This Is Home

by Lisa Duffy

  I raise my eyebrows, and she waves me off like she didn’t just insult me.

  “Plus, can you imagine Sully with one kid? He’d give it too much attention. You know, suffocate it.”

  “Well, you can balance him out,” I tell her, and she ignores me.

  “All I’m saying is, when you get married, have your own career. Your own money. Then at least when you have little Gingers or Joeys running around and the shit hits the fan, you have options. Money doesn’t make your life better, but it sure as hell makes it easier.” She pauses, blinks as though I’m coming into focus again.

  “Wait.” She walks over to my desk. “What’s that?”

  I shift, blocking the picture with my hip, not wanting to explain why I took it from Quinn’s apartment, but she reaches out and picks up my license.

  “Is this what I think it is?” she asks.

  “I got it earlier in the week.”

  She sucks in her breath. “Oh, Jesus. Just what we need. You on the road.”

  She taps me on the shoulder with it and winks when I take it from her, then walks out the door. I watch her leave, thinking that it might be the closest Desiree and I have ever come to bonding.

  The picture frame is under sheets of paper on my desk. The back slides out easily, and I take the picture out of the frame and slip it into my back pocket. The longer I look at it, the more I’m positive it was Quinn’s husband at the party that night at Jimmy’s house.

  I close my eyes and try to retrace the route Flynn drove, but I only get to the center of town before I’m lost, side streets crisscrossing in my mind.

  I’d call Flynn, but we haven’t spoken since that night. He never called or texted to see if I got home okay. I talked to Katie last night, and she asked what Flynn was up to, and I told her I didn’t have a clue.

  “What do you mean?” she asked.

  “I went to his brother’s apartment with him last week, and he ditched me. I haven’t talked to him since. Which is fine. All we ever do is argue now anyway.”

  “Argue? You guys? Since when?”

  “When are you coming home?” I asked, not answering her. “Erin said she’s away until, like, the day before school. Tell me you’re not too.”

  “I am—which is why you need to come down here! Convince your dad to lend you his truck—tell him I said it’s not that far of a drive!” she said, reminding me of the latest lie I told Katie when she’d asked me to come down and see her.

  I’d laughed and switched the subject, because Bent was the reason I wasn’t visiting Katie, but his truck had nothing to do with it. I felt bad for lying to Katie in the first place.

  Now I pick up Jimmy’s coat off the bed, pat my back pocket to make sure the picture is still there, and walk into the kitchen.

  Bent is sleeping after the night shift, his door shut. I leave a note on the table that I’m running an errand, and grab his set of keys off the dining room table.

  Rooster Cogburn is lying in his usual spot in the sun underneath the window in the living room. He picks up his head when he hears the keys jingle and lifts his large body off the floor, his ears high, an eager look on his face.

  Car rides with Bent are the only thing that get Rooster even mildly excited, and I sigh, stare at him.

  “Fine,” I tell him. “But you better behave.”

  He bounds over about as quick as he ever moves and hurries down the stairs, the sound of his toenails clicking against the wood loud in the empty hallway.

  Inside the truck, Rooster hangs his head out the window while I drive, his tongue flapping in the wind. I drive to the water, past Sully’s, and then turn right at the traffic light and drive up the hill.

  The streets are narrow, crowded with old houses that have been turned into apartments or condos, and they all start to look the same.

  I remember looking out my window that night with Flynn at a house with Christmas lights still hanging from the gutter, but I pass two houses in a row with their lights still up, and they’re single-family homes that don’t look anything like Jimmy’s house.

  At the end of the street, there’s a house that looks familiar. I park, grab the jacket, and walk around to the sidewalk. Rooster is sitting in the passenger seat, straight backed, facing forward, a serious look on his face, and he refuses to look at me when I open the door and call his name, as though by ignoring me, I’ll just get back in the truck and drive.

  There’s a leash in the truck bed, and I clip it onto his collar, and it’s a minute of me begging him to come on and get down before he unfolds himself lazily out of the truck and onto the sidewalk.

