Hollow Romance

Chapters

1 - Home Again

2 - It Started That Summer

3 - The New Neighbors

4 - Death & Taxes 

5 - Party of One

6 - An Offer You Don’t Want to Refuse

7 - A Lethal Snack

8 - Saved, But at What Cost

9 - Visions of Her

10 - A Sad Truth

11 - Pain & Acceptance

12 - Revelation & Distrust

13 - Love & Trust

14 - Against All Odds

15 - To New Beginnings?

Chapter 1

Home Again

It’s worse than I thought I utter under my breath while standing outside my childhood home in the early morning hours. Painted egg white with sky blue windowsills, it was in dire need of repairs inside and out. I gently toss a bag filled with scrap into the trash bin, its cover hanging on by one remaining latch, and watch it slouch its way into the can before closing the lid gently. A dream home with a white picket fence, albeit faded, that no longer serves as the model for one in a society consumed by social media; it's pale like the fence here, the home and by extension, the dream, has lost its luster. My hand runs over the spikes on the fence, tired and with cracked lips, as I head back indoors bypassing the fence gate that no longer seems capable of staying closed and through the overgrown wildflowers consuming all other plant life without care. I speed past it all, not wanting to think of the work that needs done and ponder the whirlwind of a week I’ve experienced while closing the squeaky front door behind me.

The home was finally clutter free or at least it seemed that way after stuffing the closets full and filling the attic to the brim. I lifted, pushed and pulled vintage, dust covered, furniture out of my old bedroom that Tuesday morning, leaving only the bed, in anticipation of her arrival. It had been raining on and off for the past several days, fueling my homesickness, reminding me of what I left behind albeit temporarily. These menacing gray clouds filled the sky for the past week or so, further dampening my spirit during the most difficult point in my life; that was until something unexpected happened. Like a sun ray piercing through storm clouds, a phone call from an old friend invigorated my spirits late last night. The spring months in Southern California were warm and sunny, with the rare downpour sprinkled in, which I enjoyed as a youth. As an older, more distinguished fellow, I now preferred the rainy northwest, its calming effect allowed me to read and work on sketch drawings, my way of escaping the monotony of daily life.

Although I missed my new home in Seattle, the nearby beaches and nostalgia made up for it in my old hometown of Sunflower Grove where I was raised. I’m happy to be back if only for a short time. Bittersweet is how I would label my return, you see, I recently celebrated my 24th birthday with my grandmother in October, over the phone, because of work but now I wish I’d made an effort to come see her in person; I foolishly believed she would still be here at Christmas time. I was wrong. I rushed back here, to my dear grandmother’s house, after she passed unexpectedly leaving me with a sense of guilt I may never overcome. It’s suffocating at times, the thought of what might have been had I made the effort, the what ifs. It’s slowly eating me from the inside. An unrelenting pressure, like being buried in an avalanche; its weight slowly crushing you, making it difficult to breathe. I wasn’t there for her when she needed me. She was always an independent woman, hardheaded and proud. She would always tell me You need to accept things for what they are. There’s no point in crying over spilt milk and I would echo her response to annoy her. The old adage of learning how to move on and letting go of any regret; a lesson I never mastered as a youth.

All that remained now was to collect her ashes and settle her affairs with the home early next week. I started off the day strong by executing a deep clean throughout with some light repairs to the best of my fledgling abilities as a craftsman. She raised me herself in this small house on the corner lot where we lived happily up until I went to college and started my career as a graphic designer, only returning to the city once a year during the holidays, and now upon hearing of her passing. Bequeathed to me after her untimely end, I decided to turn it into a vacation home as it held too many fond memories for me to sell it outright, although several developers in the area would have liked nothing more; rapid gentrification of the neighborhood displaced a majority of families that had lived here for generations. She was all that mattered to me, my only real family in this world. I never met my father nor my grandfather, a tragedy took them as I opened my eyes in this world. So, my grandmother did her best to fill their roles by taking me fishing, camping, and even took the painstaking time to learn how to play the guitar in order to teach me; something my father had planned to do before he passed. All while working her normal job, she was a great woman, and her passing has hit me harder than I could’ve imagined. So many memories within this home’s walls I could never part with — comes to mind, making it difficult to keep my composure whilst my emotions run wild within.

My fingers cut across old markings on the door frame and flood me with memories of all the moments she measured my height on my birthday, on the good times and the bad. But right now, I don’t have the time to reflect on my past, especially after receiving that unexpected phone call from someone I hadn’t spoken to in years; an old friend and former flame, someone whom I never thought I’d see again. Although I was still mourning my dear grandmother’s passing, our short talk made me excited to see her again after all this time. My palms became clammy, and, in that moment, I felt a pit in my stomach at the thought of holding her once more, if only as a friend. She was my first love and first heartbreak. She pulled away from me when I was at my lowest, but I didn’t blame her for it, no. I blamed someone else instead. Her parents and their cruelty masked as doing what’s best for our daughter I say aloud with my now older hoarse voice. She was older now, an adult, and free of her parent’s overly aggressive Protection as they called it.

