"You been to the house?"
"I have…" It's like he's waiting for me to comment on his mess or perhaps his emotional state. I intend to bring neither of them up. It's his life. He can do as he pleases. If he wants to drink himself to death and live in a pigsty, so be it, but I may just have to get out of town sooner. I'm his child, not his babysitter.
"I've been meaning to get to it. Just haven't had the time." We both know that's a lie, but what am I supposed to say to that, anyway?
When I don't say anything because I have nothing to say, he starts talking again.
"I'm glad you're home," he says. Maybe he means it. It's hard to tell because it comes out sounding tired, like I'm one more thing on a list he can't keep up with. "Your mother would've wanted to see you."
And here come the daggers, thrown on purpose but excused by his authority over me. "I know. I'm sorry I wasn't here for that." My jaw tightens as I swallow back the harsh things I could say out of respect. He's been through a lot but so have I. At some point, I'll draw the line, but for now I let him get it off his chest.
"You weren't here for a lot of things." He sets the mug down, sloshing bourbon over the rim. "She died thinking you didn't care enough to pick up a phone."
It doesn't matter what explanation I come up with. He won’t care. He's angry, and he wants someone to be angry with. I don't doubt that if Mike walked in here, he'd yell at Mike right now too. "Dad, I was deployed in places where communication wasn't?—"
"Couldn't or wouldn't?" He waves me off before I can finish. "Doesn't matter now anyway. She's gone and that's that." His head hangs and his eyes shut, then blink open slowly. He's a husk of the person I remember, carved out by emotion and trauma and drinking. I've seen men I was deployed with turn into zombies like this, half-drunk all the time until they were discharged dishonorably, but he hasn't seen the horrors I have.
"So, what's your plan?" Dad leans forward, squinting at me. "You gonna do something with yourself finally, or are you just passing through town on your way to somewhere else?"
"I'm working on it, Dad. I thought?—"
"Working on it?" he snarls. "You're thirty years old. Most men your age have a career and a family and a house."
"I didn't come home to be lectured, okay?" Speaking through clenched teeth does the trick. He looks up at me with disappointment in his eyes but holds his tongue for a second. A knowing passes between us—an old fight we've had a hundred times about my growing up to "make something of myself", but it's like the fight has gone out of him now. He rubs a hand over his face and sighs.
"And now you're out…" He swirls the bourbon in his mug, watching me over the rim. "I could use a hand around here, I won't lie. Mike can't run this place alone and we're bleeding jobs. But I'd have to think real hard about whether I can trust you tostick around, because you've got a track record of disappearing when things get difficult, and I can't afford that right now."
The fizzle of rage burns behind my sternum as I stand up and look over his messy office. There are a million things I could say to him about responsibility and taking ownership—things he'd say to me too if he were thinking straight. But I don't have the emotional energy to get that worked up right now. The heaviness of just being around him is quite enough for one afternoon.
"I'll let you think about it, then," I tell him as I walk to the door, and I don't stop even when he calls my name.
"Jaxon—"
"I'll be at the house." I'm out the door before he can finish, because another thirty seconds in that room and I'm gonna say something that makes all of this worse.
Eight years of being gone and I figured I'd at least get a "welcome home, Son," but I can't even garner that much respect. Though, Mike tips his hat at me as I pass through the yard, stalking back toward the gate. It'll be a long walk home but an even longer night once he gets there.
At least he knows I'm back now, which should give him plenty of reasons to snap at his staff this afternoon as they finish their work.
I want a hot shower and a long nap.
And I might just want another muffin.
Damn, that was good.
4
EMILY
Ipull into Mom and Dad's driveway a full twenty minutes later than usual because I sat in my car behind the bakery and cried. An ugly, snot-everywhere, mascara-down-your-face kind of crying that leaves you looking like a drugged raccoon with a hangover. I cleaned up as best I could in the rearview mirror, but I'm sure my eyes are still puffy and red, and if my mother notices, she's going to ask questions I don’t want to answer.
The front door is unlocked like always. I can hear Mercy talking before I'm even inside, and despite everything that happened today, it pulls a smile out of me. That kid could fix just about anything with the sound of her laugh. She is my whole world, the reason I do everything I do, and right now, she is a secret that could cause my whole world to unravel like a snagged sweater.
Mom's at the stove stirring something in her stockpot, and Dad's sitting at the kitchen table across from Mercy, who's eating a bread roll with both hands. There's flour on her cheek and a half empty glass of milk in front of her, and she's talking with her mouth full, which Mom would normally correct but tonight, sheseems to be letting it slide. Her eyes pop up when I clear my throat, and she grins.
"Mama!" Mercy drops the roll and reaches for me with sticky fingers as I lean down and kiss the top of her head. I let her cling to me for a second as I breathe in the fading smell of her shampoo mingled with the smell of the mulch they use as playground padding until she pushes me away and reaches for the roll again.
"Hey, baby. How was your day?" My back hurts and my feet are sore like always, but today it's not just my body screaming at me. I avoid eye contact and set my purse on the table. Seeing Jaxon again screwed me up. Right now, all I want is to forget about it and be with my little girl.
