by K. B. Draper
“Hey, daddy-o,” I laughed as we merry-go-rounded it a few more times until I eventually tapped out. “Okay, okay. Put me down before I yak up my breakfast.”
He dropped me to my boots, immediately taking my face in his callused hands, and squished. “God, I’ve missed this face.” He brought me back into his arms for another hug, before turning his full attention to the others in the room. Ashlyn and Danny had pushed their chairs out to stand and greet him, Ashlyn smiling, amused at our welcome home scene.
“Mr. Mattox, it’s very nice to finally—” was all Ashlyn got out before her own hug and twirl ride commenced. Two roundabouts later he set her down.
“I’m so happy you’re here.” He put a hand on her shoulder. “Joy, can you believe it? Our girl finally found someone …” he gave Ashlyn another wide smile. “And she’s so smart and beautiful. Joy, isn’t she smart and beautiful?”
“Very.” Mom chuckled. “But I’m not sure how this ornery one happened to snag her.” Mom hip-checked me as she passed on her way to set a plate of eggs, some weird light gray meat log, and some whole-grain “gag me” toast down in my dad’s reserved spot at the table.
Ashlyn’s cheeks were flushed with praise, as dad turned her around so she could retake her seat. “Welcome to our home. Your home, now. We’re so glad you’re here.”
“I’m so ... Thank you. It’s nice to be here,” she said, love already dripping from her words.
He pulled her chair out a little farther. “Good. Now, please sit back down and finish your meal while I welcome this guy.” He held his arms open to Danny, who knowing his fate, walked into them. Danny didn’t get the lift and swing around routine. I’m pretty sure it’s the adult male anti-pelvis-to-pelvis phobia inherent in all straight males’ DNA, so instead he got the manly, yet affectionate, clutch and double back pat. “Danny, son, how are you?”
“I’m good, sir, thank you. How are you?”
“I’m beyond good now that you all are here.” He duck-duck-goosed our shoulders as he passed back to take his seat at the head of the small table, stopping to place a quick peck on my mother’s offered cheek. “Hello, love.”
“Hello, sweetheart.”
I watched as Ashlyn took in my parents. She was smiling, but I knew seeing the intact parental unit had to stir up the feels about the loss of her own father and the what ifs they hadn’t lost him so many years ago in the woods. After the tragic event, Ashlyn’s mother had decided to go about things solo, not interested in moving on after the loss of her husband, so much so that she’d missed out on much of her kids’ lives. She’d simply had no will to re-engage. I scooted a little closer, taking Ashlyn’s hand in mine. The simple touch brought her eyes to me, confirming all that I’d known would be there in that small, forced grin.
Dad settled in front of his plate, looked longingly at the basket of muffins, and sighed.
“What’s up with the petrified meat?” I asked.
Dad grimaced. “Tofu sausage.”
Mom came to set her own plate down at the table. “Your father has to start watching his cholesterol.”
“Cholesterol? Why? What? Everything’s okay, though, right?” I asked over the pang of fear that shot through me.
“Fine. Just fine,” Dad answered, posing a fork over the wannabe meat, then diverting over to the pile of eggs. “Umm, aren’t eggs total c-bombs?” I asked as Dad examined the fluffy yellow product at the end of his fork.
“Yes, that’s why he is eating egg substitute,” Mom offered.
“Ouch, sucks to be you,” I said, in moral support. I grabbed another muffin from the basket and slathered it in butter, then airplaned it underneath his nose and into my mouth.
“You’re an evil child,” my father grumbled.
“Mr. Mattox—,” Ashlyn interjected into my fun.
“Roy, please.”
Yeah, did you click those puzzle pieces together? Roy and Joy. Roy and Joy sitting in a tree, k-i-ss-ing, just kind of autopopulates, doesn’t it? Trust me, the era of the answering machine was total hell for me. “Hello, this is Roy,” “And this is Joy,” I still have PTSMessageD. But I survived, and I heart them so … we deal.
