What Comes Next

by Desni Dantone

  He maintains a safe distance as I unlock the door and swing it open. I’m immediately assaulted by the smell of abandonment. The dust particles in the air force a cough out of me as I flip the light switch on the wall. Nothing happens.

  “Great,” I mutter.

  “Probably just the breaker,” Ben reassures calmly.

  I turn to find his shadowy outline in the doorway, illuminated by moonlight. “Do you know where that’s at? Because I don’t.”

  He moves inside, brushing past me without a word. There’s a bang and some clattering from the other side of the kitchen. I can’t see or guess what he’s doing, until a small funnel of light shoots up and spreads across the ceiling. Behind the light, Ben grins as he holds up the flashlight for me to see.

  “All those repair jobs I’ve done over the years are paying back now,” he boasts. “I know exactly where everything is at.”

  Moments later, Ben locates the fuse box in the cellar. While I hold the flashlight, he flips the switch to send electricity into the house. Through the floorboards above us, I hear the refrigerator buzz to life.

  “Phones?” he asks when he turns to me.

  “Not yet. I don’t . . .” I trail off before telling him that I’m not sure I will need the phone, that I’m not planning to stay long.

  From his solemn nod, I suspect he has filled in the missing pieces of my statement. He wordlessly reclaims the flashlight, and leads me up the wobbly steps to the main floor. In the brightly lit kitchen, Ben confirms that the water is running. He hesitates before opening the refrigerator.

  “You’re not going to want to open that until—at least—tomorrow,” he tells me, and I wrinkle my nose.

  I remember the year Pop bought that fridge, when I was a kid. The old one broke down out of the blue one day, and stunk up the house for days before he managed to find this one. I know better than to open an unrefrigerated fridge.

  I trail behind Ben as me moves through the living room, testing the lights. Together, we uncover the furniture. There’s a mountain of sheets on the floor, and a thick cloud of dust in the air, by the time we finish. The furniture in my old room will also be covered. Ben’s eyes flick to the stairs, but he doesn’t offer.

  “You good?” he asks instead.

  “I think so.”

  He nods at the floor before taking a hesitant step toward the kitchen. “I wish you had a phone. Just in case . . .”

  “Maybe I’ll set it up tomorrow,” I offer, though I’m not sure I’ll follow through on that. Depends on what I find out about the property, and what options I have. How long I end up staying . . .

  Again, he picks up on my uncertainty. “You’ll be here tomorrow, right? You’re not going to . . .”

  “I told you. I have some stuff about the property to take care of.”

  He stares across the room, holding me captive with his gaze. “I want . . .” His voice is raspy, and he squeezes his eyes shut before trying again. “Can I see you again tomorrow?”

  I don’t answer, but my eyes must have given something away, because he suddenly carries his head a little higher. The defeat weighing down his shoulders gives way.

  “I’m done with work around four. I can be here by five. Maybe—”

  “That’s fine,” I agree quickly.

  Maybe a little too eagerly, but he doesn’t seem to mind. If anything, he brightens at the promptness of my response.

  “You’ll be here?”

  “I’ll be here.” Just this once, I can make that promise.

  I confirm half a dozen more times that she will be here tomorrow before I bring myself to walk out the door. My feet no sooner hit the ground before I’m stepping back into the house. Ana backpedals quickly to prevent a collision, and my mouth drops open to apologize.

  The words are forgotten when a sensation of déjà vu slams into me. I stare at her wide eyes, and I see the girl that once looked at me with adoration. The girl that, until this moment, has been missing. It’s really difficult to not overanalyze the way she’s looking at me now, even as her expression morphs into one of confusion.

  “I, uh . . .” I clear my throat as I fish for an excuse other than the truth. I’m not ready to leave. I don’t want to leave. But I will, if that is what she wants. “I thought I forgot something.”

  Ana glances over her shoulder, into the empty house. She doesn’t even have her own bags in here yet. I entered with nothing twenty minutes ago, so there’s nothing for me to forget.

