We got close to 150 votes last chapter but didn't quite make it! Maybe this chapter? :)

"How many things have to happen before something occurs to you?" - Robert Frost

Memory Lane: Chapter Thirteen

The irritation on my legs has slipped away almost entirely by the time of my dermatologist visit on Monday. Though my appointment wasn't for another two hours, Aunt June picked me up early from school and handed over the keys without even having to ask. The distance from Bennington to Wallingford is just under an hour, but that's only if you take the quickest route: Memory Lane. Otherwise, the trip becomes closer to an hour and a half drive. I appreciate that Aunt June understood without me having to say that I would be taking the longer route.

Now, I'm sitting on the uncomfortable examination table paper, feeling it crinkle underneath me every time I shift my body. Aunt June offered to come into the room with me, but at seventeen years old I think it's time I visit the doctor without a legal guardian present.

A knock at the door pulls me from my thoughts and in walks my dermatologist, Dr. Collins. She's a tall, lanky woman with cold hands but kind, amber eyes with crinkles in the corners that reveal her older age. Something in her gentle appearance has always comforted me in these check-ups.

"How are you doing today, Laura?" She asks as she reaches for the giant bottle of no-name sanitizer on the dark blue counter. Her voice is professional, which allows me to have full trust in her, with the perfect dose of genuine friendliness.

"I'm okay," I say, shifting slightly and cringing at the loud crinkle of the paper beneath me.

Dr. Collins gives me a slow onceover as she nods, rubbing the sanitizer into her skin. "Okay. That's good. But how are you doing?"

I smile slightly. Cutting through the niceties, I guess.

"Not great, then. I think I've been pushing myself a little too hard."

She leans her back against the counter as she continues to rub the sanitizer over her hands. "In what ways?"

"I've been walking to school."

I instantly look away from her amber eyes when her sympathy evolves into pity. As my doctor, she knows all about the crash. I clear my throat before continuing.

"I know I'm not supposed to be exerting too much physical energy, so I've been going slow. But there were a couple of days last week that someone walked with me and they were going too fast. Stupidly, I tried to keep up and my legs did not agree. They bothered me all week after that."

Dr. Collins begins typing away at the swivel-top screen mounted on the counter, nodding along as I continue to explain the pains I've been experiencing.

"I know I may sound like a broken record here, but keep in mind that you've been having an issue with blood circulation since the surgery," Dr. Collins begins, laying a careful eye on me. "Because of that your skin has been extremely slow to heal. I was hoping it wouldn't cause any more hindrances, but it sounds like it may be. You need to continue to take things slow, okay?"

"I know. I didn't mean to irritate the skin so much."

"Well, let's take a look," she says.

For the next few minutes, she examines my skin with a few murmurings of approval that set my racing heart at ease.

"I can see that you've irritated the skin, certainly, but you haven't done any additional damage. You're simply still slow to heal, which is okay."

I nod, letting out a deep, pent up breath of relief. Then I eye her cautiously. "No more dressings, though... right?"

Dr. Collins smiles reassuringly and chuckles. "No, you are well past that stage. But, I would still consider the skin on your legs new. Treat it as such."

"I will."

Her eyes go back to my chart, scanning over it with ease. Until her eyes bounce back up the paper and her brow furrows. My heart rate picks up, battering against my rib cage.

"What?"

She lifts her eyes to me momentarily and purses her lips, setting the clipboard down. "Have you been eating?"

My mouth goes dry at her blunt question.

"What?" I repeat.

"Eating. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Have you been doing that?"

My expression snaps into defensive mode and I sit up straighter. "Of course."

But my mind travels back to the last few weeks and all the ignored breakfasts, the dinner leftovers gone cold and tossed discreetly into the trash. I lift my chin and will the thoughts away.

Dr. Collins watches me closely and her voice comes out softer. Concerned. "Laura, you're close to ten pounds lighter than when I first saw you."

"I told you, I've been walking to school. That's a lot of exercise." I say dismissively.

