Wanderlust (Filling Spaces #1)

Wanderlust

By
Lexi Stone

I.

Shea promised himself
that, after tonight, he would never break into a house again.

Low-hanging branches
swiped at his face and errant spiderwebs stuck to his skin as he pushed himself
up the incline through a tangle of undergrowth.  His simple running shoes
weren’t up to the task; he stumbled on the rocky, uneven ground under his feet
and a searing pain shot up his ankle just as his goal came into view: a small,
moss-covered house that, in the growing darkness, nearly disappeared into the
trees surrounding it. 

He stumbled to a halt
to catch his breath as his calves burned in protest; the sight of the cabin
made him falter.  Methodically he wiped damp hands on his jeans, brushed stray
pine needles and leaves from his hair as chided himself for wearing a white
shirt tonight of all nights. 
Some criminal you are. 

But Shea wouldn’t turn
back after coming this far, not even if he felt embarrassingly awkward and
obvious in the dark quiet that lingered in this sparsely-populated stretch of
forest.  Stubbornly he set his jaw and studied the cabin silhouetted against
the evening sky with quiet, earnest blue eyes.  He couldn’t go back.  He
wouldn’t
go back.

He had a promise to
keep, after all.

Still, a strange
melancholy took him at the sight of the place. What had happened here?  At
twelve, the cabin might as well have been a castle for all the magical
enchantment it promised. Shea could remember every childhood vacation he’d
spent here: hours whiled away picking wild strawberries and crawling through
the underbrush to chase squirrels, desperate and ill-fated attempts to climb
the stubbornly tall tree whose branches swooped down over the roof.  Now, however,
he thought as he cautiously approached, memory lied; he couldn’t mistake the
signs of age and neglect that contradicted his happy childhood memories. The
rough-hewn wood of the porch groaned as he set foot on it and the roof of the
cabin sagged dangerously in places, heavy with damp.  Every window boasted
spiderweb cracks that distorted the clouded glass.  Still, even through his
heavy sense of melancholy Shea felt a profound sense of relief: breaking into
an obviously
unoccupied
house, he reasoned, wasn’t as bad as all that.

Hurriedly, his ankle
throbbing in time with his heart, the slim young man assessed the entrance.  He
didn’t want to break the windows unnecessarily, though he suspected he wouldn’t
have much trouble with them as cracked as they were. 
Broken glass
, he
thought absently. 
I’ll get cut, maybe.  And I’d definitely need a tetanus
shot, after that. 
Instead, he tentatively pressed his shoulder against the
door and gave a good shove.  Nothing.  He cursed quietly to himself, flushed
with effort, and tried again. 

The door, to his
surprise, popped open with the second blow.  His own momentum carried him through
the entrance and inside a few staggering steps, and his ankle ached sharply in
protest. Shea stumbled and then caught himself before he fell. Inside, the
heavy scent of must and pine greeted him, and the breeze that entered through
the broken windows stirred the warm heaviness of the humid air.  The sudden
quiet that enveloped him hurt his ears.

“I made it,” he
breathed aloud into the unnatural stillness, and then gratefully leaned against
the nearest wall as adrenaline abandoned him.  His shoulder bumped the nearby
light switch and to his surprise, the kitchen light flickered in response before
it steadied to cast a sickly yellow glow over dull, buckled linoleum and
peeling countertops.  He hadn’t expected the electricity to still be on, though
he knew the utility costs for the property were quite low; surprised, he
glanced around at the kitchen.  The old and obviously broken refrigerator stood
ajar in the corner, leaking water onto floor stained with mold, and the old
table leaned, hobbled on one leg, to the side with only two chairs as
companions. 

Dad, Shea thought with
a wistful smile as he ran absent fingertips over the counter, would’ve known
how to fix all of this.  Even in the hospital the old man watched home and
garden shows on a near-constant loop, offered his only son tips on how
everything from how to repair a leaky pipe to how to remodel a basement.  Shea
felt a dull ache now that he couldn’t recall any of them, could only remember
the barest details of those absent-minded conversations held over the beep and
whirr of machines, monitors, and IVs.

