Riverbend by Tess Thompson

only thing I have left to do in this pathetic life.”
    She went cold. What did he mean? “Only thing left?”
    He looked into her eyes. “Yes.”
    “Why, Drake? Why are you hiding up here on the side of this mountain? Why did you leave your life in Seattle?”
    “I can't talk about it.”
    “Surely you can trust me? Look at everything you know about me so far?” She said it in a quiet voice, like she was talking to a wild animal she didn't want to spook.
    “It's nothing about you.” He paused, putting his hands in front of him like a shield. “You're lovely.” The vein in his neck pulsated. “But I'm not well. Not whole.”
    Then he stumbled back from her, yanking at the collar of his shirt. His face went tense and turned bright pink. He moved to the sink and leaned against it. His breathing was heavy like it had been the afternoon of his anxiety attack. Was it another?
    “Do you need a pill?” she asked, searching for the bottle she'd noticed on the windowsill last night.
    “Yes. Please.”
    She grabbed them and put one in his outstretched hand. He swallowed it without water but she poured him a glass anyway. “Come sit,” she said, taking his arm.
    “Please. Don't touch me,” he said, yanking away from her as if her touch hurt. “Please.”
    “I'm sorry.” Her stomach lurched.
    “It's not your fault. I just. I just can't bear it.” He didn't meet her eyes. “I'm going to my room. Don't worry about breakfast.”
    And then he was gone. She looked around the expansive kitchen, the morning light soft through the windows, and felt displaced and uncertain. She stepped outside to the deck. The air was warm already, the sky blue and cloudless; it would be hot and dry. Alder was near the large fir, tossing a ball in the air and catching it in his baseball mitt. She called out to him and he raised his hand in greeting. How did one go from a happy ten-year-old to tortured man? How would she keep her boy from the same fate as poor Drake Webber?
    “Ten minutes until breakfast,” she shouted.
    “Sounds good, Mom.”
    She turned to go back inside and saw Drake at the front room window, watching her. Flushing, she averted her eyes. But her hand twitched in his direction, just a flicker of a movement, as it had earlier. What was this—an instinct to touch, to reach out, to gather him into an embrace? And yet, even as she did so, she knew he'd be gone by the time she looked back in his direction. She was right. There was nothing but the sky and trees reflected in the great glass windows, making her wonder if he'd been there at all.

Chapter Nine
    IT WAS CLOSE TO THREE in the afternoon when Drake pulled into the parking lot behind the restaurant. “I'll go in with you,” he said. “Make sure all's clear.”
    “Yeah. Okay. Thank you,” she said as Alder followed closely behind.
    Otis was in his usual spot, sitting cross-legged, reading a newspaper. “Hi, Miss Annie.”
    “Hi, Otis. You remember Alder.”
    Otis, eyes squinting in the sun, looked first at Alder. “Surely do. How you doing, Alder? Still reading all those books?”
    “Sure am,” said Alder.
    “And this is our friend Drake,” said Annie.
    “Pleasure to meet you,” Otis said in his southern drawl. “I'm sorry for your loss.”
    Drake reached for the stair railing, gripping it tightly, his knuckles white. “What?”
    “Pains me to look at you, knowing what you've been through.”
    What did Otis see?
    Drake turned away, going the rest of the way up the stairs, with Alder right behind him.
    “You hungry?” Annie asked Otis.
    “A little peckish.”
    “I'll bring you something later.”
    “Thank you kindly.”
    Once inside, she dead-bolted the door. The kitchen was empty, but Billy's apron was not on its usual hook. Perhaps he was alreadyin the front? She took Alder's hand. For once he did not drop it.
    “I'll check the front,” said Drake.
    “We'll come, too,” she answered.
    They went through the swinging doors into the dining room.