"Jackson, leave it alone." I groaned into the phone, already exhausted by this conversation.
"I'm only saying you need to get away from this messed-up small town. That's all. It's not like I'm asking you to fly to the moon. You need a fresh start—a new life—and this place isn't it, bro." Jackson's voice crackled through my truck's speakers.
"Jackie, I know—"
"Then move." He cut me off sharply. I pressed my hand against my forehead, trying to ward off the headache already forming behind my eyes.
"I'm done having this conversation, Jackie. I'll talk to you later."
"Fine. I'll be over later with a bottle of whiskey." He hung up before I could protest.
I sat in the truck for another ten minutes after the call ended, staring at the faded welcome sign for Cedar Falls. Population: 3,847. Someone had spray-painted over the numbers twice, but you could still make out the original count underneath. We'd lost nearly a thousand people since I was a kid.
The hardware store where Dad used to take me for Saturday morning trips had been boarded up for three years now. Mrs. Henderson's bakery closed last spring. Even the old movie theater downtown had "For Lease" signs plastered across its art decor windows.
But it was the empty lot on Maple Street that really got to me. That's where Jessica's house used to stand before the bank took it. Before her family packed up their Honda Civic and drove away without saying goodbye. Before I learned that loving someone wasn't enough to make them stay in a place that was slowly dying around you.
I'd driven past that lot every day for two years, telling myself I was building character. Building roots. In reality, I was just building a monument for everything I had already lost.
*Knock…Knock…Knock*
The knock came around eight. Three sharp raps that could only be Jackson. I opened the door to find him holding a bottle of Jack Daniels, and wearing that stubborn expression I had known since we were twelve.
"You look like hell," he said, pushing past me and into the living room.
"Thanks... That's just what I needed to hear tonight." I retorted, exasperated.
He set the bottle on my coffee table next to a stack of unpaid bills, and looked around the place like he was seeing it for the first time. The peeling wallpaper. The water stain on the ceiling, from last winter's ice dam. The couch I had inherited from my grandmother, that sagged in all the wrong places.
"This is exactly what I'm talking about," he said, unscrewing the cap. "You're rotting away in here."
"I'm not rotting. I'm just—"
"What? Existing? That's not the same as living." He poured two fingers into a coffee mug and handed it to me. "Remember when we used to talk about getting out of here? You had plans, man. Real plans."
I took a sip, feeling the whiskey burn down my throat. "That was before."
"Before what? Before Jessica left? Before your dad died? Before the factory closed?" Jackson's voice grew harder with every word. "Life happened to you… So you just gave up?"
"I didn't give up. I stayed. There's a difference."
"Is there?" He poured himself a drink and settled into the sagging couch. "Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like you're punishing yourself for something that wasn't your fault."
The silence stretched heavily between us, until Jackson finally spoke again. "You remember the night before I left for college?"
I did. We had climbed up to the water tower with a six-pack of stolen beer and carved our initials into the metal. JM + TK, like we were marking territory we'd never see again.
"You made me promise something that night," he said, staring into his mug. "You said if you ever got stuck here—really stuck—I had to come back and drag you out kicking and screaming."
The memory hit me like a punch to the gut. I'd been seventeen, drunk on cheap beer, and the certainty that I'd never end up like my old man. He worked the same job for thirty years until they laid him off with a handshake, and a pension that wouldn't cover his mortgage.
"I was seventeen, Jackie. I didn't know anything."
"You knew enough, Travis." He leaned forward. "You said this place was quicksand. And that if you stayed too long, you'd sink so deep you'd never get out."
I remembered the way the town had looked from up there, all the streetlights making neat little rows between the dark spaces where businesses used to be. Even then, you could see the decay spreading like a slow infection.
"That was before Dad got sick. Before I had responsibilities."
"Your dad's been gone two years, Travis. Two years." Jackson's voice cracked, "And you're still here, still making excuses, still sinking deeper into that quicksand you warned me about."
"What about the business idea we had?" I asked, sipping the rest of my drink.
"That idea went to hell when I left for college and you stayed here!" He exclaimed, his voice growing stern. "What would your mom think?"
"She's not here!" I shouted, feeling my voice crack. "She left when things got hard! She didn't want to raise me or be with my dad. She left!"