  “Okay. Uh . . .” I back through the door once again. “Tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  With a short nod, I turn. If I don’t do it now, I doubt I’ll ever find the strength to go. I focus my attention on the truck, where it is parked several yards away, as I walk quickly toward it. My neck flinches with the desire to look back, but I keep my eyes forward. With tremendous effort, I finally reach the truck.

  My hand grazes the door handle before I hear her voice cutting through the hammering of my heartbeat.

  “Ben!”

  I whip around in time to see her push through the door. It bangs shut behind her as she runs around the front of the truck. I meet her near the front fender, and she slams into me. Her arms wrap around my neck, her face buries into my chest, and she sighs. I feel weightless as I hold her.

  “Stay?” she pleads softly, her voice muffled by my shirt. “Just a little longer?”

  I nod eagerly. “I’ll stay as long as you want me to stay.”

  I retrieve one of the bottles of wine I spotted in the cellar earlier, and pour two glasses in the kitchen before I join Ana in the living room. I set the bottle on the table in front of us and hand Ana her wine before claiming a seat on the other end of the couch.

  “Thanks.” She brings the glass to her lips, and gulps down most of it in one swallow.

  “Good thing it’s a big bottle,” I tease as she sits back with the glass cradled to her chest.

  She eyes the bottle, then me, and a tiny smile graces her lips. “Not big enough,” she mutters.

  I get it. I really do. This—me sitting before her right now—is huge. Life-changing, wine-guzzling huge. For both of us. I still haven’t registered the fact that she’s back. So much needs to be aired out between us, I don’t even know where to start. I’m not sure she’s ready for it yet, until she straight up asks.

  “What happened?”

  “Hmm?” She spoke so quietly I want to be sure of what she’s asking before I answer.

  She pulls her legs under her, getting cozier with her glass of wine, before saying, “They told me you were dead. Did you know that? I only left because—”

  “I know why,” I cut her off. “I read your letter to Mama.”

  Her head lowers as if in shame, or remorse. I reach across the couch, and lift her chin with my finger until her eyes meet mine.

  “I get it, Ana. I do. I understand, and I don’t blame you. I was only worried about finding you.”

  Her shoulders visibly relax as my words sink in, and she nods in understanding. Though I suspect she still carries a good deal of regret, I’m happy she believes me when I say I don’t hold the fact that she left against her.

  “It was a pretty big mistake,” she eventually mutters.

  “Yeah, it was.” Far bigger than just me, but I can’t tell her about Luke yet. I can’t tell her that I’m alive because of his sacrifice, or that I watched the enemy take his body in the middle of the night, and that the Army still has him listed as missing in action rather than what I know is the truth. I can’t tell her that I watched him die a slow and agonizing death.

  Instead, I tell Ana the short version of why the Army thought I was dead. I tell her about the faulty chain that held my dog tags, and how my friend volunteered to try to fix them. How I’d barely avoided getting caught in the explosion that claimed the rest of my platoon, only to be taken prisoner for the next year.

  “The entire time, I had the photograph and the last letter I received from you,” I f
inish, and finally look up to face the horrid expression on her face. “The few times a day we got light, I looked at them. I have every word of the letter memorized. It was the only thing that gave me any kind of hope. So you should know that . . . you helped keep me alive, Ana.”

  Her head drops, and a single tear slides down her cheek and onto the couch cushion beneath her. “I left,” she sighs.

  “You’re back now,” I remind her. As if it’s that simple.

  I wish it could be that simple. The truth is, a lot has changed since she first heard that I was dead. I can only hope for the chance to make everything right again.

  But I can’t force it. Slow and steady will be the best approach—just like when we were teenagers. She didn’t stand a chance at rejecting my charm then, and she won’t stand a chance now. I have all the time in the world to make this right, if she will give it to me.

  “Can I ask where you went?” Anything to get her out of the guilt-ridden mood she’s in. I hope talking about her adventures will free her up.

