Jeremy Finley - The Dark Above

But this time, those eyes—those different, haunted eyes—felt like someone stabbed through his chest to his heart.

His hand drifted from rubbing his forehead to his closely cropped beard. A necessity, now, if he were to be unrecognizable.

If there was any doubt, the dreams reminded him of the reason why he had to run. Why he had to stay away.

He knew he wasn’t supposed to know about it; he had eavesdropped on a conversation he was never supposed to hear, made in the worst of circumstances. But he’d heard it, there was no denying it, even if he didn’t truly understand what was said. He’d made the decision that any man who loved his family would make.

After all, she’d risked everything for him. Her reputation, her marriage, the exposure of her secrets, all to find him. To save him.

His grandmother, who went from mildly famous to internationally infamous, faced the kind of scrutiny that would make most people turn away from the world. But not his grandmother. She was stronger than anyone he’d ever known.

I’m trying to be brave like you. To risk everything for my family. It’s why I can’t tell you where I am.

He hated causing her to once again relive the pain that she—and all of his family—endured more than a decade ago. Despite everything they’d gone through since then, he knew all they wanted was for him to be home.

But you are alive. Without me, Nanna isn’t a danger to anyone. But if I return, you could all die.

From now on, his memories would have to suffice—of the family that loved him and that he loved so much in return.

William Chance had no choice but to never see them again.

The most famous boy in the world was dead.

William repeated the words in his head like an invocation. He’d waited in the Jeep in the parking lot until the kid, dragging his mother in a faded Razorback tank top and balancing a cigarette and a toothpick in her mouth with the skill of a juggler, emerged with a grape slushy. When they got into their Mini Cooper and pulled out, only a rusted Honda Civic with the bumper sticker, “I Miss Bill,” remained.

The stifling air, void of a trace of a breeze, propelled through the vents in the Wrangler. He’d taken the doors off in the absence of air conditioning that had cut off about three months ago. When the Jeep came to a halt, even at a stoplight, the summer heat rushed in, threatening to drown him in his own sweat.

This was his chance.

The most famous boy in the world was dead.

He turned off the engine and slid out, pulling the rim of his St. Louis Cardinals ball cap down low, and walked through the doors.

“Welcome to Uncle Steve’s Food Mart,” a girl at the checkout said with the enthusiasm of a deflating balloon. William imagined a manager sending out a memo, maybe stapling it to the paychecks: Every customer must receive a greeting at the door—a warm greeting means hot business! William nodded in sympathy.

The entire back wall was beer, waving at him like a teenager seeing her boyfriend for the first time since he left for college, his texts and calls dwindling by the day. I’ve been waiting for you ! the Corona panted in the cooler. William snatched up a twelve-pack of Dr Pepper instead, practically hearing the coolers whine in outrage.

The pleasant door chime announced the arrival of three people, all heading directly for the counter.

Are you kidding me?

An older man pointed outside and proclaimed loudly, “Pump one!”

“We only take cash, machine’s down,” the girl responded.

Holding out a credit card, the man tilted his right ear towards her. “You said what, hon?”

“We. Only. Take. Cash.”

“Still don’t understand you,” he said, touching his hearing aid.

“You don’t take credit cards?” the woman next in line demanded.

“Only cash.”

“Don’t nobody carry cash anymore.” The woman jutted out her hip.

“What did you say?” the old man practically leaned across the counter.

Scratching underneath his hat, William scanned the room. The aisles faced the front, allowing whomever was working to keep an eye out for shoplifters. Only one row was positioned horizontally to the checkout counter.

He slid over to the aisle and peered over the top. The old man was slowly pulling out his wallet. He could hear the woman on her phone, calling her sister to bring some cash. The last man in line was intently reading whatever was on his phone.

One side of the aisle was peanut butter and chocolate bars masquerading as protein bars, and the other was lined with magazines. William set down the Dr Pepper and reached for one of the magazines. A headline in red letters on a black cover stood out among the rest, just as its designers intended it to do, knowing their magazine would be surrounded by an actress’s seventeenth pregnancy announcement; an exclusive on the luxury fallout shelter hidden in the Hollywood Hills for a family of reality stars; and a lifestyle guru, whose name William couldn’t remember, leaning forward thoughtfully, her glasses resting on the tip of her nose, encouraging meditation.

“YEAR OF TURMOIL,” Time magazine proclaimed. The cover was split into four sections, displaying flooded streets of New Orleans, miles of burned trees in California, a hospital somewhere surrounded by hordes of people trying to rush in, and smoke from gunfire before the Supreme Court.

In the center of the photos were words in stark white:

William put the magazine back. He watched the news nightly and listened to NPR almost constantly during work, so he didn’t need a recap of the disasters. Was it any wonder he had nightmares every night? That he carried around the constant fear like a lead blanket?

Hey, chill out, chili dog. Don’t get your panties in a wad.

Roxy’s voice came out of nowhere, and William couldn’t help but smile. It’s exactly what she would say if she were standing next to him, followed by a twist of her finger to his rib cage or a gentle tug on his earlobe. While his parents showered him with compassion and his grandparents taught him resilience, it was Roxy who infused in him the importance of laughing—and making an obscene gesture towards—the face of adversity.

Don’t try and fool me, Willie boy, he imagined her saying, picturing her in her favorite T-shirt, which read “Squad Goals” with a picture of the Golden Girls beneath. I know all you truly want to read is that magazine with the floozy on the hood of that Mustang. Just remember: Venereal disease is the gift that keeps on giving.

The last was actually one of her favorite sayings to him, whispered both before he left for prom and when that picture of him passed out cold nearly naked in a girl’s bed on the third floor of his freshman dorm set social media on fire for a solid week. His family had been horrified. Roxy had simply set it as the screen saver on her phone.

When three tabloid reporters were busted recording his high school graduation, Roxy had snuck outside to smear Vaseline on the inside of their door handles. After he was relentlessly taunted in the fifth grade by the Jolton twins for being the redheaded-stepchild-from-space, Roxy sat him down and made him repeat one saying until he got it right: “Hey Joltons: My other ride is your mom.” When he delivered the line while sitting on his bike after baseball practice, even the twins laughed. The teasing stopped.

When he mooned an entire trove of photographers who showed up at his lacrosse tournament, Roxy taped the published photograph on her refrigerator.