Am I done for the day, or should I? I mumble to myself as I gather the strength to continue. The vibrations of my voice echo across the now empty halls and bounce off the hardwood floors reaching all corners sequentially. I never planned on doing any of this until she called. My grandmother had turned into an amateur hoarder when I left, leaving me with little choice but to spruce up the place for my visitor. I even found an old newspaper article from four years ago about a girl who died from an overdose near the Santa Monica pier. Much of the information was scribbled out by her, which was odd, but my grandmother did like scribbling on pieces of paper. I walk back to my old room with only a dim hall light to guide the way. First door on the left was my old bedroom and the door was an antique that came with the home. It was paper bag brown with a golden knob, tiny pieces of it flaked off as I twisted the handle opening the door inwards.

I hope there’s enough space for any belongings she might bring I thought to myself while staring at the empty room only coming to a stop after a peculiar sketch caught my eye. A small series of drawings near one of the corner walls drew me in; faded with time, I could barely make them out but the home in the background and small kids in the garden were still discernible. It’s still there, after all this time. Huh — I say to myself, kneeling down to its level. Taken aback by them, I trace my fingers slowly over other sketches next to it and recall I made them with her as teens on a rainy night years ago. A beach, in a foreign land, and the sun along with the warm water. Standing on the beach were two people, a man and a woman, holding one another as the sun set. It brought a smile to my face as the old memories returned of the two of us drawing into the night came back. Memories of how I met her, sitting awkwardly in the corner of an art class I had no choice but to take. I sat next to her on our first day of my sophomore year and a simple hello turned into something more as my interest in drawing grew along with the feelings I felt for her. Olivia, she would end up becoming my muse and in time my biggest supporter. It’s been so long since I last saw her, held her close keeps running through my mind, unsure of what to expect the next day. Why now? I whispered before exiting the room. Maybe she heard about nan? I pondered while entering the living room.

Nancy Taylor, or nan as many affectionately called her, was my grandmother and sole role model from an early age. A strong woman who became a widow when I was born and stepped up to raise me by herself when I turned seven after my mother died. I was now alone with no immediate family left in the city, but it didn’t bother me much for some reason. I was always by myself as a child and as a teen. That changed, however, when I met an odd girl in my art class that stole my heart. This home is where that friendship grew into a romance that further blossomed into something far more than I could’ve ever imagined. A home filled with happy memories and now it was all mine, all that was left. The sole owner, alone in a home that was, for the most part, empty inside yet filled with these fond memories from my childhood that made my return bittersweet. This is all I have left of my past; it’ll be hard to let go. I never want to forget them, it’s the only connection I have left with those from my past who are no longer here. Groggy from the lack of sleep, I do my best to get to the kitchen and whip up a hot cup of coffee. Two creams and one sugar just like nan. I open up one of the cabinets and grab the last sugar packet left in a container. I turn it over and it reads 11/11/15. This expired two years ago I say aloud before tossing it into the trash bin. I have to go for supplies I mumble while thinking about her and swirling the creamer into the freshly brewed coffee.

Rekindle the relationship or remain friends? I ponder aloud with a smile, excited to reunite with her and see her again. My home was located at the corner of an old street near the city center. Newly built apartments filled the area opposite of the midcentury house that brought a charm, a uniqueness if you will, to the neighborhood that you wouldn’t find anywhere else. After enjoying the cup of Joe, I scurry on over to my bedroom and lay down for a bit to rest for the night as she’s due to arrive at eight in the morning. A quick nap turns into a deep sleep that is disrupted by the obnoxious alarm sounds on my phone about twenty minutes to eight. I jump out of the bed and get ready with blinding speed while keeping a watchful eye on the time.

It’s almost time. Fifteen minutes until eight I announce as a large bus speed past the front of the home. The nearby station was a blessing, I thought, as it allowed me to travel to many places and it was only a short walk away. That’s how she would be arriving, also. By bus from a faraway city that she moved to several years prior. I foolishly believed she had forgotten about me and the special love we shared, which I thought would last a lifetime, imagine my surprise from her sudden call.

I’ve changed quite a bit since the last time we saw each other. I wonder if she has. I quickly look at my reflection in the mirror and make sure I look presentable; tall and with fluffy brunette hair, I resemble one of those underwear models except with some awkwardness thrown in for good measure my nan would always say. With vibrant hazel eyes, I felt like I had the ability to look deep within another person’s soul from a simple glance. Quite mesmerizing to others and yet I always had trouble maintaining relationships with people for one reason or another; she was the only exception. I hop into my shoes and wiggle my feet in before walking over to the front door, gray with specs of red piercing through from an old paint job and opened it with some difficulty stepping outside onto the front porch. It was still raining from the night before, although it had lightened up a bit after some time forming a rainbow over my home much to my amusement; a sign of good things to come, perhaps? A single porch swing swayed in the wind next to the entrance. Still painted white with small patches of its original blue color visible in spots that flake off to the faded bluish floorboards below.

I will get this place back in shape in honor of her memory I say just before sitting down on the porch swing waiting for my old friend to arrive. I turn my gaze across the front yard where the old weeping willow tree stood and reminisced on how I used to climb it as a child. The rest of the