by Jenna Gunn
“Tell me.” he says loudly; Teacup squeals and waddles away as quickly as she can. His other pigs take up the squealing and start up a cacophony of pig-sounds. “How do you know this guy? What aren’t you telling me? Are you lying to me?” He’s still speaking too loudly, stepping closer.
“Back off!” I snap, putting a hand on his chest to keep him at arm’s length. “My life is my business. I said I don’t want to talk about it, and that’s all you need to know.”
“You have to tell me.”
I turn and start walking out of the barn. He follows behind, but I stop at the barn doors and whirl to face him. “I don’t have to do anything, least of all tell you something that ain’t your business.” I feel my Southern drawl getting stronger; it always does when I get pissed off. “I have other appointments, Nathan. Leave me alone.”
He stands with his fists clenched in the doorway of the barn, but he stops shouting and walking toward me. I storm to my car and slam the driver’s door shut.
“What an asshole,” I mutter, backing out of the driveway.
13
I hear barking.
With a resigned sigh, I just get up and let Apple inside. She’s familiar with my house now; she trots into the kitchen and stands near where I usually put food for her, tail wagging as she looks at me expectantly.
“You’re worse than a stray cat,” I tell her, getting her some dog food and a bowl of water. She eats happily while I go about making myself some coffee. “I wonder how long it’ll take Perry to realize you’re gone?”
The only reply is the crunching of dog food.
I watch coffee drip into the carafe. “Gonna be a fun day today,” I tell her. “I’m off work. And I’m going to see Raina.”
Apple wags her tail once to indicate she heard me, but she doesn’t look up. I pour myself a cup of coffee before it’s fully done and sit at my kitchen table with my mug. I’m going to meet Raina in Charleston with the rest of her bridal party - which, as I understand it, is pretty small - to shop for bridesmaid dresses. Emily has things taken care of at the office.
I lean forward on the table. “So do you visit other people?” I ask Apple. “Or is it just me?”
She looks up and pants at me.
“You’re so cute,” I sigh; she wags her tail and trots over to me, nosing beneath my hand for me to scratch her ears. I happily oblige.
My cell phone rings. I pick it up with my free hand. “Ugh,” I say as I look at the name that’s popped up. “It’s Nathan. Should I even answer it, Apple?”
She cocks her head.
“Yeah, you’re right; if it’s not an apology, I’ll hang up.” I accept the call and press my phone to my ear. “Hello? Do you know how early it is?”
“Sorry,” Nathan says quickly. “I’ve been up for a while - I forgot.”
“Mmhm.” I keep petting Apple.
“Look, uh - I wanted to apologize.”
“It’s fine, you didn’t wake me up or anything.” I grin and wink down at Apple, who definitely doesn’t get my joke; I pretend that she appreciates it.
“No, I mean for yesterday.”
“Oh? You mean when you yelled at me because I wouldn’t tell you information that was none of your business?”
He’s quiet for a moment. “Yeah,” he says finally. “I’m sorry.”
“Cool.”
There’s a longer period of silence this time; Nathan clears his throat. “It’s just - I’ve been burned in relationships before.” His voice is quiet, almost pleading. “I’m a little paranoid, I think.”
Relationships? I think, taking a sip of coffee. It’s a little early to be calling it that. I set my mug down. “I forgive you.”
He sighs in relief. “Thank you. I wanna make it up to you - dinner tonight?”
“Can’t,” I tell him, cradling the phone between my ear and shoulder so I can pet Apple with both hands. Her tongue lolls out of her mouth and she shuts her eyes. “I’ve gotta go to Charleston this afternoon.”
“Oh! Maybe I can tag along!” he says cheerfully.
“Uh, no. My best friend is getting married; the bridesmaids are getting together to shop for dresses.”
“So, what, I’m not invited?” he snaps.
I laugh. “Of course not.”
“Why not?”
“Oh, you’re serious?” I sit up; Apple walks off and flops down on the rug in front of the sink. “It’s just the bridal party.”