  I walk to the front door and press my finger to the doorbell, feeling my heartbeat quicken, my palms grow clammy. Rooster looks up at me, his eyebrows together. The fur on the back of his neck stands up. A low growl fills the air.

  “It’s okay,” I say, patting his head.

  I picture the guy on the couch with the glass pipe on his chest. There’s no way I’m going up there, even with Rooster by my side.

  On the side of the house, a concrete path winds to the backyard. We walk around the corner, follow it until the back porch is above us, the rickety metal stairs leading up to a landing. I recognize the chairs we were sitting in, but before I can figure out what to do next, Rooster yanks me to the tree behind us and lifts his leg.

  “You know this is private property, right?” a voice calls out from above. The sun is bright, blinding. I hold up my hand to block it. Jimmy is leaning out the window, looking down at us.

  “I have your coat.” I hold it up as proof. “I’m just returning it.”

  He climbs through the open window and walks over to the railing above us. He’s wearing shorts and a T-shirt, a towel in his hand.

  Rooster turns and gives a loud bark, but Jimmy walks down the steps and over to us.

  “Who’s this big guy?” he asks, and when I tell him Rooster’s name, he puts his hand out. Rooster wags his tail and licks the sweat from Jimmy’s leg.

  “Hey, Killer,” Jimmy says, scratching behind Rooster’s ears until Rooster loses interest and looks up at me. I drop the leash, and he wanders over to the tree and lies down, as though he’s in his own backyard.

  “Sorry to barge into your backyard. I rang the doorbell, but I wasn’t sure I had the right house. I thought I might recognize the porch.”

  “I was out for a run. I’m glad I didn’t miss you.” He pauses, looks at his feet and back up at me as if he wants to say something, but he’s quiet.

  “Thanks for this.” I hand him the coat, and he takes it and nods, his eyes on mine before they flit away again.

  I put my hand in my back pocket, finger the edge of the picture, losing my nerve. What if he knows Quinn’s husband? What then?

  “What are you up to?” he asks, and I freeze, as if he can read my mind, but he smiles and pulls at the front of his shirt. “I mean, if you can wait for me to grab a shower, maybe we can get a cup of coffee or something?”

  “Sure.” I nod. “He needs to go for a walk anyway. I’ll take him out front and meet you there.”

  “I’ll be quick,” he says, and runs up the stairs, ducking through the window. Rooster and I walk to the front, turn right down the street and then up again, and by the time we get back to the truck, he sits on the sidewalk, refuses to budge.

  I open the passenger door and grab my phone, checking to see if Bent has called.

  He said it was fine to take the truck if I needed to run an errand. But I’ve been gone over an hour now, and I’m hoping he’s still asleep. There’s nothing from Bent, and I shove the phone in my pocket.

  My keys are on the floor on the driver’s side. I lean in, feeling Rooster’s leash pull me back, as though he’s walking the other way.

  “Rooster, stop,” I call out, my head down. The keys have slipped under the seat, and when I finally get my hands on them, my feet are almost off the ground.

  When I stand, Rooster is sitting on the sidewalk, leaning into the hand
that’s petting his head. I look up at Flynn, who raises his eyebrows, stares at me.

  “Jesus,” I say, my hand on my heart. “You scared the crap out of me.”

  “Why?” he asks, his face stone. “Expecting someone else?”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “What am I doing here? Well, let’s see. Last time I checked, I had a family member who lived here. You know, a brother. So that’s probably a better question for you.”

  His clothes are wrinkled, his eyes bloodshot. I look up the street and see his car parked several houses down, at an angle, the back bumper far away from the curb.

  “Did you sleep here last night?”

  “I didn’t have a choice. I stopped in because there was a party going on, and Corporal up there took my keys. Said I was high on something,” he scoffs. “Fucking guy thinks I’m him. Or maybe it’s just that he’s in the army now,” he sings, and marches with his arms out straight.