  “What?” She glances up from her lap distractedly. “When?”

  “Your roommate said you left Philadelphia to travel,” I prompt.

  “Oh, yeah . . . um . . .” She rubs her forehead as if she needs some help digging up the memories. “D.C. for a few months . . . New York . . . Boston . . . a brief stint in some hippy-loving campground in the West Virginia mountains, and then we came back.”

  “Wow. I’d love to hear more about that hippy campground.”

  “A lot of love and peace,” she offers with a faint smile.

  I notice she hasn’t mentioned who she traveled with. I’ve never forgotten her roommate’s mention of her leaving with a guy infatuated with her. I’ve obsessed over that single detail for the past year. Now, I wonder if Ana’s keeping secrets, or if her relationship with him was a lot less significant than I’ve feared all this time.

  Not that I don’t have my own skeletons to deal with—one of which Ana already knows about.

  I really don’t want to talk about any more of that heavy stuff tonight. With a little encouragement, I get her talking about life during her travels. I soak up every word as she tells me about the shabby jobs and even shabbier living arrangements. Despite the danger she experienced on a nearly daily basis, I find her stories interesting.

  I’m hooked, wanting to know more about everything, even as her eyelids grow heavier. Sometime in the wee hours of the morning, exhaustion catches up to her. I stealthily snatch the partially full glass of wine as her head falls back and her arms drop to her sides. I watch her until I’m certain she has fallen asleep.

  I watch her until I start to yawn. As tempting as the thought of stretching out on the couch alongside Ana is, I don’t. Instead, I slip my arms under her and carry her upstairs. I pull the sheets from her bed, and lay her down on a clean and fluffy pillow. She doesn’t stir before I slip out.

  Back home, I check the time on my way through the kitchen. 1:28. I’m due to get up in four hours. I’m used to getting little sleep, but tonight is different. Work is going to drag tomorrow, with the anticipation of knowing that I’ll be seeing Ana afterward. I’m so eager for the time to come, I’m excited to go to sleep this time. The sooner I fall asleep, the sooner tomorrow afternoon will be here.

  Upstairs, I find Tracy sprawled across my bed. I stare down at her for a moment, but don’t wake her. I slide my pillow out without disturbing her, find a spare blanket in the closet, and crash on the couch.

  When the rising sun wakes me a few hours later, I find a note placed on my chest.

  We need to talk.

  Tracy’s gone already, so the talk will have to wait. She is right, of course. We do need to talk.

  I should have gone straight to Tracy’s parents’ house after work. I should have gotten the inevitable talk we needed to have out of the way. But after an entire day on the job site, the thought of Ana waiting for me was too much to resist.

  I take a quick shower before heading directly to the farm. Any lingering worries I have that Ana hasn’t stayed are squashed when I pull into the driveway and see her car parked outside the house. I smell a delicious combination of spices when I get out of the truck. My stomach growls with expectation as she swings the door open for me.

  The kitchen is a disaster, but whatever she’s got in the oven smells wonderful.

  “I’m attempting to copy Ma’s lasagna.” She wipes up the remnants of dough on the island counter, and glances up with a sheepish smile. “Emphasis on attempting.”

  “It smells about right.” I take in the mess, but can’t make sense of what’s what. My experiences with cooking are limited to fish fries and crayfish boils. And Tracy . . .

  Let’s just say the only time I get a home-cooked meal nowadays is when I visit Mama.

  “What can I help you with?” I ask, though I fear I won’t have much to offer.

  “Nothing. It’s almost done. I just need to finish cleaning up.” She moves to the sink to rinse out the towel she’s using. Her head nods toward the fridge. “Fridge is nice and cold now. I picked up some beer in town today. Help yourself.”

  That is a temptation difficult for me to resist. I grab two bottles, twist the caps off, and lean against the counter to guzzle down a swallow while Ana hops around the kitchen like a hyperactive kangaroo. Her hair is gathered at her neck in a haphazard ponytail. Wisps of hair have come undone, and fan her face. She brushes one particularly annoying strand out of her eye half a dozen times before finally tucking it behind her ear. A smudge of flour is left on her cheek in the process.