“Is everyone else bringing their husbands and boyfriends?” he demands.
“I don’t know,” I reply truthfully. “But dude, what you’re doing right now isn’t gonna fly. We’ve been on a date.”
He falls silent, so I continue.
“Meaning one. We’ve been on one date. You need to chill out.” I reach for my coffee, waiting for him to respond.
“You’re right,” he says quietly. “Sorry. It’s just - ”
“You’re paranoid, I get it. But that’s not really my problem, and I have a life of my own. Honestly? This is making me rethink things.”
“I’m sorry,” he replies immediately. “Please. I’m so sorry.”
“Gotta go,” I tell him. “I’ve got stuff to do around the house before I leave.”
“Okay. I’ll - ”
“Bye.” I hang up and set the phone down. Apple lifts her head as I stand up. I don’t have anything to do around the house today - I just need time to think.
Apple gets up and follows me out of the kitchen, down the hallway, and into my living room. I plop down onto the couch. Apple jumps up to sit with me; I think briefly about having her get down, but I just let her curl into a dog-donut beside me.
“Perry will come get you soon,” I tell her, stroking her fur.
She falls asleep.
14
There’s a knock on my front door.
I’m startled awake, but I lie still, listening intently. My heartbeat kicks up. The knock comes again.
“Perry!” yells a jovial voice.
It’s Derek.
“What the hell?” I say out loud. I sit up and slide off my bed and into my wheelchair. Derek knocks again as I wheel myself out of my bedroom, down the hallway, and into the living room.
“Hey, buddy!” Derek says with a grin when I open the door.
I turn my wheelchair and head back toward my bedroom. “What are you doing here?” I ask over my shoulder.
I hear him shut the door and follow behind. “I came to see you!”
“You drove all the way out here?”
He shrugs as he comes to stand in my doorway. I grab my prosthetic and start fixing it to my stump. “It’s just an hour and a half.”
“If you speed,” I snap.
He smiles at me. “Yeah. If I speed.”
I roll my eyes and stand up. My prosthetic clicks as I put weight on it. “So you risked getting a ticket for reckless driving to, what? Visit?” I glance at him sideways; he’s still grinning from the doorway. I’m actually grateful for the company of a human that doesn’t want to yell at me.
“Got your text,” he replies; he swings a backpack off his shoulder and holds it up. “Brought you some seeds.”
I blink. I did text Derek last night, but all I said was that I’d bought some baby chicks.
“I figured I’d help you set up your chicken coop! And we can plant some seeds while we’re at it! Where are the babies?”
I gesture for him to follow and lead him into the spare bedroom. It’s hot in here; I’ve blocked all the vents. The metal tub full of chicks sits in the middle of the room.
“Jesus, are you trying to suffocate them?” Derek asks.
“They need to be warm.” I lean over the metal tub; the chicks stumble over each other, cheeping.
“There’s still a ton of food in there,” Derek says in amazement as he comes up behind me. He squats down and looks into the tub.
“They’re babies. They don’t need to eat that much.”
He reaches in and gently pet
s a chick with one finger. “This one’s name is Fluff.” He pets another. “This one’s Fluffy. That one’s Floof. And that one’s Floofy.”
“I am not naming my chickens that,” I tell him sternly.
“Why? What are you going to name them? Big, tough-guy names?” Derek grins as he gets to his feet. “Tornado? Muscle? Dagger?”
“No, I’m gonna give them chicken names.”
He rolls his eyes. “I don’t see how Floofy isn’t a chicken name, but whatever; I wanna help you set up your chicken coop.”
I lead him to the backyard. He tosses his backpack aside and rolls up his sleeves; together, we begin unrolling chicken wire.
“I think I’m gonna get more lumber at some point,” I grunt. “Make ’em a little shelter.”
“A little henhouse,” Derek croons.
We work in silence for a while - relatively, anyway, since Derek keeps whistling country songs to himself - and manage to get a little fence done rather quickly. We get down on our hands and knees and start tilling up a portion of land for my garden, putting chicken wire around that, too.
