The Descendant of the Original

BEXLEY

Two days. Two damn days of traveling and sleeping in what I’d hardly call comfortable conditions.

My carbon-black metallic BMW M850i looks like I live in it now, but everything I own that means anything to me is now in this car. I’ve lived in California for the last twelve years of my life, working at the biggest law firm in the city of Los Angeles.

I’ve enjoyed working, enjoyed law, but something has always felt…off. Have you ever felt, I don’t know…off? Like there’s something out there waiting for you, yet you don’t know what it is? Like you’re looking for and wanting more, but you feel guilty because the life you already have is well, good.

But before I could figure out what I was missing, what I was looking for, I got the phone call. My grandmother died suddenly of a heart attack. Grandpa found her in the vegetable garden, where she had been pruning.

My grandma and grandpa raised me in a small Colorado town called Black Forest, about thirty minutes outside Colorado Springs. My parents never hid the fact that I was adopted.

My mother said she knew as soon as she first saw my face that I was supposed to be with them, that she was destined to be my mother. At the age of three, I had no argument. Hell, I don’t even remember anything from that age.

I loved my parents with everything in me. My dad was a neurosurgeon and my mom was a lawyer, hence my need to follow in her footsteps. But they died in a car crash when I was twelve, and my grandparents took me in.

I was left with a hefty trust so I would never need anything for the rest of my life, but my wanting more for myself overcame my desire to stay. I wanted more from life than money. I left Colorado and went to law school at UCLA. I worked my way up at the LA law firm.

But right now, I must go home.

Grandpa is heartbroken. I’m heartbroken. I think now of the photo of Grandma and me, the one taken when we were making pies last Christmas, and we are all covered in flour, grinning like fools.

I swipe the tears falling down my face.

I’m going home. It’s time. I sent a resignation to my job and made sure there was nothing left in my apartment. And it’s been a long drive so far, with more to go.

I pull off at a diner for breakfast, one I’ve stopped at before on trips to visit my grandparents. Their French toast is to die for, and the coffee is about the best I’ve ever had. After the second cup and a trip to the bathroom for good measure, I’m ready to finish this last leg of my journey home.

Home—that’s a word I never expected to feel comfortable in my mouth or in my thoughts, but for some odd reason, the closer I get to Black Forest, the calmer I seem to be.

Weird, isn’t it? It’s like when you have been on an extended vacation and finally get back. You walk inside for the first time, take a deep breath, and realize it’s good to be home. Forget about all the luggage that needs to be unpacked and things that need to be done—you only need to unwind and feel the silence and comfort of home.

Lord, what is happening to me? I suppose I’m just getting tired of being in this car.

***

I get a shiver that goes straight down my spine as soon as I pass the sign that says Welcome to Black Forest, Colorado. My grandma always says—said—it’s a sign of things to come.

Sometimes good, sometimes bad, but you should always heed what your body tells you. She often told me the body knows better than the brain.

The brain thinks, while the body experiences emotions, and one should listen to those emotions because the brain is capable of talking you out of the best things that can ever happen to you, or taking you into the path of danger.

She said I needed to learn to listen to my body and my emotions.

My eyes fill with tears again as I remember my grandma.

The town comes into my sight. Not much has changed. The businesses have upgraded and a park has been added at the end of the main street.

There are a lot of kids playing and climbing on the walls and equipment. There’s an outdoor yoga class happening on a patch of grass to the side.

I can tell people are staring at my car. They want to know who I am, but everyone’s still friendly. At every turn, someone waves hello with a question in their eyes: Who’s the new person coming through their town?

Well, guess what? I’m not new. I’m just an old soul coming back home.

That word again. Home.

I roll my window down and breathe in the crisp air of the mountains, the trees, and everything that’s not the ocean. It’s clean and clear and enters my lungs beautifully.

Not far outside of town is where I used to live with my grandparents. It’s a big house that sits on a large piece of property with the most serene lake on it. I used to sit by that lake all the time after my parents died.

I sat there so often, Grandpa built benches to put around it so I could be more comfortable. I used to love the breeze coming off that lake. I would sit there with my eyes closed and pretend nothing bad ever happened and everything was normal—until I couldn’t pretend anymore.

My grandparents did the best they could to raise me, but as soon as I could, I left. Left the memories behind; left Black Forest behind.

I turn down the drive that leads to the house that looks the same as it did the day I said goodbye. I feel my heartbeat quicken a little, nervous about the fact that I haven’t been back, other than the occasional short visit, in so many years.

Even when I come to visit, nobody knows I’m here. I don’t stay long enough to get out and see the locals. As far as they probably know, I’ve been gone and haven’t returned until now.

I park and get out of my car, stretching my back and trying to get the feeling back in my legs. I look up at the house I grew up in. White with black shutters and flower boxes under the windows.

There’s a huge front porch that Grandma had to have so she could stay out there and rock while she read her romance novels until the sun went down.

Grandpa is sitting on the stoop. He looks up at me and puts his hand over his heart. “Are my eyes deceiving me, or has the most beautiful granddaughter in the whole world finally come back home?”

I smile so big. I didn’t realize how much I missed hearing his voice until I hear it again.

“Are my eyes deceiving me, or is the best grandfather in the whole wide world in front of me, spewing bullshit?”

His chuckle is small, but it’s there. He’s clearly struggling with dealing with Grandma’s passing. I can see it. He stands, walks toward me, and takes me into his arms.

“You’ve always been cut and dried, a realist to a fault. Never change who you are, Bexley.”

“I’ve missed you, Grandpa.”

“Same here, Bex.”

“You don’t look so good, Gramps. I know it’s hard, but I’m here now. We’ll get through this together.”

“I’m an old man, Bex. You never know what tomorrow or, hell, the next minute will bring.”

I hear the front door open. Someone clears their throat, and I realize there is someone else here. I turn around and notice a truck in front of the house that doesn’t belong to Grandpa.

“Oh, Treyton, I’m not sure you two remember each other from your younger years, but I’ll introduce you again. Bexley, this is Treyton. Treyton, this is my Bexley. Y’all grew up together but may have been too young to remember each other well.”

This man, Treyton, is absolutely gorgeous. I’ve never been a big fan of men with long hair and a man bun because most don’t know how to pull it off, but Treyton—damn, he can pull it off and more. Dark-brown hair and a chiseled jaw covered with what looks to be about three-day-old scruff.

My eyes keep on going to find the man is built. I mean, built, with a sleeve of tattoos on each arm that go all the way down to his wrists. It all makes me wonder what’s underneath that shirt. A tattoo that runs up the right side of his neck.

Dammit, since when did a tattooed man with a man bun make me so stinking hot?

There’s something about him that makes a shiver go through my body and chill bumps pop up on my skin. I watch as he walks up to us, but he suddenly freezes mid-step as I look into the most amazing, almost crystal-clear green eyes. He stares back at me.

Grandpa chuckles, saying something that sounds like, “Told ya, son,” which knocks Treyton out of whatever trance he’s in.

He clears his throat again, takes the last few steps toward me, and holds his hand out to shake.

“Hi, Bexley, glad to have you back.”

As soon as I touch his hand, his skin shocks me with electricity, and I pull back.

“Sorry, Treyton. Didn’t expect that.”

He grins.

“I did.”

What the hell does he mean by that?