“Roy,” Ashlyn restarted, “AJ, has told me about your construction company. And that you worked on and even built several of the buildings in town. She pointed a few of them out when we drove in. They’re beautiful. The craftmanship is surreal. You don’t see that kind of work anymore.”
“I build; my Joy designs,” he said proudly.
“Well, kudos to you both. I was blown away by the ornate details. I finally understand why everywhere we go AJ points out unique buildings and calls out styles, periods, and often even the architect.”
Dad beamed at me. “She always did take to the details. And she’s quite the builder herself. She can make anything out of nothing. Scraps, anything.”
“Really?” Ashlyn shot me a questioning glance.
“He exaggerates,” I stated.
“The heck I do,” he argued, as he auto-reached for a muffin, and got a hand slap for his efforts. “I’ll take you out back and show you her treehouse. She built it when she was ten or eleven years old. Did it all by herself too.”
“You helped. And I think she’s good,” I countered.
“Only helped with cutting the big pieces.” He turned to Ashlyn. “And that’s only because I didn’t want her to use the wall saw until she was at least a teenager,” Dad argued. “But that’s it. Otherwise it was all her.” I gave him an eyebrow lift. “Fine, I helped ya haul them up the tree but,” then back to Ashlyn, “she designed, measured, and hammered every nail. Drilled every screw.”
“I can’t wait to see it,” Ashlyn said, amused at our back and forth.
“It’s nothing special,” I countered.
Danny snorted. “And the Taj Mahal is just another coffin holder.” When Ashlyn turned the curious eyebrow thing on him, he added, “It’s ridiculous.”
Forgoing the tofu sausage, ten minutes later, the five of us were standing in front of “AJ’s Paradise Palace,” or so said the neatly engraved wood sign hanging above the double-hung French doors. First, about the name, I was ten and this was before I knew about strip clubs. Not that it would have necessarily had me reconsidering a name change, but I could have at least added a pole. Second, I had access to dad’s supply warehouse, where there was a plethora of scraps and supplies from overruns, wrong orders, and materials that he’d salvaged from building demos. I say this only to explain the French doors and the gargoyle.
Ashlyn circled the tree. “Are you kidding me? It’s two stories?”
“Two and a half technically. There’s a loft,” Danny offered.
Ashlyn came back to stand next to me, still taking in the massive oak tree intertwined with the woman-made structure. “You didn’t even compromise the tree.”
“She figured in the annual growth rate of the average oak tree, given normal weather conditions, to allow for twenty-five years before any modifications would be needed,” Roy said proudly.
“Can I go in?”
“We all can. Officially, there’s a 1,500-pound load limit, but there’s an extra couple hundred thrown in just for safety’s sake.” Roy again with the proud facts.
Ashlyn chuckled. “Then please, I’d love the grand tour.”
Roy stepped forward, opening the right half of the French doors with an usher’s wave of his arm. “AJ, I’ll let you do the honors.”
Ashlyn lifted the “Icky Boys and Sisters are Not Allowed” sign that hung from the gargoyle’s two lower canines. “Nice,” Ashlyn said, giving its head a little pet as she passed.
“Mrs. Mareny,” I offered.
“Mrs. Mareny?”
“Second-grade teacher,” I explained.
“Ah, she wasn’t your favorite teacher, I take—” Ashlyn’s breath caught as she stepped into the eight-by-eight foyer. Yes, it had a foyer. A comfortable place for anyone to sit while they filled out their application for entran
ce. Duh.
The tree served as one wall with a thick foam insert outlining its contours and sealing off the outside elements. A set of stairs wrapped around the side of the tree, leading you up to the second floor. The interior of the entry was lined with wooden benches, to which mom had fitted bright colored cushions. The walls showcased secondhand shop décor, complete with a coffee table and reading material.
Ashlyn picked up a magazine. “X-Men comics, nice.” She smiled back at me. “AJ, this is …” She took another turn, spending an extra few seconds to take in the shiplap ceiling.
“Incredible, isn’t it?” Roy said.
“Beyond incredible,” Ashlyn answered.
