by Peter Styles
It takes him a second to realize that he’s daydreaming and he snaps himself out of it, setting to work with renewed energy. He already knows the trip details—eight hours by car. He’s not too put off by the drive; besides, it’s cheaper and he’s got some good audio books to catch up on. He shoots Jen a quick text, letting her know he’ll be driving down the next morning. She sends an obscene amount of emojis and all-caps phrases, praising him for his help. He smiles a little at the text before he starts packing, neatly folding each shirt into his suitcase. Every item is a thought: I wonder if the tree is still in the backyard, I wonder if the Christmas wreaths are still on the lampposts downtown, I wonder if the air still smells like green and rain. By the time he’s done, he almost wants to jump in his car and hit the road. He tells himself to wait, though and calls Lina to let her know what’s happening.
She sounds happy that he’s going home. She teases him for taking time off, just like Dean, and promises to be available by phone, just like Dean. She also tells him to be careful on the road and warns him that she’ll be expecting numerous pictures.
By the time he gets off the phone and finishes preparing, it’s eight o’clock and he’s all keyed up. He decides to swim around the apartment complex’s pool for an hour, hoping the exercise will wear him out, and thinks about Oriole the entire time.
Oddly enough, he thinks, this might be the most exciting thing that’s happened to him in a long time.
His drive goes by quickly. He listens to his music a little too loudly and drinks something iced that’s more chocolate than coffee. The trip flies by, only one stop for gas made, and he eventually wiggles in his seat when he sees the signs for Oriole. They’re just like he remembers them: painted a faded yellow, the telltale bird flitting through the picture. Blue flowers spill artfully below the sign welcoming weary travelers, promising Blue Skies and Lovely Times! This is a place that is still somehow the epitome of small-town life while housing the population of a small city. There’s only one parade that everyone attends and a famous diner that everyone eats at once a month but there are still three Starbucks and an airport.
It’s home.
The house is just like he remembers it. Sturdy and remodeled from older bones, the wood perfectly stained. It’s just on the edge of town, one small street and a country road away from the first block of the city. The driveway is dirt-packed from use and the land is green and flat, almost velvety against the earth. The tree in the backyard is still there, strings of lights hanging around its branches. There’s still a garden at the back, overflowing with flowers and herbs, and the guesthouse sits just a few feet away. It’s the same place it was when he was growing up with his aunt and uncle, the people who were parents to him for almost his entire life.
Jen is waiting for him on the porch. She’s practically jumping up and down like a puppy, which makes him want to laugh—she’s barely younger than he is by a year. As soon as he parks the car, she runs down the wooden steps, laughing delightedly, practically throwing him back as she embraces him.
“Ro! I knew you were coming, but boy, is it good to see you!”
“You too, Jen,” he laughs, letting her have her fill of hugging.
His cousin is a foot shorter than him, her hair the same fiery curls as her mother. She has her father’s eyes, though, a warm chocolate brown that seems to melt in the light. Jen has always been the more energetic of the two of them, even as kids—she was the one raring to brave the local river, the one skinning her knees on her bike, and the one punching bullies on the playground. She gets it from her mom, Rowan thinks. Speaking of which…
“Where’s Mom?”
“Probably scolding Dad for moving around the house. She’s taking a little too much pleasure from bossing him around. The other day, she locked his wheels so he couldn’t move from the porch while she was gardening. It was hilarious.”
“I’ll bet,” Rowan snorts, extricating himself from Jen’s grip so he can grab his suitcases. “Where—”
“Guest house,” she says quickly, “it’s all set up, too. Haven’t used it in ages. We—and by we, I mean I—set up house security a few months ago. You have the same lock on the front door but we also have an alarm system, just in case.”
“Great,” Rowan says, accepting the key from her as they walk towards the guest house.
It’s newer than the house. He remembers his uncle building it at one point after his wife had pointed out that Oriole was pretty much central to where the rest of the family lived. We have people over every couple of months, even if it’s just for a quick stop, she said, waving a hand at him, may as well put something up for regular use. The guest house had been completed quickly—a two-story design that sat much like a townhouse at the back of the property. It had a living area, kitchen, dining room, and bathroom downstairs. Upstairs, there was another two bathrooms and bedrooms. It was perfect for whenever family came over. He thinks it’ll feel odd, staying there alone, but he’s glad to have some privacy. It’s been years since he’s lived with someone else.
“So, how’s your fancy job?” Jen asks as he unlocks the door.
“It’s not fancy,” he snorts, “it’s just animation. It’s great. Dean’s an awesome boss. It’s a relaxed atmosphere, especially since we work on video games.”
“Dean, huh? I remember him. Cute.”
“Guess so,” Rowan rolls his eyes in exaggerated annoyance, “but please don’t take that as a green light.”
“Ro, I live eight hours away. I’m not going to seduce your boss.”
“Yeah, well, when has distance ever stopped you?”
Jen just smirks, dumping one of his bags by the kitchen entrance. She turns, tapping a sheet of paper taped to one side of the arch.
“Wi-fi password and security code. Don’t leave it lying around. I also put your schedule for work on the back. It’s consistent, thank God, because I know how much you love that.”
