Justin has never given much thought to the integral part his hometown played in his upbringing, but today he’s feeling a little nostalgic as he winds the Escalade through the forest, retracing all the old roads that his internal map has never lost. He has nowhere to be and no destination in mind, just a full tank of gas, a troubled heart and a mind that won’t quit, sleep as far away as ever. He’d wanted to lay down after breakfast, finally feeling like maybe he could sleep, wouldn’t even let his mother change the sheets, just climbed the stairs to his old room, pulled the comforter back and let himself fall face first into the blankets. One breath and he was wide awake again, the clean simple scent of Charlotte’s skin surrounding him and he’d forgotten she’d slept here at Christmas. God that was so long ago but her smell lingered, as trapped in the fabric of his sheets as it is in the fabric of his mind.

His mother had protested when he’d come back down wearing clean clothes but still feeling rusty and worn. She’d fussed and demanded he march right back up those stairs but after one tired, broken look from him she’d let him go. He’s not sure what he’s looking for or where he’s going, he just knows that he wants to keep moving. If he keeps moving maybe he can outrun everything that’s been chasing him over the past few months - Charlotte, Amelia, his job, the wedding, the press – and fatigue will finally set in.

Life is chasing him while he chases sleep.

You keep running, it’s what you’re good at.

He knows it’s no solution, knows that nothing will be solved if he keeps running but-

His train of thought cuts off as his phone rings and he checks the front to find Amelia’s name staring back at him. He hits ignore for the third time in the past hour, wishing there was a button in his brain for that sort of thing, guilt nipping at him. He’d left her a note before he’d gone - A, Went home for a few days. Be back soon. Love J - and knows she must be beyond pissed. It really was a shitty thing for him to do, just up and leave in the middle of the night. He hadn’t even kissed her goodbye.

He sighs heavily, reaching up to rub his burning eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose hard. He wonders if this is what going crazy feels like, this constant anxiety and frantic need to not stay in one place, to move, to run.

He pulls into the next parking lot, stepping out of the car and looking around. It’s so quiet here, the trees tall as skyscrapers and as he looks around, there’s not a soul in sight, the road empty, his the only car in the lot. He pockets his keys, strolling towards the edge of the asphalt and stepping down onto springy grass, surveying the sign denoting the beginning of Chickasaw Bluff Trail, eight miles of nice ups and downs with good views of the Mississippi River. Eight miles is nothing to him now. Amelia had him running ten every other day in preparation for the wedding and it’s only ten o’clock. He could be done in an hour and a half easily, maybe two if the up parts of the ups and downs are particularly brutal. 

He’s not exactly dressed for this sort of thing he thinks, bending his leg so he can grab his foot and he feels the muscles pull, loosening a little but not much. He repeats the action with the other before walking back to the car, opening the passenger side door and tugging the polo over his head, his undershirt blinding white in the morning sun. He slips his belt from the loops of his cargo shorts, dropping it in the front seat before shutting the car and clicking the lock, the quiet beep beep echoing through the empty forest, birds chirping back at him. He slips the keys into his pocket, taking long strides back over to the beginning of the trail, stretching a little more but he’s anxious to get going. He needs to move.

You keep running, it’s what you’re good at.

He takes off like a shot, shoes pounding the woodchips which soon turn to dirt and he’s flying, the wind whipping against his face, his heartbeat thudding loudly in his ears. He’s shooting himself in the foot and he knows it, pushing so hard from the start but he doesn’t care. It feels good to push back, to fight against his body and prevail. This might not be the case for long but right now he’s winning and it feels amazing.

He reaches his first downward slope, slowing just slightly but his shoes slide when he tries to stop, the skater tread giving him no traction and he skids down to where the trail evens out again, nearly tumbling head over feet but he doesn’t even take a minute to marvel at how he’s still standing. He rushes around winding bends, the sunlight winking off the Mississippi through the trees and he tries to concentrate on the pull of his muscles, the aching draw of his breath but the thoughts are creeping in, crowding the corners of his weary mind and he tries to force himself faster, pushing his body harder but even as he speeds up his troubles tag along behind him, prodding him and begging him for his attention.

