out was a stack of hoodies, all gray and navy, the muted colors I always wore. Grateful for the distraction, I shoved them into the closet, not bothering to hang them properly. Next came my hockey gear, which I stacked neatly in the corner.

And then—at the bottom of the bag—my fingers brushed fabric that felt older, softer. I hesitated, a lump forming in my throat as I pulled it out.

The red-and-yellow jersey.

The colors were faded, the fabric worn thin in places, but the sight of it sent a rush of memories straight to my chest. Laughter by the lake. The sharp clang of a puck hitting the goalpost. Fox’s smirk, his voice teasing but warm, saying, “Come on, Ellis, that slapshot’s a joke.” The smell of pine and lake water clung to the edges of the memory, sharp and bittersweet.

I swallowed hard, clutching the jersey in my hands. Mom had given it to me right before camp. She’d been proud, back then. Before. I should’ve left it behind, but I couldn’t. My grip tightened on the fabric, the ache in my chest sharp and familiar. It felt like holding onto a splinter—tiny, painful, but impossible to let go of.

A knock at the door startled me, and I shoved the jersey back into the bag, my heart racing.

“Hey,” came Josh’s voice, muffled through the door. “Mom said to let you know, uh, cookies are ready. They’re, um… chocolate chip. If you like those.”

For a second, I didn’t say anything, caught off guard by the strange sincerity in his tone. “Yeah,” I said finally, softer this time. “Thanks.”

His footsteps padded softly down the hall, and I exhaled, staring at the duffel bag. The jersey sat crumpled at the top, its bright colors clashing against the muted gray and navy of everything else. Part of me wanted to shove it under the bed, out of sight. Instead, I folded it carefully and slid it into the bottom drawer of the dresser. Out of reach, but not gone. Not yet.

Downstairs, the smell of cookies was stronger, mingling with the faint sound of laughter from the living room. Mindy was pouring hot chocolate into mugs, her sleeves pushed up as she worked. The warmth in the air felt almost unreal.

“Josiah!” she said, her face lighting up when she saw me. “Come grab a plate.”

Josh was sitting on the couch, one leg tucked under him as he scrolled on his phone. He glanced up when I entered, giving me a small nod, the kind that felt like a cautious truce.

I sat down gingerly on the armchair, feeling like a guest in someone else’s life. The cookies were warm, the chocolate melting on my tongue, but my appetite felt weak.

Mindy sat beside me, her presence steady and calming, like the glow of the fairy lights upstairs. “You’re going to be okay here,” she said softly, her voice almost more of a whisper to herself than to me.

I wanted to argue, to fold in on myself, to retreat. But something about the quiet conviction in her tone made me pause. For the first time in weeks, I almost believed her.