When I get to the cottage that night, I'm only slightly horrified.  It hasn't been kept up with at all, as my mother had reminded me of earlier. That said, it's still in surprisingly good shape. I pull up after a long night at Tiny Baker.  My mother had decided to drop off my old car earlier in the evening, though I had assured her I could walk home.  She was accompanied by the man who continually refers to himself as my stepfather, though he is not married to my mother and I in no way consider him a father or a father figure.  Steve is a good guy, but he's been dating my mother for three years and I've only ever spoken to him on the phone.  My own mother doesn't even refer to him as a boyfriend or a husband, but just as a "good friend".  I suppose she is closer to Al and B than most humans.

They dropped my car off at Tiny Baker, and then they tried to hang out at the shop for awhile.  I was far too busy for that nonsense, and kicked them out after half an hour.  It was good I had the car though because after I left the shop, I made a rather quick and depressing late night trip to the Walmart 15 miles away in the next town, grabbing a few essentials I knew I hadn't packed.  I am so exhausted by the time I park the car in the crunchy gravel driveway that I can barely see straight.  I grab my suitcase from the trunk, considering for a moment just leaving it in the car until morning, but then decide to lug it and the shopping bags inside.

I open the front door and the memories come flooding back.  Memories of summer days as a kid, running through the small main floor, ignoring my grandmother's warnings to slow down.  Thrilling, somewhat terrifying summer storms that would blacken the sky and push a relieving cold front through the sticky hot summer air for a day or two.  Long, breathless nights spent on the tiny beachfront just footsteps from the house, waiting for the sharp yells and loud shouting matches to die down.

This cottage belonged to my grandparents—my father's parents.  Both my grandfather and my father died young, in their sixties, from heart related issues. Thinking about them now, I'm filled with a mixture of emotions.  Emotions that I've been avoiding for quite some time. I can only say I'm not surprised that it was their hearts that gave out on them.  When your heart is so cold, so filled with self hatred and anger, why would it want to keep going?  I've often wondered.

Although I have some terrible memories of this place, I also have great memories.  Fantastic memories that mostly include my grandmother and my cousins Laura and Flip. I haven't seen Laura or Flip in just as many years, though I talk to Laura every few months on the phone.  She's married with two kids, and Flip just got engaged.  I'm looking forward to seeing them.  At the moment though, I don't want to see anyone unless their name is "bed" and they're soft, large and made out of fluffy material.  All I can think about is sleeping.  I've been up since 4:30 am and my body feels like it's about to give out.  Despite all this, I still need to check out the cottage and make sure a band of murderers and raccoons haven't taken hold of it.  I turn on all the lights as I walk in, and just stand and stare for a minute.

We call it a cottage because it is in every way a cozy little cottage.  I'm standing at the front door, and I can easily see about 75% of the home.  I'm facing the main room, which has worn hard wood floors, and rather dingy looking white walls.  There is a fireplace which takes up most of the wall to my left.  Directly in front of me is a huge bay window with a great view of the tiny beach.  To my right, there are stairs and then there is a wide entryway to the kitchen. 

Strangely, it smells the same—a bit like beach and lavender and firewood.  Sure, it's a bit more musty and has the smell of something that's been closed up for some time, but I am happy to say that I don't smell anything rotting, and no rabid raccoons seem to have made a home there.  I drop all my bags on the floor with a loud thud and then poke my head into the kitchen.  It's just the same as I remember it.  Sparse, small, and full of linoleum.  Yikes.  The counter space is nonexistent, but I get a flash in my head of lining the far wall with gorgeous wood butcher block, and maybe even a tiny island in the center of the room.  It would be enough space for some baking.  I'm not sure where it comes from, but it worries me.  Am I really considering fixing up the place?  For what reason? There's no way I'm staying here long term. But I feel as if I can't just leave this place as it is, rotting away on a gorgeous piece of land in a shitty little town.  Maybe I can fix it up and sell it.  It is mine after all.  My grandmother left it to me when she passed away six years ago.  Since leaving Maryland, it has been the one this I've missed.  It reminds me of her and how great she was despite everything she went through.

Off the kitchen is a short hallway that leads to a small full bathroom, and a tiny guest room.  It's big enough for a full bed, and a dresser but not much else.  At least it also has a great view of the beach, and it's where I stayed as a kid with my cousins.  We'd all shove into the room, me and Laura on the bed and Flip on a terribly squeaky cot that fit perfectly between the wall and the dresser.  I glance in the room, and there's nothing in there now.  Just some old carpet, and really bad orange-yellow curtains.

Backtracking through the house, I turn off lights as I make my way upstairs.  The entire second floor is one large bedroom.  It's my favorite part of the house, though I was never allowed up there much as a kid.  It was my grandparent's bedroom.  For now, it will be mine.  I remember the huge, comfy looking bed and the shaggy carpet on the hard wood floor.  My grandmother's antique dresser and make up table with the spotted mercury glass mirror.  There's a fireplace in the far corner, making it cozy in the winter.  I make my way up the curving staircase and stop when I get to the top of the stairs.  Well, fuck.

