I have a freshly barbecued salmon burger with a side of Miss B’s pasta salad.
Juliet:
OMG, I would kill for some of Miss B’s pasta salad right now. Which sounds stupid since I’m in the birthplace of pasta. But, whatever. Would you mind parting with it?
Me:
Sure thing. I’ll drop it over on the front porch. I’ll knock so she knows it’s there, but I won’t stick around for her to open the door.
Juliet:
You are wiser than your years, old friend. Thank you.
Me:
Of course.
I transfer the burger to a fresh plate, add some pasta to it from the container Miss B packed up for me earlier today, then scrounge around in my kitchen for some basic provisions that I have spare of. Within a few minutes, I have a paper grocery bag filled with some dry beans, a bag of rice, a pound of coffee, a box of granola bars, and a variety of fresh fruit.
It’s enough to keep her from starving for the next day, anyway. Besides, it’s just how we work here in Stowaway. We take care of our own. As long as Lou is living in the Jackson house, she’s one of us.
Even if that means I have to give up half my dinner, which I cover with foil since I can hear that rain has started to fall on my sheet metal roof. The tinkling sound has always been comforting for me, but I fear the weather would too quickly ruin my impressive barbecue skills if it sits out for more than a few seconds.
As promised, I place the food on my neighbor’s doorstep, knock, and retreat. I’m nearly back to my own front door when I hear Lou exit the Jackson house. It’s a reflex, a natural reaction to look up and see who is there.
Lou freezes, her eyes wide and wild, though they’re trained on the ground somewhere between us like she’s a submissive pup and me the alpha she’s too frightened to make eye contact with.
She’s gorgeous. A stunner with long, dark hair, and high cheekbones hidden under an oversized hoodie that nearly swallows her whole.
That’s not what I notice, first, though. No, I focus on the discoloration of her right cheek, and the splint on two of the fingers of her left hand. My nostrils flare with the big intake ofair I use to get a grip on my instant anger. She doesn’t need to see that.
Even if it’s not directed at her, but for her.
Instead, I force a half smile, raise my hand in a peaceful gesture, nod, then finish my journey to my own house.
Me:
Food has been delivered. I’ll keep an eye on things.
Again, my brain runs wild with assumptions. She could have been in an accident; a car crash, tumbled off a slope while skiing, fell down a flight of stairs. Maybe she’s embarrassed about how bad she looks and only wants to hide out until she’s healed.
It might not be that a man threw his fist in her face.
Or it might be exactly that. The possibility, the high probability that it is exactly that has my blood pushing through my veins too fast and with too much force. It’s almost time for my nightly chat with Paige, but I need to get some of this adrenaline out, first.
At the end of the hall is the bedroom I grew up in. When I moved back here after the divorce, I pulled everything out of there. My parents had kept it as my room for when I’d come home for visits. Mom always wanted me to have somewhere familiar to come home to. She told me she never understood parents that couldn’t wait for their kids to go back to school after a long summer break or got excited about their kids turning eighteen and moving out.
She always wanted me around. Every day I came home from school, she’d light up like she’d been missing me all day. She’s still like that.
I didn’t want my old room to be Paige’s, though. I wanted her to have a space that’s only ever been hers. So, I made the old spare room that used to mostly just house my mom’s holiday decorations into my daughter’s room. And my old room has become my home gym, of sorts. One of the bad things about a small town is that we don’t have a twenty-four-hour gym.
We don’t have twenty-four-hour anything. Except maybe the gossip mill that’s always active in a place where almost everyone knows almost everyone else.
There’s still a bed in here for when my parents come out for their annual city reprieve, but the other half of the room is where I go when I need to get some pent-up energy out. I start with the punching bag, an easy way to warm up my body while I imagine some faceless man putting his hands on the woman next door.
Her predicament isn’t my business. It only becomes mine if someone shows up to cause trouble. Or harm.
Next, I move to my pull-up bar. Other than a few free weights I keep in the closet, these are the only two pieces of equipment I have in here. It’s enough, as I can add cardio with a good jog on the beach anytime. If I need more, we have a small gym at the firehouse, but I see enough of that place as it is.