“Don’t want the chickens to peck at the seeds,” Derek says cheerfully.
“This is a lot,” I say in amazement, looking through the seed packets. Carrots, tomatoes, summer squash, bell peppers, and even a few different herbs.
“You’ll want a variety,” he says. “I thought about getting cucumbers, but those sprawl out. You’ll probably want to plan a bigger patch for them.”
We sprinkle the seeds and press them into the ground. Derek’s whistling picks up again. It’s getting hotter now; sweat beads across my forehead.
“I really appreciate this,” I mutter.
“Hm?”
“I said I appreciate this.”
“No problem.”
“No.” I stop, sitting on my butt to stretch out my leg - or my half-leg. “I really wanna thank you. This really means a lot to me.”
Derek grins at me. “Do you remember boot camp?”
I feel my face wrinkle in confusion. “Yeah, I guess?”
“I was so bad. I got nervous around the drill sergeants, I flinched anytime somebody yelled. I caused us to have to do a lot of laps.”
“That I remember,” I grumble.
He laughs. “You were always really nice to me. Anytime I needed help, there you were.”
I shrug, embarrassed. “So? You needed help.”
“And you helped me,” he replies with a smile. “Nobody else did. Nobody else kept pace beside me during the laps I made us run, telling me it was okay, not to sweat it.. Nobody else told the sergeants they’d tripped me on purpose when I stumbled and fell.”
“The punishment for stumbling was stupid.” I shrug.
“Yeah - remember Fields? They made him stand in that one spot where he tripped with a flashlight on his head.”
“Warning everyone that it was a tripping hazard,” I chuckle. “Yeah, that was dumb. If I said I tripped you, they just made me run a lap. Less hassle.”
“Nobody else did that.” Derek smiles again. “The least I can do is bring you some damn seeds.”
I reach out and clap him on the shoulder. There’s a lump in my throat. I didn’t realize he remembered all that.
Derek glances around. “Where’s Apple?” He leaps to his feet. “I haven’t seen her all day!”
I sigh heavily and push myself up, wobbling a little on my prosthetic. “I reckon she ran off again.”
“We have to find her,” he says worriedly. “What if she’s hurt?”
“It’s fine,” I tell him with a sigh. I start heading inside. “I know exactly where she’s gone.”
15
After several reassurances that I’m okay - really, I am, it’s fine - Derek reluctantly gets into his car and heads back home. I’ll shoot him a text later and tell him how grateful I am. Maybe I’ll send him a picture of Apple, too, so he’ll stop worrying so much.
I’ve never been to Trisha’s house, but it’s not hard to find. It’s a two-story farmhouse sitting on about an acre and a half of land. It’s either pre-Civil War or made to look that way - and it’s gorgeous. White siding, green roof, tall windows with green shutters, and a foundation of red brick make it look almost stately, like I’ll find an old-school politician dwelling inside. The front porch - or “veranda”, as I’m sure my mother would call it - is painted white and boasts tall white columns. It’s a lovely house, a family house. So what is a single woman doing living here?
I drive up the long driveway and park my car next to Trisha’s. I suppose I’m lucky she’s home. I adjust my prosthetic before I walk up her porch steps and knock on her front door, trying not to peek through the narrow windows flanking it.
I see a curtain twitch. The door opens; Apple flies out to rear onto her hind legs and put her front paws on my stomach. Trisha stands stiffly in the doorway while I eagerly greet my dog.
“So,” she says.
“Hi.”
She stares at me. “What have I told you about keeping an eye on her?”
“She can turn door handles,” I tell her. “She just...gets out while I’m asleep.”
“So lock them,” she snaps. But I see her catch a quick look at my body.
“I do. She’s figured out how to undo the locks.”
“So change them to doorknobs!” she replies sharply.
Apple walks off the porch to nose around the grass in Trisha’s yard. “I’ve ordered some, and they haven’t gotten here yet!” I snap back at her. “Don’t act like I’m an idiot. I know how to take care of my dog!”