  “Well, if that was your parking job, he should’ve taken them away.”

  He glances behind him at the car and looks back at me. “There were a million cars on the street last night. I had to parallel park into some tiny space and I barely fit. Anyway, what the hell are you doing here?”

  The door opens, and Jimmy walks over and stands next to Flynn.

  “Ready?” Jimmy says.

  Flynn looks from Jimmy to me.

  “What the hell is this?” he says.

  “Do you want to drive?” Jimmy asks me. “I don’t have a back seat for Rooster.”

  I nod and open the rear door for Rooster to get in while Flynn glares at Jimmy.

  “I’m serious, dude. What the fuck?”

  Jimmy looks at him, his forehead creasing. “What’s the problem?”

  They stare at each other for a moment until Flynn shakes his head.

  “No problem. Do what you want.”

  Jimmy snorts, gives him an amused look. “Thanks for the permission.” He reaches into his back pocket and sighs. “Crap. Forgot my wallet. Be right back,” he says to me, and jogs up the walkway to the house.

  I pat the seat for Rooster, and he climbs in, collapses on the seat, his head on the padded divider in the middle. When I shut the door, Flynn is in front of me.

  “You’re not seriously going out with him?”

  “We’re just getting coffee.”

  “That’s my brother. My fucking brother.”

  “So?”

  “So, stay away from him,” he says, like that’s that. “There are a million other guys you can date. Not him.”

  “It’s not a date. It’s coffee, Flynn.”

  “Yeah, right.” He walks away, turns, and stomps back. “What happened the other night? Did you hook up?” he asks incredulously.

  “What happened to you the other night? You know, my ride home?”

  “Oh, so that’s it. What, payback? Screw around with my brother so you can piss me off.”

  “Yeah, Flynn. That’s it. I’m using your brother to get back at you for blowing me off. What are we, toddlers?”

  “For the record, I came back to get you, and you were gone. My brother too. Where’d you go? Parking?”

  “He was nice enough to drive me home. Sober. Which is more than you would have been. You disappeared, talking to your girlfriend. I thought she was driving you nuts.”

  “She was driving me nuts—which is why I took the call and ended it. It just took longer than I expected. But I told you I’d drive you home, and I came back to drive you home. You were the one that left. The two of you were pretty chummy on the porch. You wanted me to leave anyway.”

  “Look—I don’t care where you were or who you were with. I do care that you made a promise to me and you broke it. And now, here, right now, you’re rude. No, you know what? You’re rude all the time. And you know who isn’t?” I point at the house. “Your brother. That’s who. I’m getting coffee with him because he’s a nice guy. Sort of like someone I used to know.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see the door open and Jimmy step out.

  Flynn leans in, his eyes flashing. He’s so close I can smell the stale beer on his breath.

  “Maybe I’ll stop by later,” he says in a voice only I can hear. “You know, see if Desiree’s around.”

  He walks to his car and gets in, the tires kicking up pebbles when he pulls away. Jimmy walks over, leans against the truck in front of me, and sighs.

  “He was drunk last night. He’s pissed I took his keys away.”

  “He’s mad because I’m having coffee with you.”

  He tilts his head at me. “Seems weird to be mad over something like that. You guys never . . .”

  “God, no. We’re friends . . . that’s all . . . he’s always just been . . . one of my best friends.”

  “So what’s his deal?”

  “I don’t know. He thinks, you know, we’re more than just hanging out.”

  He’s standing in front of me, close enough that I can feel his breath on my face. I could step back, move from the curb onto the sidewalk, but I don’t. The way he’s looking at me has my limbs heavy, my body numb.

  “Are we?” he asks, putting his hands in his front pockets, leaning back against the truck, his legs crossed in front of him.

  I study the shape of his lips, the smooth dent in the center, the tiny scar at the edge of his mouth.

