This Is Home

by Lisa Duffy

  “That doesn’t make any sense. You could say that if we were in Mexico. Like in a cantina somewhere,” I say.

  “We’re not?” Quinn asks innocently, glancing around the room. She smiles and tilts her head at Bent while I laugh. “All joking aside—this is really nice. Thank you. I usually have most of my meals with two five-year-olds, and it’s a been a while since someone cooked me dinner, so I’ll try to remember not to reach over and cut your chicken into bite-size pieces.”

  Bent smiles and asks her a question about her job while I sip my drink.

  My plan was to make up some excuse to lie down—maybe a headache—and let them entertain each other.

  But when I tune back in to the conversation, Quinn is telling a story, something about one of the boys she nannies, and the way she’s moving her hands is making Bent laugh, like really laugh—not the kind where he’s faking it.

  The windows are open and there’s a breeze coming through the house. The faint jingle of the ice cream truck sounds from somewhere in the neighborhood, and my fingers tap along to it.

  It’s not the first time I’ve had tequila, but Bent’s made the drink strong, and by the second sip, my toes begin to tingle.

  By the third, I feel myself settle into the seat.

  And by the time dinner is on the table, I can’t even remember why I wanted to leave in the first place.

   12

  Quinn

  She’d been nervous when she knocked on the door, butterflies in her stomach, feeling as though she was intruding somehow, even though Bent had invited her. But when Bent answered the door, there was something sizzling in a pan beyond him, and the scent brought a memory of her childhood home: a vision of her mother in the kitchen, smiling over her shoulder at a younger version of Quinn, her sleeves rolled up and a pot on the stove behind her.

  Quinn had stood in the doorway, entranced, suddenly at ease—this house had a way of making her feel this way, as though the way the light filtered through the windows and the smells and sounds surrounding her were all so familiar.

  Then Bent had said hello, and she’d blinked, lost in the thought. He tilted his head to the side, the way he did sometimes, looking at her.

  He said something about just getting out of the shower, and she followed him into the kitchen. The back of his neck was flushed, his crew cut damp, the scent of soap trailing him, and when he turned to say something to her, she bumped into him.

  She was that close.

  He put his hand out, startled, his fingers wrapping around her upper arm to steady her, and she was aware of the small space between them, the slight distance between his hand and her body.

  It occurred to her then how easy it would be to shift into his touch—to feel the graze of his fingertips against the curve of her breast. The desire was sudden—so shocking and powerful—that she stepped back quickly, and he snatched his hand away, as though he’d done something wrong.

  They stood across from each other until he cleared his throat and turned away, busying himself with quartering a lime on a cutting board at the kitchen table and offering her a drink.

  Quinn had been unprepared to explain why she wasn’t drinking. She could have simply told Bent no, made up some excuse. Told him she didn’t like tequila, but she did like tequila. So, when he offered, she said yes, and then Libby walked in and she’d snapped out of it—it wasn’t as though she’d forgotten she was pregnant; it seemed to occupy her mind constantly. But she was still thinking about the way his hand felt on her arm, wondering how she was going to make it through dinner without making a fool of herself over and over again.

  But Bent asked about Quinn’s job, and before she knew it, the night had passed, and Libby was leaving, going out with a friend, and Quinn was sorry it was ending.

  She’d watched Libby and Bent through dinner—the way they spoke to each other—so natural and easy, so different from her relationship with her father after her own mother died that at one point in the night, her eyes had filled, just as Bent turned to say something to her. He’d paused, studying her with an expression that was so . . . tender . . . that she had to excuse herself to the bathroom to compose herself.

  When he’d suggested a fire outside, she knew she should go back to her own place, to her own bed, and stop the current running through her body. Instead, she’d nodded, a puppet controlled by unknown strings, and followed him to the backyard.

  Now there’s a fire in front of her, and the chair Bent has brought out for her in the backyard reclines, so she’s staring up at the stars while the fire pit warms her body.

  The heat wave has moved out, and even though it’s August, the air is dry and unseasonably cool. Bent has given her a flannel shirt and it’s draped over her like a blanket, and Rooster is lying next to her and she’s stroking his large head, and his fur is soft, cashmere under her fingers, and she doesn’t remember the last time she was this content.

  And as soon as the thought crosses her mind, she pushes it away. She knows it’s wrong to feel this way with her husband gone and her future uncertain and a baby inside of her that she’s keeping a secret—but it’s there nonetheless.

  The buttons on her jeans are tight against her stomach, but she knows it’s from stuffing herself full at dinner, not the pregnancy.

  Although, this morning she noticed a change in her body. Ever so slight, but proof somehow that this was happening. The doctor had confirmed she was nine weeks pregnant, yet feeling it for herself made her heart beat faster, an indescribable feeling spread through her.

  She’d stood in front of the mirror after her shower, and nothing appeared different—maybe she was a little softer since she’d run track in high school—but when she pulled on her T-shirt, there was a fullness to her breasts, and she hadn’t minded the way the fabric stretched across her chest, making her feel like a stranger in her own body, as though she were a different woman somehow.

  She sinks deeper in the chair, lets out a groan.