There's nothing up there anymore.  It's completely empty.  I remember cleaning it out shortly after my grandmother died.  The ceilings are surprisingly high, with exposed beams and two large skylights.  Directly in front of me is a large picture window that overlooks the entire lawn leading up to the small beach.  It's a lovely sight during the day, but I can't see anything now.  Just my own reflection in the darkened glass.  And I look like shit.  Like some sort of living dead.  And I have nowhere to sleep, because there is no bed. 

I put my hands on my hips and just sort of turn in circles, as if that will make a bed magically appear.  I don't know how I could have forgotten.  The place is pretty much empty.  No table, no chairs, no beds.  This isn't going to be as easy as I had imagined. 

At this point, it's nearing two in the morning.  If I wake up my mother, she'll kill me.  I don't like the idea of sleeping on the floor, but it looks like it's my only option for now.  Tomorrow, I'll shop for a new bed.  Or maybe an air mattress.  Something so I don't feel like a hobo on vacation in someone's crappy little vacant cottage.

I turn around and walk toward the back corner of the room, where there is a narrow black spiral staircase.  My heart beats a little faster as I make my way to it.  This is the best part of the whole house.  I clunk loudly up the metal stairs, feeling a bit lightheaded.  I should have eaten more than fondant scraps for dinner.  I make it to the top of the stairs, and then I push hard on the square on the ceiling.  Nothing happens.  I push hard again, with all my weight and then the square gives way, swinging up and open.  I climb the remainder of the stairs, and then I'm up on the roof.  The widow's walk. 

I step out onto the roof, immediately feeling the surprisingly cool night air. The humidity is still there though, and it's cold and damp at the same time. It's a small raised space, only about 10 by 10, but there, on the roof is the only piece of furniture.  A solid looking Adirondack chair, made out of sea weathered wood.  It looks like a goddamn throne to me at the moment, and I slump into it. 

I'm not sure how long I'm sitting there.  Could have been ten minutes, could have been a few hours.  But I just sit.  I sit and sit, and listen to the sound of the bay lapping gently at the beach a few yards away.  I listen to the rustle of the summer breeze through the huge oak trees that are scattered over the green lawn.  I can't see much in the dark, but I can see a lot of stars in the milky black sky, so I watch them.  It feels strange and scary and overwhelming to be back here.  I don't want to be in Havre de Grace, but here I am. 

Perhaps I'll just sleep here, on the widow's walk. It seems to make sense.  I'm not a widow, but part of me feels like something has died by coming back to Maryland.  It's melodramatic, but it's true.  Maybe I should just close up Tiny Baker here and move it full time to LA.  I don't love LA either, but it's not Maryland.  It's not chocked full of terrible memories, and terrible people and crappy stories.  Not yet at least.  I suddenly want to cut all ties with this place, and start over completely.  Close this chapter, and never look back.  If only this cottage, and my mother, weren't the two things holding me back.

As I consider either just leaping off this god forsaken widows walk, or just going back inside to figure out a sleeping situation (I was leaning toward going back inside), I feel my phone vibrating in my back pocket.  There's only one person I can think who would be calling me at this hour, and I grab for my phone quickly.

"I was wondering when you were going to call me after those cryptic text messages this afternoon." I answer, leaning back in the chair.

"Hello." He says, his voice is smooth with that deep timbre that you feel in your bones.  I pull my legs up into the chair, smashing them against my chest.

"I'm in Maryland.  I'd rather be dead. Or in LA with you, I guess." I say with a little smile.  Tom is quiet, but then he clears his throat.

"I am in LA.  It is terrible here as well, sweet." He sounds sad.  What is going on?

"Tom?" I ask and then I wait.  He's so quiet, that it's almost scaring me.  The man normally doesn't shut up.  I almost want to ask him to just starting reading out of a book that is near him, so he sounds normal again.  I actually did do that once, and he makes a the dictionary sound fascinating.

"I'm glad you got there safely." He is avoiding my unspoken question.

"You know it's two am here, and after eleven where you are.  So why are you calling me? Do you want to talk about your day? Or maybe what you're going to wear tomorrow?" I say this quickly, before I can catch myself.  I know something is going on with him, and I know I should be nice to him, but I am too used to being sarcastic and mean.  I often tease him about what he's going to wear, because of one time he complained to me about shopping for yet another new suit to wear to an event.  I told him it was the most ridiculously pretentious thing he'd ever said to me, and haven't let him live it down since.

He laughs at my poke, and I know it was the right thing to do.  If I coddle him and fawn over him, he'll just clam up even more.  He can emote like hell on the big screen, but in real life, it takes him a bit more to crack him open.

