This Is Home

by Lisa Duffy

  “We’ll stay in touch,” Susan tells her. “And of course, you’ll call if you need anything. Anything at all.”

  She says this with an airy breeziness, as though they speak often. They both know Quinn won’t call if she needs anything—Susan doesn’t even know she’s moved to a new apartment. But Quinn nods, tells Susan that yes, of course, she’ll call.

  She lets herself out and walks to the car.

  Inside, she gazes out the window at John’s childhood home, a wave of nostalgia flooding her thoughts.

  How many times had she parked in this exact spot when they were in high school? Back when their relationship was so easy—so uncomplicated. She’d drive over in the car she borrowed from her parents, and he’d meet her at the door, and they’d go up to his room.

  She’d study while John plucked at the electric guitar he was always threatening to learn how to play. Her biggest concern an upcoming calculus test; John’s thoughts on his next football game.

  She can picture the two of them, draw them from memory, but in her mind, they’re strangers. A couple of kids she doesn’t recognize anymore.

  Her phone on the seat next to her buzzes, and she reads a message from Bent.

  Still on tonight?

  She sighs—she’d forgotten Bent had invited her to have dinner with him and Libby—and her thumb hovers over the phone, ready to rain check, but she glances at the time—it’s already late afternoon. As tired as she is, she can’t bring herself to cancel.

  Plus, Libby had waited with her for hours yesterday at the clinic—three hours to be exact—just to drive her home, and Quinn wants to thank her. She can’t even remember if she said it yesterday.

  She answers him before she can change her mind.

  Sounds great. What can I bring?

  He replies almost immediately.

  You

  She smiles at the small three-letter word, stares at it until she realizes how pathetic she’s acting, and bites the grin from her lips, sticks the key in the ignition.

  Stop it, she thinks to herself, trying not to think about how long it’s been since she’s had a text that made her feel like that. That made her feel anything at all.

  She and John used to keep in touch as much as possible—and then this last tour, he was somewhere so remote he didn’t have cell service, and she’d talked to him every couple of months.

  And when he finally came home, it was as though he’d forgotten cell phones existed. Or maybe it was just that he’d forgotten she existed.

  She’d be at work, on the playground with the twins, and she’d send John a text.

  What do you feel like for dinner? Or How’s your day? Maybe Hi Babe, with a heart or a smiley face.

  He wouldn’t answer—he never answered—and she’d come home and ask him if he got the message, and he’d look at her with that blank stare, as though she were speaking a different language.

  Finally, she just stopped. She stopped texting. Stopped calling. Stopped asking. The silence between them growing until it was the only thing that existed.

  She looks back at the house now, a wave of sadness running through her. Even though she’d never felt at home here—mostly because John never felt at home here—it was still John’s childhood home. The place where he had lived.

  Where he’d called her most nights from his room, lying in a bed with a picture of his father tucked under the mattress beneath him.

  She wonders now what he dreamed about. She’d always thought maybe it was her. But maybe it wasn’t.

  Maybe John dreamed about the picture tucked under his head and the war he never asked about.

  And the father he never knew.

   11

  Libby

  Flynn is sulking across the table from me. He called me less than an hour ago, in front of my house, needing to talk right now.

  So now we’re sitting at one of the high-top tables in the back of Sully’s with a pizza delivered by Desiree while Flynn tries to convince me to meet his new girlfriend—or more specifically, the girl he’s hanging out with this week.

  “Why won’t you meet her?” he asks, for the third time.

  “Why would I want to meet her?” I answer, for the third time.

  “Because I like her, and she’s important to me.”

  I snort, and lemonade almost comes out my nose. Flynn gives me a look.

  “Okay, maybe not important. But I do like her. And she wants to meet you. Plus, you’d be doing me a favor. It would get her off my back. She’s already pissed at me because her family thing got canceled, and I have plans tonight.”

  “But why does she want to meet me?”

  He’s pulled this on me before, in the beginning of the summer, with a different girl, but he clearly doesn’t remember, because he’s sitting across from me looking wounded, as though I’ve abandoned him. Like some sort of lost puppy.