  “I ate too much,” she tells Bent, pressing her hands to her stomach. “I know you said you don’t cook often, but that chicken was delicious.”

  “The grill I can handle. It’s the other stuff that’s tricky. I hope you don’t mind being my guinea pig. Lucy likes to cook, but I’ve been trying my hand at it. I don’t want Libby growing up thinking guys can’t do that kind of stuff.”

  “I think it’s great. My father never learned either. My mother cooked a lot—we ate together most nights before she got really sick. After she died, we never sat at the table again. My father would bring his plate in the living room, eat in front of the TV or just stand at the counter, shovel the food in and leave. You don’t realize how nice it is to eat with people until it’s gone.”

  “How old were you when she died?”

  “A little older than Libby. She had cancer. We thought she beat it once, but then it came back.”

  He nods, his eyes on the fire. “Libby’s mom too.”

  She can see him out of the corner of her eye. His legs are stretched out in front of him, his fingers laced over his chest, and she has an urge to reach over and take one of his hands. She doesn’t, of course. But she wonders how her hand might fit inside of his.

  She wants to tell him how she feels—how being here, in this house, so disorienting at first, has changed somehow for her. But even in her own mind, she can’t put words to the feeling.

  “I don’t know how to say this, but . . .” Quinn says, and pauses.

  Bent looks up from the fire, waits for her to finish.

  “I’m impressed with you and Libby,” she says, slowly, choosing her words. “My father fell apart after we lost my mother. He died two years later—technically of a heart attack—but I think he gave up, just didn’t want to live without her.”

  “Don’t be impressed.” He looks at her, pauses. “Sarah and I split up before she got sick. I was just home from overseas when she left. Then she found the lump and came home. She thought she’d stay through the chemo,
until she got better. But . . .” He bites his lip, studies her. “She didn’t get better.”

  “I’m sorry—I didn’t know that. John never mentioned anything.”

  “He wouldn’t have known.” Bent shrugs. “I knew she was unhappy when I deployed. But it’s not something I talked about with any of the guys. Most of them are stressed-out, leaving their wives and girlfriends for a year or more. Doesn’t exactly boost morale. Then I came home sooner than expected.” He pointed to the scar on his forehead.

  “Were you relieved to come home? So you could be here for Libby?”

  Bent turns and looks at her, the glow from the flame suddenly lighting his face. A flicker of something in his eyes that she recognizes immediately.

  “John used to give me that same look,” Quinn continues. “I used to ask: Are you happy to be home? And he’d give me that exact look.”

  “I guess it wasn’t one of your favorites.” He shifts, puts his hands up, as though he’s afraid.

  He’s joking, she knows. But she doesn’t smile.

  “It’s hard when your husband likes being away more than he likes being home.”

  Bent studies her for a long moment and takes a sip of his beer. “It’s not a question of liking it or not liking it,” he says finally.

  “What is it, then?”

  He shrugs. “It’s a job. Those are my guys I’m leaving. And when you get hurt—someone else has to pick up the slack. I would’ve been on patrol the next day if they’d let me. Even with all the shit I had going on at home. Not because I got some sort of wargasm from it—some guys like the adrenaline rush. I just didn’t want to let anyone down.”

  “And John? Is he one of those guys? The ones addicted to wargasms?”

  Bent rubs his neck. “I’m not sure how to answer that,” he says after a minute.

  “Well, you served with him. What was he like over there? Cool Hand Luke, right? Whatever that means.”

  She’s not sure how they got here, on this topic, but it suddenly occurs to her that this is a question she should know the answer to—that maybe who John is over there has everything to do with why he wants to go back.

  He grins, picks at the label on the bottle. “The nickname was a compliment. And he earned it. Never lost his shit—bullets coming at us from all directions and he was always calm, steady.” He takes a sip, swallows, the orange glow of the fire reflected in his eyes. “Fear is the great equalizer. Train all you want, but until you have rounds kicking up dirt inches from your face, you don’t know anything. Some guys freeze. Not him. Back then, ask any guy in our unit who he wanted next to him . . . answer was always the same: Luke.”

  She shifts in her seat, faces the fire. It’s enough to hear the words. She doesn’t want to see it on his face too.

  “You’re not happy to hear that,” he says.

  “It’s just, the way you talk about him. He sounds like your hero.”

  She glances at him. He has the same look she sees sometimes when he talks about Libby.

  Protective.

  “You asked me a question, and I gave you an honest answer.”

  She nods. “I know. I guess I just wasn’t ready to hear about how good he is. You know, to hear it in your voice . . .” She lets the words trail off. There’s a sudden tightness in her chest.

  “Quinn.” Bent waits until she looks at him. “I said John is a good soldier. Doesn’t mean he was a good husband.”

  He picks up a handful of branches from a pile next to the fire and tosses them into the pit, where they crackle and spark, fire reaching up to the sky between them.

  She can only see the outline of him through the red-orange flames, and he seems a stranger to her now, the closeness she felt earlier gone.

  Something occurs to her then, his words replaying in her mind, shifting and moving behind her eyes until they make sense, as though what he’s said to her is a piece of a puzzle finally sliding into place.