“That’s our AJ,” Joy added. “Pretty spectacular.”
“Anyway,” I said to end the admire-fest, “let’s head up.”
The same oohing and aahing went on into the next floor, an expanded fifteen-by-eighteen room, complete with four double-hung windows and a functioning fire escape. Dad was a stickler for the safety regs. Me? I was more of a depends on when, where, and what I was doing kind of girl. This room was finished off in shiplap. Note: Mine was installed pre-Texas shiplap everywhere movement.
I’d asked my mom to do her design magic in this room as well, and she’d picked a soft powder blue, that made you feel as if you really were up here and part of the sky. A couple of beanbag chairs sat in front of a fifty-inch flat-screen TV, with an accompanying PlayStation. Modern additions I’d added a few years ago for the nieces when they were old enough to take over the place. Ashlyn pointed at the electronics. “There’s electricity?”
Danny walked over to the small cabinets that lined one wall and opened one of the doors. “How else is she supposed to keep the mini-fridge cold?”
Ashlyn was shaking her head. “You could rent this out as an Airbnb.”
“The munchkins pay me rent,” I offered, waving at the beanbag area, which had been occupied recently. “A candy bar per kid per month. King-size bars for the months with five weeks.”
Ashlyn was still chuckling as she grabbed the spiral staircase rail that took you up to the loft. “Top floor?”
“Go for it,” I waved, before stepping in behind her.
This space was smaller, only ten-by-twelve with an open railing to overlook the lower floor, but it was my favorite space of my once childhood sanctuary. I spent many nights staring out at the sky through the perfectly angled five-by-six glass panel portal in the roof.
Ashlyn slipped an arm around my waist. “You did all this when you were ten?”
“Ten, eleven. It took a while to complete. And Dad helped more than he’ll admit.”
“No, I did not,” Roy boomed from the second floor. “Don’t listen to her, Ashlyn. And girls, I’m sorry to say, but I have to get back to the job site. I’d love it if you all could come down later. I know the crew would like to see you. I’ll take you all to lunch if you don’t have other plans?”
“It’s a date,” I offered, leaning over the railing.
“Great, see you around noon at the shop.”
“See ya there,” I answered.
“Ashlyn, sweetheart,” he paused until Ashlyn came to the rail, “thank you for bringing my girl home. I’m so glad you both are here.”
“Me too, Roy. Me too.” Ashlyn held a trickle of emotion in her voice.
Mom waved up. “I’ll see him off. Take your time, and I’ll see you back at the house.” Two sets of footfalls started down the stairs, as a can of something from the mini-fridge popped.
Ashlyn pulled me in closer. “They are so sweet. I love them. And this …” She waved a hand around the room. “This is amazing.”
I shrugged.
We both stood in silence. Technically, we were silent, but our environment was filled with what sounded like the fight scene soundtrack of a Jackie Chan movie, all oofff, ugh, smack, punch, as Danny had fired up the PlayStation and was quickly absorbed in one of the nieces’ games.
Ashlyn pulled me down next to her on the twin-size platform bed that I’d built out of old pallets. She scooted back to sit against the headboard, so she could continue to look out at the morning clouds meandering by. “Would this be what you’d be doing if you weren’t out saving the world?”
“Sitting with you in a treehouse bed?” I asked. “Absolutely.” I smiled wickedly before stealing a quick cheek kiss.
“You know what I mean. This,” and she waved a hand around the room. “Building and creating, working with your Dad?”
I shrugged before settling in next to her. “I don’t know. I think there was a time that my answer would have been yes. I mean, I’d looked into engineering and architecture degrees at one point, but … you know, things didn’t work out that way. And though it was brief, I enjoyed being a cop. It gave me a sense of purpose. It felt good doing something for others when, at the time, I felt like I’d taken so much from,” I thumb jerked at the railing, indicating Danny down below.
Ashlyn laid her head on my shoulder. “Someday, when this is all over, what do you want to do? Where do you see yourself?”
