“I have a karaoke machine,” Clara says.
Evan nods at her. “Yes, you do. And you are an absolute superstar on it.” He looks back at me, the smirk returning. “I’m sure Uncle Jack wasnot.” He covers Clara’s ears with his hands and asks, “How drunk were you?”
“One shot of Malört.”
He makes a face, the exact one Clara made earlier, nose wrinkled, brows low. “God, you took a shot of Malört without being shit-faced? I didn’t know that was possible.”
“I heard that,” Clara says, and Evan releases her ears.
“You didn’t hear anything, squirt. Here, let Daddy have the phone. Say goodbye to Uncle Jack.”
“Bye, Uncle Jack. See you at Thanksgiving!”
I wince, and Evan rolls his eyes.
“You’re going to make me tell my daughter you’re skipping another holiday?” he asks once he’s stepped into another room, disapproval thick in his voice.
“I’m going to try my best to be there,” I say, but we both know I’m full of shit. I haven’t been back to Montana except for a few short trips I couldn’t manage to wiggle my way out of since college. Since my mom died and our town stopped feeling like home. Since the entire state seemed haunted with memories of her.
A muscle flickers in Evan’s jaw and I know he wants to say more. He’s a heartbeat away from pressing when he seems to let it go. I guess he decided it’s not worth it today, but I know that won’t last forever. Every few months he gets it in his head to push on me like a bruise until we get into an argument abouthow I work too much and how he expects more of me than I can give. We never discussher. She’s an unspoken ghost haunting the both of us. Evan stayed in Monanta trying to hold onto whatever piece of her she left behind, and I ran away, hoping the memories of her would fade and hurt less.
I don’t know if either of us have succeeded.
But right now, at least, Evan decides he’s too tired or too disappointed to pick at our biggest wounds. His voice is tighter than it should be when he asks, “So, karaoke? Malört? How did that happen? Please tell me you weren’t drinking that liquid dirt all by yourself.”
I glance behind me and see Stevie’s hair still draped over the arm of the couch, remembering how it looked beneath the colored lights in Matty’s when she tipped her head back and laughed at my singing.
“No,” I tell Evan, returning my attention to him. “I went with my roommate.”
He arches a brow, and when he speaks, he sounds less tense than before. “Really? You guys becoming friends?”
I think about the question for a moment. Living with Stevie has been remarkably easier than I expected it to be. We’re both clean and prefer the quiet. She’s started leaving a light on for me when she goes to bed and I’m at work, and I showed her how to use my moka pot so she could stop using the Keurig to make her coffee. We’ve found an easy rhythm, one that feels like slipping into a favorite pair of jeans.
And she’s easy to talk to. Fun. Makes me laugh with her dry, blunt humor. That night at the bar was probably one of the most fun times I’ve had in years, singing badly into a microphone covered in a red foam windscreen as she watched, laughing. Sharing an order of soft pretzel bites and beer cheese after we finished our burgers. Ordering more shots of Malört after we’d had several beers, Stevie only admitting it wasn’t too bad onceshe was too tipsy to notice the flavor. Piling into the back of a cab after last call because we were too drunk to drive home and asking the driver to play ‘Baby Got Back’ so we could sing along from the backseat.
“Yeah, we’re friends,” I say, and realize it’s true. I’ve been friendly with lots of coworkers over the years, had flings with girls local to whatever city I was staying in. But I’ve never really made a friend in any of the places I’ve landed. One I would want to keep in touch with when I leave after a few months. But I would with Stevie. I would want to know what recipe she’s cooking in the middle of spring and what shenanigans Myra and Melissa have gotten themselves into.
“That’s new,” Evan says, eyeing me curiously.
“Yeah, I guess it is.”
Stevie is awake when I come back inside, my nose and cheeks chapped from the cold front October brought in with it. She’s standing at the stove, brewing a cup of coffee, the smell filling the entire space.
She flashes me a smile when she sees me, her hair a mess, pillow marks creasing her cheeks. “Morning. How was work?”
Strangely enough, the fog that lingered over me after my shift this morning has started to clear. “It was okay.”
She holds my gaze for a moment, and I wonder what she’s seeing in it. Then it dips to the coffee mug in my hand. “Should you really be drinking that this late?”
“It’s nine-thirty in the morning, Stevie.”
“Yes, Jerry, but isn’t it almost bedtime for you?” She leans a hip on the counter, crossing her arms over her chest. Hersweatshirt hasFontana Ridge High School Cross Countrywritten on it in faded, peeling letters.
I tilt my head back and forth. “Kinda. But coffee was necessary.”
Her gaze softens, roaming my expression, lingering on the tightness in my shoulders and the wrinkles that have taken up permanent residence on my forehead. “Rough shift?”
I let out a breath, digging my socked toe into a lifted footboard. “Yeah, I lost a patient.”