“Obviously you don’t, because she keeps ending up here without a collar!” She bares her teeth and steps forward, out of her doorway, to stand barefoot on the porch. “I can’t believe a grown-ass man could be so irresponsible.”
“You don’t know me” I growl, my hands curling into fists.
“Yeah, and I don’t care to.” Her hands mimic mine. “Especially if you’re so uncaring you could just forget your dog!”
“I don’t forget her!” My voice raises sharply. I didn’t want to have an argument today. I just wanted to come get my dog. But any time I come into contact with this woman, she has something to say; and I’m not going to lay down and take it. “I do care about my dog! She’s just smart, she has a mind of her own!”
“Oh, I’m sure you can train that out of her,” she snaps. “Isn’t that what they do in the Army?”
My blood boils. I’m definitely seeing red; my vision swims. “You don’t know jack about the Army,” I snap.
“Oh?” she asks, quirking an eyebrow.
“Obviously!” I burst out. “Were you there? Were you with me in the desert when I lost so many of my men?” I feel that I’m beginning to tremble. “Were you there when Johnson was killed? Were you there when we couldn’t get a medic for Kirkland and he bled out? Were you there when I walked ahead of my men because I couldn’t handle losing any more that week, and stepped on a goddamn landmine - ” - I yank my pants leg up - “and blew half my leg off?”
My chest heaves. I feel sweat dripping down my forehead and my neck. I’m shaking, trying desperately to stay here on this porch without slipping back into the desert.
Apple’s cold nose presses against my hand. I look down at her; she wags her tail while she stares up at me with her big brown eyes. Her little eyebrow-markings make her look inquisitive, like she’s asking if I’m all right. I scratch her ears.
I look back to Trisha; she’s been quiet. She stands with her hands at her side, not folded like they were before. Her face is soft.
“Do you want to come in?” she asks gently.
The inside of Trisha’s house is just as beautiful as the outside, if a little sparse - but I’m not really an authority on interior decorating. I walk in with Apple, wait awkwardly in the hallway as Trisha shuts the door, then follow her while she leads me past her wooden staircase and into the back of the house. I duck under an archway and arrive in her kitchen.
<
br /> “You can sit,” she says, gesturing to a round table. I walk to it and sit down in a dining chair with a blue cushion. “Sweet tea?”
“Sure,” I say uncertainly.
She busies herself at her cabinets before walking over with a tall glass of sweet tea, dripping with condensation. She sets it in front of me before sitting in the chair across from me.
“Sorry,” she says brusquely.
“Uh - ”
“For being an ass,” she clarifies. “Want a bendy straw?”
“I’m good,” I reply as she plunks a striped bendy straw into her own glass.
“You’re right. I don’t know anything about the Army. Sorry about your leg. And your friends.”
I purse my lips together and nod. “They were good boys.”
She takes a cloth and wipes some moisture off the surface of the table. “So, do you have PTSD?”
I jump, startled.
“I’ve seen it before,” she says. “On my porch, it looked like you were struggling.”
“You’ve - ” I stop, unable to process.
“My dad had it. He wasn’t in the military or anything; it was some other trauma. He never told me.” She leans forward and puts her lips around the bendy straw, which darkens as she takes a sip of her tea.
I look down at the table and place my hands on it, pressing my palms against the wood, anchoring myself. “I don’t like to talk about it.”
“Yeah. Makes sense. Does it hurt?” She gestures to my leg.
“Sometimes.” I shrug. I’m not as angry as I was last time; maybe it’s her frank tone, or maybe it’s that she’s looking at my face this time. “What drives me crazy is the itching.”
“Itching?” she asks, frowning.
“Y’know how your ankle itches, but you’re wearing boots or something, and you can’t get to it?” I wrap a hand around the glass of tea. Anything I can touch that keeps me here and grounded is a godsend.
“Sure.”
“It’s like that. Sometimes parts of my leg will itch, but it’s gone. I have to scratch the prosthetic instead.”
“Does that...help?” she asks me.