"Then you need to eat more to counteract the extra calories lost. I understand you lost weight post-surgery, that's to be expected. But you should be bouncing back now, Laura."

I avoid her eyes, suddenly finding the crinkly paper covering the examination table much more interesting.

"I'm eating," I mumble. "I'll try to eat more."

Dr. Collins doesn't push the issue. "Okay. Now, how's the donor site feeling?"

I begin answering all of her remaining questions about the skin on my back, feeling my anxiety slip away with each satisfied nod she gives. Within twenty minutes, she checked my skin and sent me on my way with directions to keep on as I have been, less the strenuous walking.

When I walk back into the lobby, Aunt June quickly closes the magazine she chose to pass the time and stands up.

"All good?" She asks.

I smile, "All good."

Her posture relaxes slightly and she returns my smile, putting a comforting hand on my shoulder as we walk out. "See? I told you everything would be okay. What did Dr. Collins say?"

During our drive back to Bennington, I relay all of the information that Dr. Collins said and Aunt June listens closely to make sure she can help at all stages of my healing process.

I don't mention my weight.

---

A week passes by normally. Much to my surprise, Jesse has decided to actually acknowledge my existence at school. It hasn't been more than a small hello in passing or a word or two in greeting, but since our chat on Sunday it seems he's decided we are friendly enough to actually be friends.

The following Tuesday, as the Stallard's eat dinner downstairs, I lounge on my window seat with a book for English class opened to page one. I can't fully focus on reading it despite spending the last ten minutes trying to get past the first paragraph. I'm sure it's partly due to the fact my group chat with Kendall and Quinn has been going off like crazy after she found some article about her uncle on Buzzfeed.

I sigh and shift my attention to the setting sun outside. Then, my heart leaps nearly out of my chest in surprise when I make direct eye contact with familiar gray eyes. I throw my book into the air and a small, startled noise rises out of my throat.

Jesse is leaning against his truck, twirling the keys on his finger as he stares up at my second-floor window. He must've seen my entire display because his lips are lifted in one corner.

I throw a hand against my racing heart, trying to catch my breath and begin to open my window.

"What the hell?" I holler down to him.

He curls an innocent brow in question.

"I didn't tell you which room was mine so that you could stare at me!"

"Coming from the one who watched my private argument as if it was her personal TV show."

A pang of embarrassment swivels up my spine and I glare at him. "Yell quieter next time, then."

"Once I find a way to make glass breaking quiet, I'll be sure to let you know," he deadpans.

Impossible, I think. Even with heavy snow to blanket the sound, glass shattering finds a way to be heard.

"Or you could, you know, avoid breaking glass altogether," I suggest.

"I'll keep that in mind."

"How long have you been standing there?" I ask.

He ponders it for a moment, "About an hour."

Shock makes my bottom jaw weigh a thousand tons and it drops nearly to the floor, which causes Jesse's eyes to instantly roll.

"Like two minutes," he clarifies. "Ever heard of a joke?"

"Being stalked isn't really my idea of humor."

He stops twirling his keys, snatching them into his hand. "I'm not stalking you."

"I know. Ever heard of a joke?"

My chest fills with satisfaction at the annoyed clench of his jaw.

"If you wanted my attention, I do have a phone that you could have texted," I say, propping my chin on my hand.

He quirks a brow, "Did I forget the part where we exchanged numbers?"

My sly smile drops into a scowl and I ponder a moment, shifting my eyes to him with a shrug. "Instagram DM?"

His gray eyes flicker with amusement and he shakes his head. "Just come outside, Laura."

I mutter a curse against him, but find myself slipping on my shoes and tiptoeing downstairs. I swiftly breeze past the kitchen table, fortunate enough to avoid the Stallard's attention before they can ask me to join them, and slip outside.

Dusk is settling across our quiet neighborhood street. The fading sunlight casts a shadow over Jesse's driveway, making his already dark hair fade into near black. The glow from his garage glints off of his truck, helping to counteract the oncoming night sky.