  My feet are half on the curb, half off, the sharp edge of concrete hard against my foot. I press into it, a sharp twinge in my sole that’s strangely soothing. The world around me disappears, blurs into the background until it’s just the two of us.

  Me teetering on the edge. And him, waiting.

   16

  Quinn

  There was only one box, tucked in the far corner of the dining room, that she hadn’t yet unpacked. The last remaining evidence of her move to this new apartment.

  Truthfully, she probably would have just moved the box to the back bedroom, maybe even the basement. But she’d promised Libby that she’d look for pictures of John and Bent.

  The box was full of pictures Quinn had accumulated—a mishmash of Quinn’s life over the last decade—from high school until now. She’d dumped the box on the kitchen table, sorted through the pictures, and organized the piles according to years, as best as she could remember. She almost threw the whole mess back in the box when the task seemed overwhelming, the box bottomless.

  Instead, she went to the store and bought several photo albums. Her childhood photos were already in albums her mother had put together, thick with milestones, dates and names detailed in her mother’s precise handwriting. She’s been meaning to do the same with these pictures, and now it seems absurd to not just . . . finish.

  She stands over the table holding a picture of John from years ago—right after they graduated from high school. He’s laughing the way he used to—she can almost hear it—a laugh so infectious it was impossible not to laugh with him.

  The memory of it forces her eyes shut—she wants to stay in the sound of his laugh, sit with it for a moment with the sunlight bright behind her closed lids and the soft hum of the radio whispering in the room.

  There are stacks of pictures like that of John—John smiling. John laughing. John kissing her cheek, his eyes bright—the boy she fell in love with.

  She barely recognizes herself standing next to John or sitting on his lap or walking next to him, their fingers laced or shoulders touching. These pictures are on one side of the table—two-, sometimes three-, deep.

  And then there’s the other side of the table.

  Two separate stacks of pictures—John in one stack. Quinn in the other. A handful of them together—she picks them up and counts. Four. She places them on the table again.

  Four pictures of her and her husband together, in the same room, since they were married. Four pictures in more than five years.

  She doesn’t need to go through her stack again to know what she’ll see—pictures Madeline has given to Quinn:
the boys’ birthday parties, the first day of preschool, zoo excursions, and the trip to Florida where Madeline went to a conference while Quinn spent her days at the hotel pool with the boys. It’s Quinn’s life, of course. And she loves the boys—even Madeline most of the time.

  But it’s her job. What she gets paid to do.

  Instead, she studies the pictures of John. Brings each one close to her face before she puts it down on the table, arranging them until the surface is covered with just John. She catches her breath at what she sees.

  Camouflage and helmets and tanks and guns.

  John in a group photo with his unit. Another in a makeshift outdoor gym, dirt swirling in the background.

  John shirtless, a tattoo on his shoulder—the dog tags of a guy in his unit who was killed by a roadside bomb. Someone Quinn had never met, never even heard of until John came home with the man’s name on his arm.

  Perhaps it’s the guy with his blood on the road—the one John shot the puppy over. She doesn’t know. She and Bent haven’t talked about it since he told her.

  But she thinks about it all the time. Wonders more and more what her own puppy looks like now. The one John sent away.

  She looks at the pictures—searches them for a trace of the boy laughing in the high school pictures. The one she knew so well.

  It’s almost dark when she finally puts the last picture in the photo album. After all that work, she only has two pictures for Libby—another copy of the photo of John and Bent, and one of Bent with the entire unit.

  She’d thought there might be more of Bent and John together until she realized that most of the pictures were from John’s second deployment. The one that seemed to change everything about him. That made him feel like a stranger in his own home. The one that Bent missed.

  She can’t stop her mind from lingering on this—she’s thought often about Bent. How he seemed to go to war and come back, untouched. Hurt—a scar on his head to prove it. But not with the same demons as John. Bent was able to pick up his life right where he left it. To leave the war where it should stay.

  Now she wonders if it was the difference between one deployment and two. The length of time between home and away. Bent was gone for six months before he came home.