"I was thinking of the black jumper—"He starts and I groan loudly, which makes him chuckle. He's eternally wearing the same black cardigan, and I am constantly making fun of him for it.  At this point, I think he just wears it to make me angry.

"Be serious." I beg.  "Burn that flipping thing, and tell me what you're really going to wear." I grin.  He keeps laughing, low and quiet and sort of half hearted.  It's hard for me not to want to reach through the phone and hug him.  If it were an option, I would do it in a heartbeat.  I haven't seen his face in almost a month.

"Do you want to FaceTime?" I ask suddenly.  I want to see him.  He groans.

"I look terrible." He complains, but I'm already connecting.  It takes a moment, but finally he allows it, and his face is suddenly lighting up the screen.  He's at home and in bed.  His hair is sort of flattened and messy and he looks eternally tired.  Long gone are the blond curls from his earlier twenties.  The curls I knew when I first met him.  At the moment, he's got it cut rather short on the sides, and kind of long and floofy on the top, and it's light brown.  Pretty close to his natural color.

"Happy?" He asks, scrunching up his nose.  I smile.  I can see myself in the little square on my phone, and only my face is illuminated from the light of my phone.  Everything else around me is black.  I'm a floating, blueish white head.  The circles under my eyes seem magnified.

"I look terrifying!" I exclaim and his eyes widen and then narrow as he looks at me on his screen.

"You do.  Where are you?" He smiles.

"On the roof."

"Don't jump." He says, no urgency in his voice.  I grin and then burst out laughing.

"You'd be devastated." I raise my eyebrows.  He nods and then he's moving around in bed, and it looks like he's burrowed under the covers like some sort of little groundhog.  I watch him and lean my head back against the worn wood of the chair. 

"Charlie, there's some stuff going on with me right now." He looks serious now, and I feel my heartbeat pick up.  In the five years I've known him, he's never acted like this. I sit up and shiver in the cool, damp air.  I'm suddenly cold, but can't face the stifling cottage just yet.

"Tom? Are you okay? Are you in trouble or something?" A thousand things flash through my head. Tom Harrison, Drug addict! Tom Harrison, Sex addict!

"No, no, darling. It's nothing like that.  I'm not addicted to drugs or some pervy sex addict." He says, reading my mind.  He knows exactly where I go when he mentions being faced with "trouble". His handsome face is surrounded by the white of his bedding, and I know he's trying to fall asleep.  He likes to wrap himself up like a mummy when he sleeps.

"Okay, but remember that time you told me about—the backseat of the limo—" I laugh, as Tom grunts, and then is saying something like "Shut up, Charles."  I breathe.  "So what is it then? Is it Keegan?" I say her name, and it hangs in the air.  He looks away from the camera.

"I don't know if I can talk about it." He says, his voice is hesitant. 

"Well, good chat then." I quip.  He laughs.

"I just need to know you're okay.  And that you..." He hesitates.  I frown and look down at my hands.  In the dark, I can barely make out the outline of my fingers.

"I'm fine, Tom.  Don't worry about me.  I'm worried about you now, you jerk." I mumble. 

"I'm fine." He mimics me.  He is being so cryptic.  The camera shifts around, and then he's taken the FaceTime off, and turned it back into a regular phone call.  I roll my eyes and hold the phone back to my ear.

  I want to yell at him, but I know something is truly wrong and bothering him. 

"Charlie, I just want you to know what a great friend you've been to me.  I know we don't see each other often, but you've always been there for me.  I appreciate that.  It's rare to find that.  Someone who listens and gives as much as they receive.  You're a diamond in the rough, love."

"Are you near sharp objects right now? Are you on the ledge? Did you take a lot of pills?" I take a deep breath.

"I'm not suicidal, you sausage." He laughs loudly.

"I want your books if you kick it." I sigh.

"You get nothing." His voice is flat.  I snort with laughter.

"I'm here for you, Harrison." I say it, and I mean it.  I stop laughing long enough to make sure that he knows I'm being serious.  He stops laughing as well and we are both quiet for a minute. 

"Thank you, love." Tom takes a deep breath.  "We'll talk soon, yeah? I'm going to try and get some sleep.  I've got a feeling I have a long day ahead of me." He says.  He hasn't told me what's wrong, but I know he will.  He doesn't get down very often, but when something is bothering him, he usually takes awhile to work it out on his own first, before he'll confide in me.  Then, it's like some sort of dam has broken, and I'm just floating down Tom river, hoping my floatie doesn't spring a leak.

"Me too.  Have a good night, Tom.  Sleep well." I say and hang up.  I know I'll hear from him soon, if not tomorrow.  It is good to hear his voice, even though he is obviously having a tough time with something.  In the chaos of coming to Maryland, and dealing with Tiny Baker, it is nice to know he's there.  He is one of the most levelheaded, smart men I know, and I know whatever his issue is, he will be able to handle it.  There's something nagging though, something that is leading me back to Keegan.  I can only begin to imagine what's going on with them.