"You know, it's really unsettling to look out your window to find someone staring at you." I say as I approach him, my feet crunching on the fallen leaves.

"Yet not unsettling enough for you to avoid coming out to meet said person," Jesse counteracts.

"Consider me the first character to die in a horror movie."

Jesse's scowl slips into a rare, humored smile. Still small, only taking up one corner of his mouth, but it's there.

"Okay. I'm outside. Now what's up?" I ask to quickly cut off the random flip of my heart, placing my weight to one side and crossing my arms.

"I don't watch much horror... what's the next step?"

I scowl at him. "Funny."

He glances at the Stallard's house, curiosity slipping into his expression. "How come you were upstairs, anyway?" his eyes drift back to me, "Don't the Stallard's usually eat dinner around this time?"

My shoulders stiffen. I raise my chin slightly and shrug dismissively. "Yes, but I had a late lunch. Really, what's going on?"

With a quiet sigh, he leans against the door of his truck. The bright red paint helps his navy blue crew neck with the sleeves slightly bunched avoiding blending in with the oncoming night sky.

"That stuff you said about healing..." he starts, alluding to the whiskey night last weekend. "Do you really believe that's possible? Mending the missing piece?"

My brow furrows and I straighten up. That was the last thing I thought he'd say.

"I do," I begin carefully, eyeing him. "I think there's a process for everyone, but some people are too stubborn or lost to try and find it."

Jesse stays quiet. It's annoying how good he is at guarding his expression when he wants to. As the sunlight fades beyond the trees, the chirping of cicadas finds its rhythm with the gentle wind blowing through the leaves. The breeze brings the temperature down along with the onset of the night sky and I pull my dad's crewneck sleeves down past my hands for more warmth.

Jesse eyes the movement and finally breaks the silence. "How do you know so much about it?"

"About what?"

"Loss."

My heartbeat clammers harder against my chest. It's like a giant, red warning sign is waving in my stomach and the bottom of the pole is being stabbed in various spots to try and press the right button to come up with the best excuse.

"I told you, I read a lot of poetry," I finally settle on, "Poets are all troubled souls."

Jesse studies me, moving his keys from hand to hand in an unconscious gesture.

"You're a poet," he points out.

I just hum dismissively in response, not wanting to continue the course of this conversation. Jesse doesn't press me further and we fall into a comfortable silence, studying one another. Then, after what feels like a lifetime but was truly only a second or two, Jesse snatches his keys into one hand and lifts off of his truck.

"Do you want to go somewhere with me?"

I'm understandably taken aback. Until the day of the week hits my mind: Tuesday. And with the sun setting, I know it's just past 7.

I narrow my eyes at him, trying to decipher why he'd want to show me this secret spot no one else seems to know about. But I know that his reason doesn't matter. I'm too curious to say no.

"You know I won't get into the car with you, right?" I ask.

"Horror 101, avoid getting into the car."

I roll my eyes, "I meant unless I drive."

His scowl twitches away. "I know."

I peer into his truck and see the manual transmission, so I purse my lips. "I can't drive stick shift."

"I figured."

I narrow my eyes at him. "Okay, and I'm not really up for a late night walk..."

"It's not late, but neither am I," he says with a small shrug.

I raise a brow at the clear issue we've now presented ourselves with. "You really aren't doing a great job convincing me to go with you..."

Jesse turns and opens the door to his truck, glancing at me over his shoulder. "Just grab June's car and follow me."

And, as I go inside and ask for Aunt June's keys with an excuse of going to the store, I decide something: I really would be the first to die in a horror movie.

I follow his truck down the quiet neighborhood road, turning onto Main Street and quietly driving along until we go into the thick of downtown. Being a Tuesday night, there's hardly anyone out. A few families went out to dinner at some of the local restaurants, I spot one couple walking their dog, but the streets are bare compared to the bustling weekends in Bennington.

Just before we reach the end of Main Street, where the buildings bleed back into the trees and rolling hills, Jesse pulls into a street-side parking spot and I pull into the space to his left.