A curious pain
tightened his chest.

But there wasn’t time
for sentimentality, at least not now, and so limping he forced himself forward
into the rest of the house, grief-softened gaze roaming over the decayed
remnants of his childhood and happier times.  There, on the lumpy yellow couch
in the living room, they’d stay up late past bedtime and watch movies together:
Mom and Dad, Kady and Shea. He remembered the slide of the buttered popcorn on his
hands, the sting of too-much salt on his tongue, the silly sing-alongs.  And here,
in the bedroom, he and Kady used to construct extravagant forts around the
simple bed with its cheap metal frame, hanging billowing sheet-canopies from
the door to the headboard and scrawling signs that read
Parents Not Allowed
.

Shea’s eyes stung.  He
cleared his throat and told himself it was the dust.  A sharp ache in his ankle
reminded him he was injured and, wearily, he let himself slide to the floor by
the old oaken bookcase in the bedroom. For a few moments he simply breathed,
enjoying the serene quiet of the darkened room, the trill of birds outside.  An
adventurous ladybug wandered across the floor and began an arduous climb across
the leg of his jeans.  “Hi,” he said fondly, and let it crawl onto his finger
as he smiled faintly.  How many of these had he captured and kept in jars
before, in a fit of childish remorse and sorrow, he freed them all back into
the outdoors?  He wondered if future families would come here to do the same
thing, or what would happen to this place if not, who owned it, and what might
become of it. 

Maybe, most likely, the
cabin would simply be destroyed, or simply decay away into an abandoned husk.

A rustling that could
have been leaves or bugs or simply the wind floated in through the open window
and made Shea’s skin prickle.  Reluctantly he clambered to his feet and tested
the wounded ankle.  The pain made him wince, but he hoped he could make it to
the car at the base of the hill.  Best to do so before darkness fell fully.  His
childhood recollections contained no memories of particularly intimidating
forest creatures, but he scarcely felt inclined to test the theory—and anyway, he
really
didn’t want to be caught.  He wasn’t sure how a solitary graduate
student would explain trespassing and breaking in to a secluded forest cabin.

Determined, he didn’t
pause until he returned to the kitchen—and there, Shea lingered as his fingers
stilled on the light switch and his gaze swept the simple room. This time, when
tears pricked his eyes he indulged them.  Surely he could allow this much, a
tribute to all the happiness and laughter that used to live in this place. 
Surely he could feel sadness over the emptiness and darkness of it now, the
painful reminder of permanent loss.  What was it about adulthood that made
everything about childhood seem smaller?  “Bye,” he whispered helplessly.  He
took another hobbled step forward to the door and turned his face away. 
Don’t
look back.  Just keep going.
You came to see it one last time, just like
you promised Dad you would.  That’s all you can do.
“Goodb—”

The sudden brilliance
of a flashlight blinded him as a sharp, demanding voice punctuated the
stillness of the night.  “Who the hell are
you
?”

Shea stumbled backwards
in fear and squinted against the blaze of radiance as he glimpsed, dimly, a slim,
tall figure in the yard silhouetted against the trees.  A forest ranger, maybe—or
was this a neighbor? The owner?  The police?  Panic welled up inside him; he
opened his mouth and then shut it.  He should think of something to say, an
explanation, an alias, or—“Shea,” he blurted helplessly and honestly.  “Shea Matthews.” 
He knew how he must look: wide-eyed younger than his twenty-six years, pale blond
hair curling just slightly under his ears and his face pale with confusion and
fear.  He held his hands out, palm-up and open.  Best not to look threatening. 
Best not to look like he was
breaking into a fucking house
, which was
exactly what he was doing, and fuck, he realized frantically, he’d probably get
arrested for this.  He wondered wildly if his financial aid could be revoked
for something of this nature, if graduate schools could kick students out for—

The flashlight lowered
a fraction and the new arrival stepped forward from the overgrown yard into the
faltering illumination of the porch light. He lifted a skeptical, challenging
gray gaze to Shea’s.  “Sorry,” he said casually, but he didn’t sound sorry at
all and his defiant eyes held no apology.  “Asshole teenagers come by here
sometimes in the summer to drink and fuck.”  He spun the flashlight around in
his hand, a fluid and absent movement, then gestured to himself with it.  “Jamie.”