  “Because you’re my friend. One of my best friends.”

  “Has she met Josh? Or Pete? They’re your best friends too.”

  “No. But that’s different.” He shrugs. “You know . . . not the same.”

  “I know the definition of different.”

  He tilts his head at me, blinks like he doesn’t understand.

  “Don’t give me that look—what you mean is they’re guys. And your new girlfriend is the jealous type who doesn’t like to see my name pop up on your phone. At least be honest about it.”

  “Fine! Okay? But—she’s not my girlfriend. She’s just a girl I want to take things a little further with, and she’s convinced you’re more than just my friend. So, just meet her. Then I can just—”

  “Sleep with her,” I interrupt.

  He sighs, puts his head in his hands.

  “Sorry my existence is screwing up your sex life.”

  He gestures for me to lower my voice, as though we’re surrounded by people instead of alone in the back of an empty bar.

  “Why do you always fall for the psycho, jealous type? Here’s a thought—date someone normal, for once. I mean, you’re not allowed to be friends with a girl?”

  “Come on, Libs. You were blowing up my phone yesterday from wherever you were, and I was with her. I wasn’t going to just ignore you. Which, by the way, I could’ve, because you were making zero sense.”

  I think about yesterday at the clinic—how Quinn had looked so happy to see me when she came out to the waiting area. I didn’t mention the only reason I’d stayed was that I just have my learner’s permit and I’m only supposed to drive with a licensed person in the car.

  I’d sent Flynn a couple of texts asking if he could come get me, but he was with this new girl and trying to explain the whole mess was a disaster—Flynn kept texting me Where r u? and what? and so cnfsed and Who pregnant?! that I finally told him to forget it.

  And then Quinn looked so relieved on the way home, so happy that the baby was fine, that I was sort of glad that I’d waited after all.

  We finish the pizza, and I clear the table while Flynn meets Desiree at the bar and pays the bill. In the kitchen, I put the plates in the dishwasher, and Sully appears, out from his office.

  “Desi putting you to work again?” he jokes.

  “She’s grumpier than usual. I’m staying out of her way.”

  “That’s my fault. We were watching the Sox game earlier, and she was mad because the ump made a bogus call, and yours truly made the mistake of telling her that I love that she knows so much about sports. And she gets all like, ‘Why wouldn’t I know about sports? Because I’m a girl?’ ” Sully holds up his hands, a defeated look on his face. “I just meant it as a compliment.”

  I laugh at the way he mimics Desiree, and he shrugs and walks away.

  The bar area is filling up, and Desiree sees me from across the room and jabs her thumb in the direction of the front door.

  Outside, Flynn is waiting in his car, talking to someone on his phone, and I can tell from the way he’s talking that it’s a guy—his voice is normal, not
the syrupy, flirty voice he uses lately with his girlfriend who isn’t really his girlfriend.

  By the time he hangs up, we’re almost at my house.

  “That was Jimmy,” Flynn says. “He wants me to come over tonight. And you’re coming. I need a buffer with him lately.”

  “I thought you said he was doing okay—like staying out of trouble and no drugs.”

  “That’s what I need the buffer from. I’m not used to him like this—he’s like a different person.”

  “Isn’t that the point? You used to complain about him all the time before. What a jerk he was and a liar and a drunk.”

  Flynn shrugs. “I know. You’re right. I’m happy he’s doing well—I am. There’s just a part of me that doesn’t trust it. He’s made promises like this before and he always fucks it up. So, come with me. Please. I’ll pick you up.”

  “Only if you swear I’m not going to be the third wheel with your new girlfriend.”

  “I already told you she knows I have plans tonight. Plus, Jimmy doesn’t want to meet anyone new right now.”

  “He’s not going to want me there, then.”

  “You’re not new, Libby. You’ve been around forever. Besides, he just asked for you the other day.”

  “Really?” I ask, with so much enthusiasm that Flynn raises an eyebrow and smirks at me.

  “No. But stop giving me shit about Desiree. Come on. We haven’t hung out in ages.”