  She’s outside of herself now, standing with the shirt in her hands, clutching it as though it’s the only thing she can hold on to.

  His face appears through the fire and he’s startled, surprised she’s looming above him.

  “Quinn—”

  “What you just said . . . about being a good soldier . . .”

  The words tumble out of her mouth, clumsy and thick, and he stands up slowly, one hand up, as though he’s unsure of what she’ll do next.

  “He is. I mean it. He is good. Maybe one of the best.”

  “No,” she says, pointing at him. “The other thing, the husband part—you said was. You said he was a good husband.”

  She can’t see him now, his body blocking the flame.

  “He’s not coming back, is he?” she whispers just as a branch thick with dry leaves catches fire in the pit, the sky blazing behind him.

  She sees him fully then, the glow lighting his every limb. His hand reaching out to her, but his body turned, holding back, as though he’s being pulled in opposite directions.

  It’s his eyes that give him away. His eyes revealing he’s told her more than he wanted to—or maybe he hasn’t told her enough—she can’t decide which.

  She backs up now, wanting to go inside, away from the way he’s looking at her and the suffocating silence that fills the air between them. She takes a step backward, feels the arm of the chair catch the back of her leg, and suddenly she’s in the air, arms flailing, a whoosh of air filling her nostrils.

  The black sky somersaults above her and she pictures the edge of the grass where her chair had been, the paved path beyond it, feels her body brace for the impact, her jaw clenching at the thought of her head hitting the hard concrete.

  Instead, she feels arms around her, a body behind her catching her and lifting her to her feet.

  Bent is in front of her, his hand still extended, and she turns, finding her footing on the uneven grass. Libby and Desiree and a guy she’s never seen before are in front of her.

  “Good thing I’m used to women throwing themselves at me,” the guy jokes.

  “Good catch, Sully,” Bent says, but it’s barely out of his mouth when Libby rushes past them, her hand over her mouth, and runs up the back stairs.

  Quinn hears the door to her apartment open and slam against the wall, and through the window, they all watch Libby, leaning over, her head in the sink.

  In the silence, the only sound is the fire behind them, the dry leaves exploding like gunfire in the dark night.

   13

  Libby

  Flynn was late picking me up.

  I’d left Quinn and my father sitting at the table and rushed downstairs, thinking he’d be waiting for me. But it was another ten minutes before he picked me up, moody and distracted. It took me almost the whole ride to Jimmy’s to get it out of him that his girlfriend was driving him nuts, and he’d decided it was time to end it.

  Now we’re sitting in the car outside of Jimmy’s house, music pouring onto the street through the second-floor windows.

  “Wait—isn’t this the same girl you were begging me to meet earlier today?”

  “Yes. But that was before she spent the afternoon texting me—had to be thirty of them—about going out with you tonight. To see my brother!”

  “Well, why’d you mention me? I mean, you already knew she was jealous.”

  “No—you said she was jealous. I thought she really wanted to meet you. She couldn’t understand why you were coming with me to see Jimmy and not her. How many times can you explain the difference between someone you’ve known for what seems like forever . . . and someone new. She had me so nuts I could have polished off the six-pack just to get back to neutral.”

  “Don’t even tell me I just drove with you if were drinking. Because if you tell me that, I’m getting out.”

  “Will you relax? I said I could have.” He pulls the keys out of the ignition. “But, news flash—we’re here. So you can get out anyway.”

  He smiles, as though he’s joking, but his voice is
tight. He grabs a six-pack from the back seat and gets out of the car.

  The street is packed with houses—flat-fronted two-family homes that all look the same except for the color of the aluminum siding. In front of us, the front lawn is steep, a concrete set of stairs splitting the dead grass into two patches of brown.

  Music blares from the house, and I hesitate but Flynn takes my hand, yanks me through the door.

  “I’m not going to know anyone,” I say, following him up the narrow staircase to the second floor, and he yells something back at me.

  “What?” I shout, just as the music turns off.

  Flynn turns and stares at me. “You’ll know me.”

  “Well, don’t ditch me.”

  “When do I ever ditch you?” he scowls.

  I snort. “Hmm, let’s see. Pretty much every time you get a new girlfriend.”

  We’re on the verge of a fight now, and Flynn sighs, pulls a can off the six-pack, and opens it with one hand. He takes a swig, offers it to me.

  I shake my head. “Don’t drink too much. I can’t drive us home with my permit.”

  “Okay, Mom,” he says sweetly, and rolls his eyes when he sees my face. “Don’t be so fucking sensitive all the time,” he mumbles, and walks inside, leaving me alone on the landing, blinking, his words bouncing around in the empty hallway.

  Inside, the TV is on, the volume off. Smoke swirls in the air, and a man who looks to be around my father’s age is sprawled on a couch on his back, looking at the ceiling, a glass pipe resting on his bare chest. A skinny girl with stringy hair sits by his feet, painting her toenails black. Neither of them looks up at us. In the kitchen to my right, there’s a roomful of people.

  I pull on Flynn’s sleeve, and he stops, glances back at me.

  “Let’s go,” I whisper, and suddenly, there are hands on my shoulders from someone behind me, my body weightless in his grip.