Jackson set down his mug, and was quiet for a long moment. When he finally spoke, his voice was softer.
"You want to know what I did last month? I got promoted to senior architect at my firm. They're sending me to Portland next year to design a community center." He ran his fingers through his hair. "And you know what the first thing I thought was? I wished I could call Travis and tell him about it."
I stared at the water stain on the ceiling.
"I've got a girlfriend now… Emma, she's a teacher, she laughs at my stupid jokes, and we're talking about getting a place together." He paused. "But every time something good happens, I think about you sitting in this house, and it feels wrong to be happy."
"That's not my fault."
"I know it's not your fault." Jackson leaned back into the couch. "But it's killing me, watching you disappear. Last week I was at this rooftop bar in Chicago, looking out at all of the lights, all the people living their lives, and I kept thinking—Travis should be here. He should be designing buildings, writing that novel he used to talk about, or doing anything other than slowly dying in his childhood bedroom."
The whiskey was making everything feel sharper, and more blurred at the same time.
"I make a hundred thousand a year now," he continued. "I've got health insurance, a 401k, and a coffee shop I go to every morning where the barista knows my name. It's not perfect, but it's mine, you know? I built it from nothing."
He picked up the bottle and poured himself another drink.
"And every Sunday, I call my mom. She always asks about you. She asks if you're okay, if you're eating enough, if you've met anyone. And I lie to her, because what am I supposed to say? That my best friend is slowly disappearing into the same trap that got his father?"
I stood up abruptly, the mug slipping from my hands, and hitting the coffee table with a dull thunk. The whiskey splashed across the unpaid bills, darkening the paper.
"Damn it." I grabbed a dish towel from the kitchen and started dabbing at the mess, but my hands were shaking. The ink was already running on the electric bill.
Jackson watched me from the couch, not moving to help.
I threw the towel down and walked to the window, pressing my palms against the glass. The street was empty except for Mrs. Kowalski's porch light three houses down. The same view I had had since I was eight years old. Same cracked sidewalk. Same dying elm tree that the city kept saying they'd remove.
My reflection stared back at me—hollow cheeks, stubble I hadn't bothered to shave in three days, and eyes that looked older than my twenty-eight years.
I pressed my forehead against the cool glass and closed my eyes.
When I opened them, I was looking at my truck in the driveway. The keys were on the hook by the door. I could walk out there right now, start the engine, and drive until I hit a city I had never seen before. Find a job. Find an apartment. Find a life that wasn't built on the bones of everything that I had lost.
My hand moved toward the door handle before I caught myself.
"You're thinking about it," Jackson said quietly behind me.
I turned around, my back against the door now. "Thinking about what?"
"Running. I can see it in your face."
"Maybe you're right, Jackie. Maybe I can find out if life would be better for me, if I just packed up and left." I felt my eyes start to sting.
"Come to Portland with me. I can get you a job in my company." He came up behind me and placed his hand on my back.
I pulled away from the door and walked back to the couch, sinking into the worn cushions. "It's not that simple, Jackie."
"Then explain it to me. What's really keeping you here?"
I stared at the whiskey bottle, trying to find words for something I had never said out loud. "You remember Mrs. Patterson from down the street? The lady who used to give us cookies when we were kids?"
"Yeah, what about her?"
"She's eighty-three now, and lives alone. Her son moved to Denver five years ago." I picked at a loose thread on the couch arm. "I check on her twice a week. Fix her leaky faucet, shovel her driveway in winter, drive her to doctor appointments when her arthritis is bad."
Jackson was quiet, waiting.
"And there's Tommy Rodriguez. You remember him? His dad left when the plant closed, and his mom works double shifts at the diner just to keep their lights on." I looked up at Jackson. "I've been tutoring Tommy in math for free. Kid's got a real shot at a scholarship if he can bring his grades up."
"Travis—"
"And the community center? The one that's falling apart? I've been organizing volunteers to fix the roof, paint the walls, and keep it from closing completely. Because if it closes, where are the kids gonna go after school? Where are the seniors gonna play bingo on Thursdays?"
I stood up and started pacing. "You think I'm just sitting here feeling sorry for myself, but I'm not. I'm holding things together. I'm the guy people call when their water heater breaks, they need a ride to the pharmacy, or they just need someone to listen."