His phone trills in his pocket, the little device banging against his thigh but he ignores it, pushing so hard and his knees are killing him, the balls of his feet aching and he’s barely two miles in. He should slow down but he doesn’t want to, wants to keep pushing because he can’t slow down. If he slows down…

Sometimes you have to lose something to get something better.

He groans, breath hissing through his teeth and he just wants quiet, in his heart and in his mind. That’s what he came all this way for and he petulantly screams at the thoughts in his head to go away, leave him alone, he’s had enough. But his problems are like a prime fighter, relentless and uncaring beating him senselessly even though he’s down on the mat.

He and Amelia have been having problems for a long time, longer than he’s even willing to admit now. A lot of it is his own fault, letting himself be walked upon and chastised and torn down. He remembers the very first time she’d screeched at him senselessly, her mouth spitting things that hurt him so desperately and all he could do was press his phone to his ear and listen. She’d wanted him with her, she was tired of red eye flights and navigating the time differences. He’d been in Louisiana and his filming had just wrapped, he’d only called because he was happy, feeling accomplished and wanted to hear her voice. He hadn’t meant to wake her up and he didn’t mean to upset her by once again reminding her of his absence. She’d hung up on him and he’d gotten on a plane. Looking back on it he wonders how differently things would have been if he’d just let her walk instead of chasing her down, coming to her with flowers and an apology.

If he had he would have never met Charlotte.

His phone trills again and he growls, skidding to a stop and the aches and pains that he’d been ignoring slam into him full force, making him groan in quiet agony, the pain making him irritable. He shoves his hand into his pocket angrily, fingers pulling at the little phone and flipping it open, not even bothering with the caller ID.

“Hello,” Justin barks, bending over at the waist and trying to pull air into his lungs, breath rasping harshly against the receiver and he can hear himself wheezing and crackling on the line.

“Dude…” Trace’s voice wafts through the line and Justin can barely hear it over the thudding of his heart. He needs to sit down. “You should be careful wackin off like that you’ll give yourself a heart attack.”

“I was… running,” Justin says, his speech halted by his labored breathing, letting himself fall backwards, leaning against a rock next to the trail.

“Sure you were,” Trace replies, playful condescension in his voice. “Your mom called.” Justin rolls his eyes. “Shoulda said you were comin home man we coulda hung out.”

“Where are you?” Justin asks, letting his eyes close as he rests his head back against the cool boulder, sweat trickling down the back of his neck.

“LA,” Trace says and Justin hears the rustling of papers in the background. “looking over shit for that swimwear line you wanted. Could you be a bigger pain in my ass?”

An unwilling smile pulls at Justin’s lips. “It’s a good idea.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Trace grumbles and he hears the scratching of a pen and more movement of paper.

“Just think about how when we get it designed and comped,” Justin says reaching up to wipe a hand over his sweaty face. “You’ll get to pick the models.”

The line is silent for a moment. “See this is why you’re the big business man J you think shit through,” Trace says and Justin can see the grin on his best friends face.

“I’m not big business,” Justin says modestly but it comes out more petulant than he intended.

“Right,” Trace says. “How’s life? You preparing yourself for the epicness that will be your bachelor party?”

Justin chuckles. “Why do you think I’m working out?”

“Dude jacking off is not working out,” Trace teases and Justin rolls his eyes. “Unless you’re trying to get yourself ready for the big night. Can’t pop too soon on the wedding night. Its like bad luck or some shit.”

Justin winces. “Not a problem,” he says and then adds half-heartedly. “for me anyway. She may have trouble controlling herself.”

Trace laughs. “Don’t even play she hasn’t let you at that pussy in weeks.”

It’s Justin’s turn to laugh but there’s no humor in it. “You’d be surprised.”

“Would I?”

“Jumped me last night.”

