Scars Like Ours | Red View Romance #2

🍂 Twelve

The drive to the suburbs of Red View was one of the first solitary moments--besides sleeping--that Cliff had gotten since his return to the orchard. He expected to be grateful for the alone time, and found instead that he hated every second of it. He'd been alone for four years--the last thing he needed was more time to himself.

He hadn't realized just how much he missed company. Now, waking up to a house with life in it, eating meals with his family, listening to Dawson talk about the recent harvest, or Jack about construction plans, Kenzie and Marshall about the wedding...

He couldn't possibly go back to life without it. And his family was right: In his line of work, he could work from anywhere. So why not stay? Why not come back to Red View on a permanent basis?

Of course, there were things that would need to be taken care of. He'd have to move out of his apartment--which would be easy enough thanks to how little he owned and the fact that he now had a car. He'd have to talk to Jack and Dawson about pulling his weight--he didn't expect them to let him move in for free without helping around the orchard or paying rent. They'd let him, he knew that, but it wouldn't be right.

Something inside of him seemed to relax at the idea. He couldn't turn back time, but he could make the most of what was left by returning to the place he belonged with all the people he loved. He could see a new start for himself in Red View.

When he turned onto River Road, the long stretch of tree-lined road where numerous houses sat between the pavement and the river, he caught a glimpse of himself in one of his mirrors and all the optimism was swept out of him.

A new start? He couldn't even bear to show his face in town for something as simple as a haircut. What was he doing, daydreaming as if it could be that easy? If he moved back home, he'd just be moving his reclusiveness from one place to another. He'd stay inside all day for fear of being seen by customers, and he'd depend on his siblings to do the shopping, the errands, everything he'd been avoiding for years. Things would never be the same--and as long as he was keeping up the façade, the lie he'd let everyone believe, they'd never be right.

The irony was that if he told the truth, he'd no longer have the choice to stay. How could he expect anyone to want him around once they knew the type of man he really was?

As he pulled into the driveway of his parents house--a little A-frame cabin with a colorful garden of neatly-trimmed bushes and rich bunches of purple aster--he commanded himself to drop it. He'd take it day by day. Hour by hour. And right now, all he wanted to do was enjoy his parents' company.

He parked behind his father's truck and walked up to the door, enjoying the sounds of the rushing river lapping over stones and against the bank. He could see the water through the sparse woods, which shrouded the neighborhood in hints of autumn. Birds chirped, and a late-surviving cicada cried out from somewhere in the trees. He'd missed the simple act of being outside in nature--it was another reason the idea of staying appealed to him so much. Back at his apartment he only had a balcony with nothing more than a view of the parking lot and the highway. Some days he'd answer emails outside, braving the idea of someone spotting him from below and making out his face. Other days he couldn't even convince himself to step out into the dark of night.

Maybe it was the proximity to his loved ones that made things different here. Or maybe it was the knowledge that if he didn't attempt to act somewhat acclimated to being out, being seen, they'd all find out the embarrassing truth of his reclusiveness.

His knock on the ebony door was answered quickly--his mother greeted him with a smile and a tight hug. Her hair was loose, and she was dressed in her gardening clothes. Roman was the more apt landscaper when it came to flowers, but Lillie Mae had joined him in the hobby over the years. Her love for plants easily spread further than just for apple trees. "Come on in--your father's making cookies."