The building looming over us shines with the streetlights, exposing the chips in the layered bricks. A dark green awning covers the length of the building, matching the faded green window frames and intricate design across the top of the three-story building. Big, once-bold black, lettering is sprawled across the brick towards the top.

I begin to step out of the car, shifting my gaze to Jesse from across the top of the car. "What are we doing here?"

He throws the truck door shut, swinging his keys around one finger as he eyes the building. But his hand looks tense and he quickly captures his keys into his palm, tugging them into his pocket.

"I'll explain inside."

"You sure you don't watch horror movies? Because this feels like a perfect set up."

Jesse glances at me and I can't tell if he finds my joke amusing or annoying since his scowl really didn't disappear. "I'd like to think I'm not some big scary monster."

"I'm still deciding."

His amusement is finally revealed through a smirk, but it drops the moment he opens the front door for me. As I step inside the brightly lit entrance, I'm hit with the musty scent that reveals the old age of this building. My shoes squeak on the white vinyl tile flooring as I spin around to see the brick walls painted white. Jesse nods over to the staircase, beginning his ascent to the second floor with me following.

When we reach the second floor and begin walking down the long, brightly lit hallway, the musty scent begins to mix with the scent of crayons and a microwave that must have heated up hundreds of leftovers by the scent. The smells shouldn't work together, but they do. In a nostalgic sort of way that reminds me of my days in daycare back in Wallingford.

Towards the end of the hallway, there's one door being propped open by an A-Frame sign that looks like it's been in use since before I was born.

"Is there some sort of event going on?" I ask as we near the sign.

Jesse stays quiet in front of me, but his body tenses. I furrow my brow, shifting my gaze from his broad back to the bright white lettering against a dark blue background.

Young Adults Dealing With Loss: Join us every Tuesday at 7:30PM

My heart plummets down through my ribs and drops like a heavy weight into my stomach, weighing me down so hard that I freeze in my tracks. I swallow the thick lump in my throat and turn my head to Jesse who is carefully gauging my reaction. So, I wipe away any emotion and send him a neutral scowl.

"What is this?"

"I think the sign is pretty self explanatory," he says. But his guarded expression is dropping into one of discomfort as he shifts his feet.

"Explain more."

His Adam's apple bobs just enough to catch my attention. His sudden hints of discomfort make the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

"It's a support group," he says cautiously, "For kids that have lost someone close to them. A parent. A grandparent. A friend."

Like the other night, his eyes are searching mine. But my walls don't feel as strong as they did before. Not here. Not in this bleak, white hallway where the smell of stale pastries bought for the group is wafting out towards us.

"And why are we here?" I press.

"I come every week," Jesse continues carefully, "trying to find a way to heal."

The steady look in Jesse's eye is both the one thing keeping me from panicking and the one thing that makes me want to suddenly run away.

I try to hold onto his words. He's talking about himself. He has to be. I've given nothing away. The little bit that I did, I covered up. Meanwhile, he opened up to me about how difficult it has been for him to talk about his dad. This is the place to overcome those difficulties.

But the look in his eye hints that my fears are correct.

I swallow down the massive lump of panic lodged deep in my throat and unclench my hands, trying to keep my expression neutral.

"You could have just told me that you come here without the visual aid. Why'd you bring me?"

He continues to stare silently at me for a few more intense moments. The answer is already in the air, but despite feeling like I'm suffocating, it's air I don't want to breathe. But Jesse forces it into my lungs as he replies.

"I thought it might be helpful for you too."

I push the air right back out and shake my head dismissively, but I know my face is as white as the walls.

"For my poetry?"

There's a shift in his eyes from determination to something resembling sympathy.

I want to turn to walk away. Run away. Back down the long hallway, down the steps, into the car, and drive far, far away. But I can't drop Jesse's stare. I can't move my feet. My whole body feels too heavy. And his next words just sink my heart even further.

"I think we both know your experience with loss didn't come from poetry."

---

We are finally at a point in the story where I can begin leaving you all on cliffhangers, hehehe...

The next update will be next Friday!

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