  I’m torn between wanting to help her out and wanting to watch her. Seeing her like this—so free and lively—is all I’ve wanted to see since I left her last night.

  I take a few greedy seconds to file away the moment in my bank of memories before I grab a spare towel and start wiping. Once we’re nearly finished, I grab the second bottle of beer and put it in her hands while I steer her toward the nearest stool.

  “You’ve done enough. Sit,” I order gently.

  She opens her mouth to argue, and I silence her by pressing my thumb to her lips. It’s a knee-jerk reaction, and I don’t realize how bad of an idea touching her like this is until it’s too late. Despite recognizing the thin line I’m straddling, I don’t move away like I probably should.

  “You’ve got a little . . .” I shift my thumb an inch to the side and swipe at the smudge of flour on her cheek. I pull my hand away to show her the evidence, because words have escaped me.

  She’s staring at me with big saucer eyes, and I can’t look away. My gaze flicks to her mouth, and my breaths grow heavy as I struggle against the urge to press my lips to hers.

  I wonder if she’ll still taste like mint after all these years. If she’ll envelop me in the scent of strawberry. If she’ll feel the same. If she’ll melt into my embrace like she always did before.

  I wonder if she’s thought about what it will be like to kiss me again, as I have. Her chin lifts, hinting that she is thinking about it now, and I inch closer—

  Beep, beep, beep.

  I jump and whip toward the shrill sound behind me. In my head, the beeping of the oven timer is replaced by the pop-pop-pop of automatic gunfire, and I sandwich Ana between the counter and my back as if I can somehow protect her from the threats deeply implanted into my memories.

  A hand comes down on my shoulder, and I rocket away from it. On some level, I realize it’s Ana’s hand—not that of a threat—and stop my arm from taking the swing it instinctively wants to take. Instead, I zero in on the initial cause of my panic, and press a shaky finger to the oven button until the beeping stops.

  Rewarded with silence, I take a moment to catch my breath . . . and composure.

  My brother freaked out over cows. Little did I know then that the day would come that an oven timer would set me off.

  At the worst possible time, I might add.

  “You okay?” Ana’s soft voice washes over me, speeding
up the calm-down phase.

  With a wry grin that I hope will alleviate the worry I hear in her voice, I turn to face her. “I guess I should have warned you sooner,” I chuckle softly.

  “Loud noises?” she guesses.

  I nod glumly. “Anything unexpected. Anything sudden. Don’t sneak up on me, take me by surprise. Things like that, I don’t handle too well,” I admit softly.

  Last night, I grazed over the details of my capture—the things that still plague me, mostly in my sleep. I still don’t plan to relive the gritty details now, and I’m relieved to see that she understands without me having to elaborate on why those certain things bother me.

  “I’m sorry. I won’t . . . never again.” She offers a reassuring smile before turning away, but not before I see the glimmer of tears in her eyes. She runs her towel across the already clean counter top, and I know she’s using it an excuse to hide her face from me.

  “I’m sorry, Ana,” I offer softly.

  “What could you possibly be sorry for?” she sniffs.

  I hesitate before spewing the truth. “I came back like my brother.” She freezes, and slowly turns to look at me. At the question in her eyes, I shrug and add, “Probably worse than him. Just like—”

  “Stop,” she snaps. Placing the towel on the counter behind her, she takes a few steps to narrow the distance between us. “You are not, you never have been, and never will be your father. You hear me?” She pauses to wait for me to nod—even if I’m not entirely convinced—before continuing. “You’ve had bad things happen to you. You lived through a horrible experience, saw horrible things, maybe even did horrible things . . . but those things don’t define who you are. I know who you are.” Her hand reaches out slowly, and her eyes lift to mine, seeking permission. When I nod, she presses her hand to my chest, right above my heart. “I know what’s in here.”