Trace’s laugh barks through the line, loud and uncontrolled. “And she ran you clean out the state!”

“Shut up Trace,” Justin growls and the laughter goes quiet, the line silent for a moment.

“I was just kidding man,” Trace says softly and Justin presses his thumb and forefinger into his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Yeah,” he says tiredly.

“You sound wiped,” Trace says cautiously. “I haven’t heard you sound this shitty since back in the day when you were doing five shows a week.”

“I’m in the middle of running eight miles,” Justin replies and he can feel the muscles in his legs threaten to curl. He crawls gingerly to his feet, stretching his muscles carefully to avoid a cramp.

“Give your dick a break dude,” Trace teases and Justin rolls his eyes.

“You’re one to talk about jacking off asshole,” Justin spits, but laughs at the end despite himself.

“Hey I don’t have time,” Trace says. “I can’t even get my hand around it before Ginger’s on top of my ass. ‘Course I’ve always had trouble getting my hand around it…hand’s just too small.”

Justin laughs. “More like you can’t fucking find it.” He sniggers at his own cleverness. “How is Ginger?”

“She’s great,” Trace says and Justin denotes the way his voice changes from teasing to tender and a pang of jealousy pulls in his chest. “She’s freaking out about getting you guys a wedding gift. I keep telling her we’re getting you some Astroglide for your solo missions but she don’t listen to shit.”

Justin rolls his eyes. “Thoughtful.”

“I am nothing if not thoughtful,” Trace replies airily. “Hey how’s Charlotte?”

Her name is like a punch in the gut, catching him off guard and causing him to go surly. “Why does everyone keep asking me that? How would I know?”

The line is silent. “Well last time I checked ya’ll were friends…”

“Yeah and when was the last time you checked, Trace?” Justin snaps before he can think better of it.

“Hey I quit calling because all it did was cause your ass trouble with the soon-to-be missus, dickwad,” Trace spits back and Justin growls.

“Whatever,” Justin bristles and looks around annoyed. “I gotta go. I need to finish this run.”

“Yeah you do that,” Trace replies angrily and Justin doesn’t even say goodbye, just snaps his phone shut and his feet are kicking back woodchips before the guilt has a chance to catch up.

***

The afternoon sun beats down ruthlessly on Justin’s bare shoulders, sweat trickling down his spine, his back aching as he reaches for a particularly stubborn weed near his grandmother’s azalea bush. He can feel his scalp burning, his skin stinging as he tosses the clump of dirt and stringy roots into his basket and stops to press a dirty finger to his bicep watching the skin go white and then fade back to red under the smudge of earth he’d left on his skin

He’d finished the mowing about an hour ago and then went ahead and weed-eated around the trees and picnic tables in the backyard. Now the sun is high in the sky, the early June heat baking his skin and he knows he should probably go in to put on some more sun block but he’s almost done with this bed. He sighs, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand and there’s something oddly comforting about manual labor, the way it makes him unable to concentrate on anything but the fatigue of his muscles and the ache in his fingers. He likes the idea that if he pushes himself hard enough he’ll be so tired by the end of it he’ll fall into bed and sleep for days. Or at least that’s the goal anyway.

“Justin!”

He looks up at the sound of his name, finding his grandfather striding towards him. Billy Bomar is a tall man, his six foot two frame stretching long and straight despite his age. He’s surprisingly lanky for a man of eighty-two, his movements fluid and easy as opposed to the jerky amble most men his age were prone to do. His Carhart work boots have seen better days, the toes dirty and cracked, laces pulled tight before they disappeared under his worn jeans, William Rast by the looks of them, from their first season. His olive button down shirt is pressed and clean, buttoned all the way to the neck even though it’s nearly ninety degrees, his silver hair neat and sleek. He has a glass of lemonade in his hand.

“Hey Papa,” Justin says, looking back down and grabbing for another weed and he feels the coolness of his shadow as his grandfather stands next to him.