Ashlyn’s question ground my brain to a halt. An after? I’d never really thought about there being an epilogue to this story. Sure, the first several years, I’d held onto hope that we’d figure out how I could do a supernatural return to sender and then I’d go on about life. But I’d gotten a big no-go on that so I just figured at some point a demon would get the best of me and I’d just end up playing fertilizer for an azalea bush. “I have no idea,” I said honestly. “I don’t think I ever really planned on making it out of this gig alive. And now with the upcoming apocalypse, I mean.” I up and downed a shoulder.
Ashlyn came up on an elbow to stare down at me, searching for something. Apparently, finding it, “Oh, no. No, no, no. You listen here, missy. Don’t you dare try and pull some Jack on the Titanic bullshit. There is going to be an after. We are going to have an after.” She finger-jabbed me to accentuate her point. “I mean, sure, at first I jumped on this crazy train ’cause of the do or die vengeance for my father thing—.”
“And then stayed for the awesome sex,” I inserted.
“AND then stayed for the greater good thing. But damn it, we’re going to have an after.” Poke. “You will be getting your ass on that door if this boat goes down.” Poke. “You will not pull some heroic, self-sacrificing crap.” Poke. “Understood? We will have an after. Some way, somehow, you and I—”
“Do you wanna get married?” My heart asked before my brain could catch up to the convo.
It took Ashlyn a few beats to translate my words. “What?”
Or not translate them. “Will. You. Marry. Me?” I repeated. When I got only blinks in response, I rushed on. “I know it’s crazy, know it’s probably really crazy.” I sat up. “I don’t even have a ring. I should’ve gotten a ring.” I started patting my pockets as if one was going to magically appear. “I get it if you don’t want to … I just thought maybe—” and Ashlyn’s mouth slammed against mine, taking us both off the edge of the small bed and onto the floor.
“And I’m out. I’ll be at the library when you’re done,” Danny said, his footfalls already retreating down the stairs.
Chapter 4
Ashlyn and I stopped in to pick up Danny at the library a few hours later. If the scowl was any indication, Miss Larsen was not thrilled by my reappearance in her world. Could be she was still suffering from post-traumatic filing disorder, a condition that manifested after my three-day stint as her student assistant. Long story short, I thought a “most interesting book to a total borefest” filing system made way more sense than the Dewey Decimal System. I mean seriously SUCK 1.1, SUCK 1.2., SUCK 1.3. SUCK 1.4 … Easy peasy. Who couldn’t get down with that? Miss Larsen would be the answer to that question. She simply has an issue with change, which explains her current 1986-themed outfit complete with solid Smurf-butt blue Reeboks double-Velcroed at the ankle, leggings, tights, skirt, and oversized button-down shirt with shoulder pads. Another
fun fact sidebar: Miss Larsen also has a weird aversion, edging on phobia, to tape. Not the fun sex-filled kind, or at least I don’t think so. It’s more of a sticky thing phobia. So again, maybe yes, maybe no on the sex tape thing, but for sure on the Scotch, duct, electric, and masking tape variety. How do I know this, you ask? I may or may not have used fourteen rolls of it for updated signage during the Great Re-shelving Incident.
Anywho, back to the current headlines. Miss Larsen’s perma-prune snarl went next level when I leaned down next to Danny’s ear. “Whatcha doing?”
Danny jolted so violently that his chair shot out behind him and went ping-ponging loudly across the linoleum floor and into Sucky 4.16 or, for you traditionalist types, 300-399 Social Science. “Nothing. Something. No, nothing. Really, nothing,” he answered and re-answered as he righted himself. “Nothing,” again for old times’ sake, as he hit a series of keys to send his screen black.
I gasped and pointed. “Were you watching library porn?” I whispered-ish.
“No! Geez. No!”
“Convincing,” I said, just for fun as I’d actually gotten a glimpse of his screen, which had been decorated with some kind of pie chart and some data-graphy thing. I was going to ask more, just to see if I could get the vein to pulse over his eyelid, which was a fun game we liked to play. And by we, I mean me, but I had to curb the fun because Miss Larsen was already Reeboking herself toward us.
