Check engine.
I frown. “Check engine? For what? Bedbugs?” Learning the inner workings of automobiles isn’t something I’ve made a habit of engaging in. Not when I’ve always paid for the best in the business.But now,I realize,might be the time to start.Dad’s not here to give me grief over wanting to get my hands dirty for once, and a mechanic is out of the question. Neither Ingrid or I can afford one now. Not in our current predicament.
As I navigate the clean, well-manicured streets on the way to Logan’s church, I can’t help but admire my parents’ taste in “investments.” My mother grew up here in Meadow Hills, and after inheriting her parents’ old lake house, she and my father renovated it within an inch of its life and rebranded it as one of their “seasonal residences.” It doubles as their East Coast base, a short drive from their auction house in Portland—where they spend every June and July selling overpriced estate collections, antique furniture no one actually wants to sit on, and paintings that all look the same to me but apparently go for seven figures.
They’re big on prestige, my parents. Big on appearances. Which is probably why they’ve spent the past decade globe-trotting from Woollahra to Maine, chasing the summer like it’s a tax write-off. I’ll give them this, though—trading Sydney’s winter drizzle for lakeside afternoons and seasonal farmers’ markets? Not their worst decision.
However, this is my first autumn here.I’ve never stuck around past July, and I’m usually only here on occasional business with my parents. So I’ve had no idea what to expect.But now that I’m here for my first September, and for once, free to explore and let my surroundings sink in, I finally see it all.
The towering maple trees at every turn are unreal and serene, and for this early in the season, there’s an offensively substantial amount of yellow-orange leaves and cold weather to accompany the sunshine. The way they flutter down in slow motion, gathering in crunchy, satisfying piles along the sidewalks, feels like something out of a postcard. Porch steps are stacked with pumpkins and baskets of mums. Every gust of wind carries the scent of pine needles and woodsmoke, and the air is just crisp enough to sting my nostrils in the most pleasant way.
Despite my initial reluctance to fall for the town I’ve been “stranded” in, I can’t deny its appeal.
It’s so—I wrinkle my nose—lovely.
I park at Harvest Valley Church and breathe out a deep sigh. My thoughts ring with alarm in my head: I made it in one piece, and now I’ve got to go inside if I want a hot meal.
You can do this, Bash. You did it last week, and the past few weeks before that. This time will be no different.
This isn’t the first church I’ve stepped foot inside. In fact, the one my family attends in Australia is the only place I felt more judged than I did at home. It was a constant hub of rude comments and passive-aggressive implications endlessly hurled my way. It started when I began smoking cigarettes at eighteen and only became worse when I got my first tattoo shortly after. Any friends I had were no longer allowed to speak to me, so I learned how to be content without them.
But still. It feels as if I’ve never been allowed to be myself without apology. So, after wrestling with my decision, a lot of praying, and hoping God wouldn’t be disappointed in me, I decided not to step foot in a place like that again.
I get out of the car and roll the sleeves of my designer button-up. I glance at the bare spot on my wrist where my Rolex used tolive before I pawned it a few weeks after Mum and Dad decided I needed a lesson in obedience. Checking the invisible time is just muscle memory now.
Did I get anywhere near what it was worth? Of course not. But it’s been enough to help keep bread and peanut butter in the pantry, along with a sad ration of gas here and there. Plus, the phone bill I can’t afford to lose, and cigarettes—my most loyal, toxic companion. They’re currently burning through my remaining funds faster than I can.
I drag a hand through my professionally-cut blond hair, which has grown just shaggy enough to look like that 90’s curtain hair men used to have. It’s been two months since I was exiled to small-town Maine, and I’m finally starting to look like someone who belongs here—lived-in, broke, and unbothered.
“Bash, my man!”
I turn my gaze toward Logan, the saving grace himself. He’s already propped against his truck like he’s in a car commercial—tall, effortlessly cool, and somehow making a hoodie and joggers look like designer couture. Not only does the guy have smooth dark skin that looks moisturized by divine intervention, but also a face so absurdly symmetrical it offends me on a spiritual level.
If I didn’t like him so much, I’d start a petition to have him removed from public spaces for the safety of everyone’s self-esteem.
It’s become a routine of ours to meet in the parking lot before breakfast. I arrive, sulk about my life, and try not to overthink everything. Logan interrupts my sulking.
“I’m starving,” I tell him by way of greeting.
He chuckles, shoving his fists into the pockets of his joggers. “Chill, my dude. There will be plenty to eat.” Logan flashes a smile that reveals his nice teeth, made whiter by the contrast of his dark skin.
The two of us walk into the building together. My stomach growls louder with each step I take, and when the scent of sausage and crispy bacon hits the air, I nearly collapse.See, Bash? It’s not completely hopeless. God will provide for you if you keep having faith. Don’t give up just yet.
The familiar sea of faces smiles at us. People I’m still struggling to remember nod at me, and I return the gesture.
Logan and I get in line. As usual, the back of the room is cramped with tables and chairs. A long, buffet style table holding all the food is perched near the large window at the entrance. When it’s our turn, I take a plate with shaky hands, willing my knees not to buckle.
“So, what’s new with you?” Logan asks, spooning some blueberries onto his plate.
“Besides the obvious?” I laugh without humor. “My car wants me to check the engine. No idea why yet.”
Logan shrugs one shoulder. “I can take a look at it if you want.”
My spine straightens. “Really? You’d do that?”
“Sure, no problem. I can help you Sunday morning after church, if you come.”
I nod. “Thanks, mate.”