“Boy you’re gonna be crispy as a fritter if you don’t put a shirt on,” he says and Justin feels a smile tug at his reluctant lips.

“Can’t have any tan lines,” he says tugging hard before reaching for the gardening fork and trying to loosen the soil.

“Yeah the big day’s comin up huh?” Billy says and Justin hums non-committally, continuing to dig at the earth, his grandfather’s shadow weighing on him slightly. “Your granny wanted me to bring you this,” Billy says and Justin can hear the ice jingle in the glass.

“Oh…thanks,” Justin says, sitting back on the balls of his feet, reaching to take the glass.

“Why don’t you take a break,” Billy says and before Justin can protest he’s already making his way over to the picnic table shaded by the large maple tree that Justin and Trace used to climb.

This was the part of this trip Justin had been avoiding at all costs. He’d been home nearly five days now, spending the majority of his time out of the house, exploring trails, doing a little fishing and impromptu swimming, smiling politely at the locals when they gawked at him in town. He’d finally summoned the courage to return Amelia’s calls about a day or so in, listening to her rant and rave for the better part of an hour. He’d apologized profusely over and over, skating around her insistence that he come home immediately by telling her about everything he was doing here, how much better he felt just by getting away from the city. He liked to think that she’d stopped arguing finally because he’d told her it was something he needed to do but realizes that it was probably more the promise that he’d be back by the next Wednesday at the very latest.

Since then he’d eaten dinner with his parents every night, keeping his eyes on his food and answering their questions about his day with caution, not wanting to be rude but also not wanting to prompt another probe into his life back in New York. It hadn’t come up again but he could tell they--his mother especially--were still concerned but as the days passed he remained closed off and they didn’t push. Some nights they would watch television together, sitcoms and dramas and he’d enjoy the way his father would laugh at the hilarity of dysfunctional families and his mother would gasp at plot twists. He’d gone out a few times, had drinks at some local bars and socialized with college kids home for the summer and blue collar workers just trying to unwind. He’d watch the couples sway to country music on the dance floor and wonder how different his life would have turned out if he hadn’t left this place so young, hadn’t been on that TV show or joined that group. Would he still be right there having a drink at that bar or maybe dancing with a pretty dark haired girl with dimples that only showed up when she smiled.

“I say it’s good to have you home boy,” Billy says, clapping Justin lightly on the back as he settles next to him on the bench, and Justin smiles. “The yard hasn’t looked this good in months.”

Justin’s chest rumbles in a laugh. “Happy to help.”

“Your momma says you’ve been havin’ trouble sleepin’?” he asks and Justin shifts, his back pressing against the table behind him.

“Yeah…” he says slowly, watching his fingers thread together, dirt crusted under his nails. Amelia would keel over dead if she saw them. “Just nerves I guess.”

His grandfather nods, looking out over the lawn and silence descends on them, making Justin shift. He doesn’t want to just sit here. He’s got a lot to do, put mulch around the trees, fertilize the rose bushes and he still has to weed the flowerbeds on the other side of the house. He downs the rest of his lemonade in one gulp, the coldness making his chest hurt a little as he stands.

“Well I better get back to work. Thanks for the-”

“Boy you are wound tighter than an eight day clock,” Billy says peering up at him and Justin laughs despite himself. “Sit down.”

“I really gotta get these beds finished,” he says, jutting a thumb over his shoulder at the house and Billy eyes him hard.

“Sit down, Justin,” he says his voice soft but stern and it’s not a request. Justin purses his lips and even though he’s thirty years old he does as he’s told. “What brings you to our neck of the woods?” he questions and when Justin merely blinks at him he adds, “I only ask because it’s not like you to show up outta the blue.”

“Oh…” Justin says, looking down at his hands. “Can’t…can’t I just come home?”

“’Course ya can,” Billy says with a deep nod, “But like I said your momma told me you ain’t been sleepin’ so I was thinking maybe something was troubling you…” Billy says and Justin can feel his grandfather’s eyes on him, watching him keenly and Justin sits very still keeping his face blank and calm. “And your heart always longs to be home when it’s troubled.”