“Oh,” Shea replied
uncertainly, and tried not to stare at strong shoulders, capable hands, at the mocking
set of the man’s mouth or the soft dark hair that framed the sharp and delicate
features of his pale face. 
Handsome
, he thought irrationally, and
immediately chided himself for the thought.   This couldn’t be a
less
appropriate time to think of something like that.  “Do you—do you own this
place?”  His heart pounded beyond his ability to calm it, but he breathed
deeply and cast about in his mind for an explanation that might make sense.  He
could say he’d gotten lost, maybe, or needed help when he sprained his ankle
and simply stumbled upon the cabin.  Something.   Anything.

“No.  I write here,” Jamie
replied, and then gestured to the bag hanging from his shoulder in response to the
question in Shea’s blue eyes. For the first time, then, Shea identified the
unmistakable lines of a laptop through worn black fabric.  With blithe
disregard, Jamie shouldered past him into the kitchen and dumped the laptop bag
on the crooked table. It wobbled perilously under the sudden weight.  “I didn’t
think anybody owned this place.  Even during hunting season it’s empty.”

For some reasons, the
words felt like an indictment.  Shea frowned at the thought of his cherished
old cabin uninhabited for years—but he couldn’t deny the wave of relief that washed
over him at the news, either.  “So—so you
don’t
own this place.”  Maybe
there would be no police and no trouble, after all.   

“Didn’t I just say
that?  Jesus, try to keep up.”  At the table, Jamie tugged out a scratched and
battered laptop; a few granola bars and a half-consumed bottle of juice tumbled
out to accompany it.  He jammed the plug of the power cord into a dangerously-loose
outlet nearby.

“You…you’re
trespassing, then, aren’t you?” Shea asked.  He immediately winced at his
accusatory tone, but worry drew down his brow in consternation.  Even though
the cabin wasn’t really
his
anymore, the place held precious memories.  
For just anyone to come in and take possession of the place seemed…wrong
somehow.

Jamie arched an
eyebrow.  “Look who’s talking, buttercup,” he answered flippantly, and turned
his attention to the computer as he turned it on. The operating system was so
outdated Shea couldn’t remember the last time he’d used it, and he almost
commented on it before Jamie’s next question silenced the words on his tongue. 
“And anyway, since you’re so intent on prying into my business, now it’s my
turn: why’re
you
here?”

“My dad just died,”
Shea began, and tried to hide hurt beneath a tone of contrived offhandedness. 
“He loved this place—he only gave it up when Mom died a while ago.  He didn’t
tell me he’d sold it until later, but in the hospital this last time…he asked
me to come and say goodbye to it for both of us.  That’s all.”

Jamie observed him for
a few seconds in silence.  His expressive gray eyes softened slightly at the
words, but the guarded set of his face had not changed; he regarded Shea with a
curious blend of pity, indulgence, and understanding.  “You’re really
sentimental,” he finally murmured. A faint, knowing smile settled on his lips. 

“And you’re not?”  Defensiveness
in response to the condescension and sarcasm in Jamie’s tone drove Shea to blurt
out the words instinctively. Still, he found himself surprised when Jamie’s
eyes narrowed in response and his smile disappeared.

For a moment the two of
them simply gazed at each other, a silent test of wills—and then Jamie ’s gaze
dropped to Shea’s feet, to the weight he shifted to his right leg, as if to
dismiss the conversation.  “Did you hurt yourself or something?”

Shea stubbornly shifted
his weight to his bad ankle and gritted his teeth against a searing surge of
pain.  “I just twisted it,” he replied casually.  “It’s no big deal.” 
Satisfied that he needn’t fear any trouble for his incursion onto the property,
he now only wanted to leave and be done with this as quickly as possible.  He
didn’t understand Jamie’s manner, his native sarcasm or the prickly way he
responded to questions.  “Anyway, I’ve interrupted enough and I should leave
you to your writing—”