  “Fine,” I tell him, not bothering to mention that we haven’t hung out in ages because he’s always with some girl or the guys he met at Roscoe’s. “Bent’s making me do some dinner thing tonight, so pick me up at nine.”

  He winks at me, and I get out of the car and walk up the porch stairs to the house.

  The door is wide open, and Lucy is in the hallway, her back to me, studying the wall. Rooster sits next to her, his ears up. When he glances back at me, he wags his tail, but he doesn’t move. Just shifts his eyes to Lucy, searching her face, as though he’s part of a fun game he doesn’t quite understand.

  At least ten different shades of red are taped to the wall, and Lucy’s focused on them so intently she doesn’t notice me until I’m right beside her. She blinks, comes back from somewhere far away, and slips her arm around my waist, rests her head on my shoulder.

  “The perfect person to help me with this,” she says. “The bagua was the problem. I had it all wrong.”

  “The what?”

  “It’s sort of like an energy map. Tan wasn’t the right color for this room—tan says stability. Nourishment. We want new beginnings. Vibrancy. Youth!” She raises her fist, yells it like some sort of war cry, and slaps her palm against the red paint samples.

  Rooster jumps, barks at the wall. I shush him, and he slinks away from Lucy until he’s standing behind my legs, a bewildered look in his eyes.

  Lucy coaxes Rooster out from behind me, apologizing to him and telling him she got a little carried away.

  She scratches behind his ears, and he collapses on the floor, flops on his back, puts his legs in the air.

  “I never want to scare my love, do I,” she croons, rubbing his belly. She looks up at me. “You know I’m convinced he’s my alter ego. Me in animal form. Aren’t you, puppy? Yes, you are. What would you be?” she asks. “Oh, no wait. Don’t say it—let me guess. If you were an animal, you’d be . . . oh, I know! A dragonfly.”

  I frown at her. “I hate dragonflies. They’re just big bugs.”

  “Oh, they’re beautiful! And colorful—do you know they change colors as they mature? They’re all about joy. And that’s what you bring to us. To this house.” She smiles at me, rubs my arm.

  “Well, what’s Bent?” I ask, hoping to make her stop staring at me like she is.

  “Bentley? Oh, he’s an elephant. He’ll tell you he’s a bear or a tiger, you know, something manly in his mind. But he’s a nurturer.”

  “And Desiree? I think she’s like a . . . dragon.”

  “Dragons are much too nice for Desiree.” Lucy laughs.

  “I have to go,” I tell her. “Bent’s making dinner.”

  “Making dinner . . . as in . . . cooking?”

  “That’s what I was told. Quinn’s coming. Host with the most, I guess.”

  Her eyebrows go up, and she looks at Quinn’s door and back at me.

  I say goodbye and walk upstairs with Rooster at my heels. Bent is in the kitchen, chopping an onion, and I sit down at the table across from him.

  “You’re almost late,” he says.

  “I’m not even close to late. Besides, I’ve been home for ten minutes, but Lucy had me trapped in the hallway talking about energy maps and animals. Has she always been so . . .” I can’t find the word I’m looking for, and Bent looks up, wipes his eyes with his sleeve.

  “Loopy?” he offers.

  “I don’t get it. I mean, you’re so normal. Desiree is . . . Desiree. Lucy’s just different.”

  “She’s always been like that. When we were younger, we had a cat—some stray that my mother took in. Lucy was convinced it was our dead grandmother because the damn thing would sit in the chair by the window, and that was Nana’s favorite spot.” He shakes his head. “But you know Lucy. She’s no pushover. Desiree acts like the tough one, but you don’t want to be in the doghouse with Lucy. Well, maybe not you. She’s always had a soft spot for you. Sort of like the daughter she never had, I think.”

  “Why didn’t she have her own kids?”

  Bent shrugs. “She had a boyfriend a long time ago. Nice guy. I think he wanted to get married, but Lucy called it off. Then she was with this woman all the time—they were roommates. Sort of wondered about that one.” He looks at me sideways, smiles and shrugs again. “I don’t really give it much thought. I just want to see her happy, and she seems happy. Goddamn these onions.”