Jackson set down his drink. "That's not your job, man."
"Whose job is it then?" My voice came out sharper than I had intended. "Everyone else left, Jackie. Everyone with any sense packed up and moved to places with better opportunities, lower crime rates, and Whole Foods stores. But somebody has to stay. Somebody has to give a damn about the people who can't leave."
"You can't save everyone."
"I'm not trying to save everyone. I'm just trying to—" I stopped, the words catching in my throat.
"Trying to what?"
I sat back down, suddenly exhausted. "I'm trying not to be like her. Like my mom. I'm trying not to be the kind of person who walks away when things get hard."
The admission hung in the air between us like smoke.
"Look, man. I just want what's best for you. What can I do to make your fears go away?" He asked, sitting down next to me.
I stared at him for a long moment, then reached for the bottle and poured myself another drink. "I don't know if my fears can go away, Jackie. They've been with me so long now, that I'm not sure who I'd be without them."
Jackson pulled out his phone and scrolled through something, his face illuminated by the blue glow. "What if I told you I wasn't just talking hypothetically about Portland?"
"What do you mean?"
He turned the phone toward me. It was an email thread, and I could see the company letterhead at the top. "My boss has been looking for someone to help with the community center project. Someone with local knowledge, someone who understands small towns and what they need." He paused. "I may have mentioned your name."
My stomach dropped. "Jackie, what did you do?"
"I sent him some of those photos you took of the restoration work you did on the old library. The before and after shots." He scrolled down to show me attached images I recognized—pictures I had sent him months ago just to show off the work. "He wants to interview you."
"You had no right—"
"The position starts at seventy-five thousand a year, Travis. Plus relocation expenses, and health insurance that would actually cover a doctor visit." Jackson's voice was steady, and matter-of-fact. "The interview is next Friday. I already bought you a plane ticket."
I stood up so fast that the room spun a little. "You bought me a what?"
"A plane ticket. Portland International. Friday morning. The interview is at two PM." He said, reaching into his jacket pocket and pulling out a folded up piece of paper. "Here's your boarding pass."
I stared at the paper like it was a snake. "I can't just leave. Mrs. Patterson—"
"I called my mom. She's going to check on Mrs. Patterson while you're gone." He said, cutting me off as he stood up too, while holding the boarding pass between us. "And I talked to Father Martinez at St. Mary's. He's got three volunteers lined up to help with Tommy's tutoring."
"You called Father Martinez?" My voice came out as a whisper.
"I called everyone, Travis. I spent the last two weeks making sure all your excuses were covered." He said, his eyes were bright, and urgent. "This is it, man. This is your shot. A real job, doing work that matters, in a city where you can actually build something. Instead of just holding broken pieces together."
I took the boarding pass, my hands were trembling. My name was printed in bold letters next to a seat assignment and a departure time that was exactly six days away.
"What if I fail the interview?"
"What if you don't?"
"I'll do it" I told him, barely believing myself.
Jackson's face broke into a grin that reminded me of when we were kids and had just convinced someone to let us into the old abandoned mill. "Really? You'll do it?"
I looked down at the boarding pass again. The paper felt heavier than it should have, like it was made of something more substantial than just ink and card stock. "I'll do it," I said again, testing the words. They felt foreign in my mouth.
"Holy shit, Travis. This is—" Jackson grabbed me in a hug that smelled like whiskey, and the cologne he had started wearing since he moved to Chicago. "This is going to change everything."
When he pulled back, his eyes were brimming with tears. "I was so scared you were going to say no."
"I almost did." I retorted, as I folded the boarding pass carefully and slipped it into my wallet behind my driver's license. "I still might chicken out at the airport."
"No, you won't." Jackson picked up the whiskey bottle, holding it up like he was making a toast. "To getting unstuck."
I grabbed my mug, and clinked it against the bottle. "To not sinking any deeper."
We downed our drinks, and for the first time in two years, the silence between us felt comfortable, instead of heavy. Outside, Mrs. Kowalski's porch light flickered once before going steady again. Same as always. But somehow, looking at it now, it didn't feel like a prison sentence anymore.
It felt like something I was choosing to leave behind.