“Sweet, sweet consistency,” Rowan jokes, “What a lady.”
“Yeah, yeah. Come say hi to the parents once you’re settled, okay? They’re dying to see you.”
“I’ll be there in a minute,” he promises, watching Jen leave.
He has to take a moment to let everything set in. It’s like he’s a child again, the small universe of Oriole enclosing him. It looks the same—everything is green and well-tended, the characteristics of a place where people care about things. It smells the same, too; fresh herbs from the garden, flowers by the windowsills, the earth always rich with the promise of a light rain shower. The house feels just as comfortable as he remembers it. It seems to cozy down around him like a warm blanket on a winter night.
He missed it.
Even though he likes the city and its anonymity, he’s still missed the slow life of Oriole. It’s not a lazy life, that’s certain—people still mow their lawns every week and wave from their gardens on Sundays. It’s just that there’s something relaxed about the place. It’s as if everything else in the world can’t touch the small city and its people.
When he goes to the main house, he finds that nothing seems to have touched his aunt and uncle, either. He sees his aunt first, walking by the door and then stopping in her tracks to backpedal and greet him.
“There’s our boy! It’s been too long, little Red,” she beams, pulling him into a familiarly strong hug. His aunt Leona has always been stronger than she lets on, like most people in Oriole. Even her thin arms are built for pulling weeds. And hoisting little boys by their collars.
“Not so little anymore,” Rowan chuckles, returning the hug.
He sees his uncle roll into the entryway a moment later. It hurts him a little to see the broad man in a wheelchair but he knows it’s not serious. Richard just winks at Rowan, watching the reunion unfold. His dark hair is peppered with more streaks of gray, yet it somehow makes him look even more refined.
“Okay, Lee. Why don’t we let the boy breathe?” Richard finally suggests, shaking his head as his wife backs away
and sends him a steely glare.
“You shouldn’t be moving. If you fall over the threshold—”
“Then you’ll carry me across and it’ll be just like our wedding day,” Richard responds cheerily.
Rowan can’t help his laughter. He follows his family back into the living room where Jen is already waiting with lemon tarts and tea, smirking over her plate. Rowan already knows what comes next.
“You’re out of practice,” Jen says slyly, “I’ll bet my lemon tarts are better than yours, now.”
“I wouldn’t count on it,” Rowan says mildly. “And who says I’m out of practice?”
He spends the rest of the afternoon talking to his aunt and uncle, helping Jen with dinner while they all talk about their lives. It’s been so long that he feels like he’s playing an impossible game of catch-up, trying to keep year-long dramas straight as Leona roars with laughter over the neighbor’s daughter piercing her tongue without permission and the resulting public fight at the Thanksgiving parade.
By the time he goes to bed, stomach full of the best potato salad and chicken he’s had in years, he almost forgets that he’s just visiting. Somehow, it feels like everything has been waiting for him, in suspended animation. There’s a Rowan-shaped space in Oriole and he slips into it easily, feeling just as at home as he’s ever felt.
This will be good for me, he thinks, starting to drift to sleep as the cicadas hum outside his window. It’ll really be a vacation, even if I’m working at the bakery. He dreams that night of lazy rivers and a tire swing, the warmth of his memories pulling him back into the blissful days of his childhood. And when he wakes up the next morning, he remembers every detail.
3
Stephen is hungover. This is not new.
What is new is the pounding at his door. At first, he thinks it’s just his head—but then he hears a familiar voice yelling through the wood. Eventually, the door opens and he wonders whether or not it’s a home invasion. At least they’ll put me out of my misery, he thinks, resisting the urge to laugh. His mirth evaporates when the footsteps approach his open door and pause there.
It’s Melissa.
She looks…well. Much like she did when he met her at school. Dark brown hair tied up against her head and a take-no-shit set to her shoulders. She’s wearing an unfamiliar leather jacket over her usual patterned dress, brownish wedge shoes set shoulder-width apart like she’s squaring up to fight.
Which she probably is, he thinks.
“Seriously?” Her expression is disappointed, which he’s used to—but it’s also sad. That part, he can never quite understand. It’s not like he’s worth it.
“Is there a reason you’re raising hell at my front door?” he croaks, not bothering to pull himself off the bed. Melissa crosses her arms, leather creaking. Huh. It’s real leather.
“What time was it, this time? Three a.m.? Four?”
His hungover mind is immediately resentful. He feels a prickle of anger at her tone despite his best intentions to lay off and draw back. They’re not married anymore and he isn’t fond of her criticism. It’s not like she has to deal with me anymore. The way she still argues with him, it’s like they never separated.
“It doesn’t matter. Doesn’t bother you,” he says, resentful. He pulls himself up enough to drink from the glass by his bedside table, the water filled with lint and however many days old.
He knows what today is. The last day of his daughter’s one-week break from school. She’s supposed to have brunch with him and Melissa. A sideways glance at the clock tells him it’s just past noon, so they’re not late by any means, but he won’t have time to shower. Again. He forces himself to roll out of bed.
“She’s only going to see us this once, before she goes back until summer,” Melissa reminds him, staring him down with hard eyes. “Just once. Can’t you manage to shower and not be hungover? For your daughter?”