  Bent has tears streaming down his face, and he grabs a towel and presses it against his eyes.

  There are peppers sizzling in a pan on the stove, a bottle of tequila on the table, jars of spices line the counter, and I think I smell something burning on the grill outside.

  “What the heck are you making?” I take the onion out of his hand, bring it to the sink and run it under cold water. A trick I learned from Lucy. After it’s sliced, I add it to the bowl while Bent sits in the chair, blinking and sniffling.

  “Fajitas. I thought we’d do like a Mexican theme.”

  “Theme? Are you going to wear a sombrero or something?”

  He frowns. “Just give me those, wise guy.”

  He takes the onions, dumps them in the pan, and the oil crackles and spits at him, making him jump back.

  “Libby, knock it off,” he says when I laugh, as though I’m somehow to blame for this. “She’s going to be here in twenty minutes!”

  “What’s burning?” I ask, and his eyes go wide before he dashes out the back door.

  The counter is a disaster—bowls and measuring cups and cutting boards. I pile everything in the sink and turn on the water. By the time he returns, the mess is put away and I’ve set the table. He breathes out, wipes his forehead with the back of his hand.

  “You’re welcome,” I say, and he leans down, kisses the top of my head.

  Rooster is watching us from the other room, only his head peeking through the doorway, as though he’s not sure it’s safe to come in.

  I put his leash on, and he follows me out the door and down the stairs without his usual hesitation, and I wonder if Bent’s stressing him out—I can’t remember the last time we had someone over for dinner, and I’m not sure I’ve ever seen Bent serve a meal that didn’t include grilled burgers, reheated leftovers from Lucy, or microwaved food from a box.

  We take our time walking around the block, which isn’t hard, since Rooster twice throws his body down on the sidewalk and refuses to move until I nudge him with my toe.

  When we’re almost home, he circles the same spot of grass until I hiss his name and he finally does his thing.

 
By the time I clean it up, put it in the outside barrel, and go back upstairs, Quinn is sitting at the kitchen table, a panicked look on her face, while Bent fills two margarita glasses from a fancy glass pitcher I’ve never seen in my entire life.

  He’s changed into a clean T-shirt and smells of aftershave. I flick my eyebrows at him, and he spills some of the margarita on the table.

  “Smooth,” I tell him.

  “I’ve got it,” Quinn says, and leans over, a napkin in her hand.

  “That one’s for you,” Bent says to me, pointing to a glass identical to theirs. “It’s nonalcoholic. You two hold down the fort. I’ve got to check the chicken.”

  He walks out the back door, and Quinn turns to me, her eyes wide. She puts a finger to her lips until the screen door slams downstairs.

  “He doesn’t know,” Quinn hisses. “About the baby. You didn’t say anything, did you?”

  “No. I hadn’t even seen him until like an hour ago. He was working last night.”

  “Oh, thank God. I meant to tell you yesterday, but I was in kind of a fog—I don’t even remember if I said thank you. Tell me I said thank you!”

  Before I can answer, we hear Bent’s footsteps on the stairs, and Quinn grabs my arm.

  “I can’t drink this!” she blurts. “There’s tequila in it.”

  I take her drink and switch it with mine, and Quinn hisses that I can’t drink it either and reaches for it just as Bent walks through the door. She freezes, her arm resting on mine.

  Bent looks at us and smiles. “I knew you guys would hit it off,” he says.

  I raise the glass to my lips and take a sip. Quinn gives me a sweet smile, but when Bent turns, she rolls her eyes at me.

  Bent gestures for us to sit while he disappears into the pantry. He emerges with an enormous basket of tortilla chips—the kind with a bowl in the middle for salsa.

  “What, did you go on a Mexican shopping spree?” I ask, eyeing the new pitcher and the matching margarita glasses.

  “I asked Sully for his guacamole recipe, and after he got done laughing about me cooking, he told me he’d set me up. Got home last night to a box of all this stuff by the front door. You know how he is. Go big or go home. I wasn’t going to use any of it. But then I thought, when in Rome . . .” He lifts his glass, takes a sip.