“I’m not troubled,” Justin replies petulantly and he glances over to find Billy’s eyebrows raised. “Like I said before it’s nerves.”

“Mmm,” Billy hums looking out over the yard again. “Marriage isn’t something you just jump into.”

“I know that,” Justin says bristling.

“You’re promisin’ before God and family to stick with that girl for the rest of your life,” Billy goes on and Justin flashes hot, his vision pulsing with a surge of nervous adrenaline.

“Amelia and I have been together for three years, nearly four,” Justin says, his tone slightly argumentative.

“Time don’t mean much when it comes to this, son,” Billy says with a sigh. “Doesn’t matter if its three years or thirty if it ain’t right-”

“I love her! Why does everyone keep trying to tell me that I don’t?” Justin says heatedly, his voice raising and Billy looks over at him, his lined face weary and a chill of fear runs down Justin’s spine, just like it always did when he was younger and his mouth had gotten a little ahead of him.

“You watch your tone,” Billy warns and Justin dips his head chastised. “I don’t care if you are thirty years old and about to be married I will still bend you over and put the belt to you.”

Justin chuckles softly, nodding. “Sorry.”

“I didn’t say that you don’t love that little girl,” Billy says looking over at Justin who is looking at his hands again. “God knows you must because she’s a handful.” Justin chuckles, a smile tugging at his lips. “But marriage ain’t something you do because you ought to. Your momma and Randy are livin proof of that.”

Justin winces at his honesty, guilt ripping open wounds as old as himself even though he knows it’s not his fault, nothing he could have done differently other than not exist. But that wasn’t his choice and his mother had spent his entire life telling him that while marrying his father was a mistake, he himself was not and he always believed her. She loved him too much for it not to be true.

And then before he can stop himself, Justin asks the words he’s been terrified to ask even himself. “You think I’m making a mistake?”

His voice is quiet, a cold shiver running through him and he’s too afraid to look at his grandfather’s face, realizing that he’s not too sure he wants to hear the answer to his question.

“You wanna know what I think?” Billy asks and Justin blinks slowly, still not daring to look at him, the muscles of his shoulders tight. “I think you rarely gotta go somewhere just to go. I think it's cause there's usually somethin’ runnin’ up on ya,” Billy pauses, surveying his grandson slowly, “or somethin’ that you wish wasn't…”

Justin swallows hard, pressing his palms together and watching his fingertips align, his heart thumping unevenly in his chest. His mouth is dry, tongue thick as cotton and that panicked tightness is back in his chest causing his shoulders to hunch as he leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees. He really wants to get back to the flowerbeds, to give his hands something to do, to move.

“You’ve always been a runner,” Billy softly says after a moment and Justin peers over at him cautiously. “I don’t know why. We raised you to stand up and take responsibility,” his grandfather nods, looking out over the lawn, hazy in the afternoon sun, “And you have and we’re proud but boy you run.”

Justin looks down at his hands, feeling shame far greater than any he’d felt since he was a teenager and had been caught smashing mailboxes with Trace. His grandfather had dealt with him then as well, looking down the wide bridge of his nose at him, fixing him with his steel gray eyes. But there is none of that sternness now, just bafflement, as if he’s confused as to how Justin could have turned out this way. Something that makes Justin feel even worse. He can’t help but wonder how he’d managed to get himself so turned around, how he’d strayed from the confident, successful man, riding on natural talent and honed skills to…whatever the hell he was now, confused and lonely, looking for answers that never seem to come.

Billy pulls himself to his feet, breaking Justin’s train of thought and starting him so that he sits back, blinking up at his grandfather. “You gotta decide what you’re gonna do Justin,” Billy says soberly and Justin blinks back up at him, the sun burning his eyes. “You gotta stop running and decide.”

And with that Billy turns back towards the house, leaving Justin to stare after him blankly his thoughts as tangled as ever.