“Hey. I have done so much for her,” Stephen says hotly, jabbing a finger at Melissa as he throws his drawers open to find a clean shirt. “When did I ever abandon her? I was there for her in high school. I saved for her college. I helped her get her car—”
“Yes, extraordinary,” Melissa hisses, “You made sure she had all the material shit a little girl could ever want. But when were you there? All those times you bought her new teddy bears and fancy sneakers don’t make up for you stumbling in drunk at one in the morning when she was having a sleepover. Or getting drunk in the basement while she was supposed to be studying for the SAT.”
“I never once laid a finger on—”
“That’s not the point!” Melissa shouts, leaning in closer as he rips his jacket and shirt off to replace it with a fresh one. “You made her feel like she was a parent! Like she was the one that had to take care of you! She should have had a childhood without worrying about her father’s issues. Jesus, Stephen, I know it was hard coming back here but it wasn’t our only choice!”
“It was,” Stephen says roughly, walking into the bathroom to run the water and wash his face. Melissa stays in place, shaking her head at the carpet as if it’s disappointed her just as much.
He can’t deny what she’s saying, sure, but he’s not about to let her say he doesn’t love his little girl. He does. He’s wished all of his life that he could have been better for her, somehow. That he’d never felt the need to drown his failures in bottles and nights in the corners of bars.
“I thought, once you got away from that shitty job and our marriage, that you’d clean up,” Melissa says quietly. Evenly. This is the point that hurts him the most—she’s not angry or emotional now; she’s just…sad. He hates that he makes everyone sad. “I thought you’d do it for her. For us. For you.”
He grips the sides of the sink with warm hands. It’s cold against his palms, biting in the late spring weather. He thinks it’s fitting that things still haven’t warmed up around him. The earth is still in its eternal freeze, just like his life. His face in the mirror is drawn—there are wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, once from laughing and now from squinting in the morning sun when his head is pounding from a night of drinking. His black hair is ragged and a little too long, sticking up in several different directions. Even his eyes are just flat green, like stagnant pools.
I look like shit, he thinks, amused and disgusted. Nothing has changed.
The front door opens and shuts and they both turn. Stephen straightens, quickly combing a hand through his hair and drying his face. Footsteps ascend the stairs.
“Dad? You—oh,” Jordi says, surprised as she bumps into her mother.
He feels immediately conflicted. Better, because it’s his daughter, and worse, because he recognizes the brief oh no her expression changes to. She covers it quickly with her usual smile and it hits him in the heart like a bullet.
Melissa was right, he thinks, heart sinking. His little girl, with her short, bouncing brown curls and honey eyes, feels like she has to take care of her father. She’s suffering because of him.
“Hey, Yo-yo,” Stephen says, trying to scrape his expression into something resembling happiness and peace. A tiny spark of hope flickers in Jordi’s eyes at the use of her nickname.
“Hey, Dad,” she says, hands slipping into the pockets of her jacket.
Melissa rubs her hand across her forehead, trying not to say too much, and smiles tiredly at their daughter.
“I’ll go get us a table. I’ll see you two soon, okay?”
“’Kay, mom,” Jordi says, watching the woman go.
Stephen has to fight to keep his composure for a moment. He tries to ignore the sinking feeling of failure in his chest, smiling at Jordi and opening his arms. He realizes only after she hugs him that he probably still smells like whiskey. The bar really permeates his skin. Jordi doesn’t comment, though.
“How you doin’, kid?”
“Not bad, Dad. This semester is going well. What about you?”
He pulls a fresh jacket from the closet, something Jordi gave him
that probably looks too young for him but he wears anyway. He smiles, slinging an arm around her shoulder and guiding them downstairs.
“Just fine, honey. Got work tomorrow, so today is a day of brunch and relaxation.”
“Work? That’s good,” Jordi smiles, “I can’t believe you’ve been there four years, now.”
“Yup. Isn’t that great? No more grunt work for me. Don’t miss that warehouse job one bit.”
“It sucked.” Jordi wrinkles her nose, sliding into the passenger seat of her car. He gets in on the other side, watching her preoccupy herself with adjusting the radio and checking her mirrors before they pull away from the curb.
He’s proud of his daughter. No matter what, she’s a capable young woman. Strong. Caring, too—so much so that he doesn’t know where she got it from. Probably her mother, he thinks. Jordi cares about a lot. Him, for one, even if he doesn’t deserve it. Her mother. All her friends at school, whom he mostly knows by face from the pictures Jordi sends him. She even cares about people she doesn’t know, which is more than most people do—he’s seen her give her own umbrella away in the rain.
She’s so much good, he thinks. Sometimes he wonders if she has all the good that was in him, until he remembers that he’s always been sort of a mess. Besides, it’s not Jordi’s fault he crawls home at two a.m. like some stray.
“Hey, Dad?”
“Yeah, honey?”
“Have you…I don’t know, thought about getting a dog?”
He blinks. A dog? He can’t tell what’s going through her mind. They never had pets when she was a child, so he assumes that’s what she’s insinuating.
