Page 44 of Jonesing for a Spy

Home to my rental that will always remind me of him.

Home to an emptiness that didn’t exist before I met him.

Because I can’t bear the thought of going there right now, I do what has come naturally too often lately. I grab a sweet tea from a drive-through, and go to my parents’ house, plopping on the pier, letting the old wood planks scratch against my shorts-clad legs. I lie back, letting the sun wash me in warmth as the breeze pushes off the bay just as a jingle and whimper sound in my ears. The shadow concealing my face happens the same moment a wide flat tongue hits my jaw.

“Hey, Rufus. How are you, fella?”

The chocolate lab who moonlights as my dad’s shadow and co-writer is lovable, goofy, and downright clumsy. Four years old, and his body never got the memo. He could trip over his own legs, and he does. Regularly. So much so Dad had him tested for neurological conditions. It turns out, he’s just an uncoordinated doofus. Rufus the Doofus.

I never hear Dad coming, even if I should’ve known. Where Rufus is, so is my father. “Hey, Scooter. Twice in one week, huh?”

I nod, eyes still shut, soaking up the rays.

“So, are you going to tell me why you’re running away from home?”

“You said this would always be my home and I could come back anytime,” I toss back, shielding my eyes with my hand, though he stands over me blocking the sun.

“And I stand by that. But this isn’t you coming home or needing a safe place. This is you avoiding something. You forget I know you.” He taps his temple. “And that I used to read people for a living.”

Having astute parents sucks almost as much as it doesn’t.

I sit up and extend a hand, silently asking him to pull me to my feet. He obliges, and we find the Adirondack chairs just off the pier by the old rarely used fire pit.

After a long sip of tea and the time it takes to muster all my courage, I launch in. “Hypothetically speaking… If I met someone, how hard would this life be if they can’t know the details?”

He dips his chin thoughtfully, knowing exactly what I mean by this life, and that I’m not referring to small, coastal-town living.

“Hypothetically?” he starts, and I nod. “It’s difficult. Lies and deception don’t build trust. Neither does radio silence when an op demands it. Having someone inside isn’t much easier since it’s not like cases are public and locations are nearly always classified, but at least in that instance your partner would get it. I hated not being able to tell your mom anything, but it was much worse when she was under, and I had nothing to go on. It wasn’t worse; it was hell. And I understood the gig. As you kids say, ‘zero out of ten—would not recommend’.”

I expected his honesty. I didn’t expect it to cut me to the quick. “So I can choose my livelihood—which I’m damn good at and just beginning what could be a successful career? But in having it, I forfeit any possibility to perhaps one day have happiness with a potential partner?”

“The writer in me appreciates the alliteration. The father in me hates the blatant black-and-white, career versus relationship catch-22 you’re boxing yourself into.”

“Different thought”—I let my gaze hover where the water sloshes against the beams of the pier— “Don’t think like an author or like my dad. Shoot me straight as a man. What would it take?”

He hums and taps his finger on the arms of the chair, staring out onto Mobile Bay and not speaking for a long time. He’s composing his thoughts. Where Mom is ready-fire-aim, Dad is longer to formulate, slower to speak. When he does, though, they’re typically bombs that leave fall-out far and wide.

“Mirren, I would love nothing more than to protect you from all heartbreak, to grease the tracks so there’s never any conflict in your life, to wrap you in bubble wrap so you never feel pain. But I know three things about you. One, you would hate that and think it was controlling. You’d fight to break out of anything that confined you. Two, it would be a disservice to you, since you’re not just smart, you’re cunning. You can strategize your own way out of a hell of a lot. You don’t need to be saved. And, three darling girl, you’ll know the right choice for you when you need to make it. Not for a man. Not for a job. Not because your mom or I recommend it. Because your gut is so honed, it will have already told you before your mind enters the conversation.”

I fight the warmth rising in the back of my eyes. It doesn’t help I cried the whole way over here. Or that my hormones are all heightened in an odd way. My dad is proud of me. Instead of offering what I wanted to hear— a simple idea that could be followed—he laid out what I need to remember… that I can do this thing, whatever that is and however it looks, because I’m Mirren Fucking Jones.

“Want to tell me about him?”

Strider

Landing in Peoria, I head to my truck and realize very quickly that in my vacation buzz, I’d forgotten it was November. Damp, cold wind rips through my shirt, reminding me my jacket’s still in the vehicle. It was unseasonably warm when I departed and it’s not like Alabama requires outerwear. And my sports coat is buried deep in my suitcase.

But it’s the gray overcast skies mirroring my mood that have me sullen. Not true. I’m disappointed to be in Illinois when my mind and my heart want to be way down south. And I’m annoyed that there’s been no return text.

We didn’t say goodbye. I couldn’t bring myself to and I didn’t want to hear it from her. From the look on her face, she didn’t want that either, so we marched on as if my flight was a temporary set-back and not what it is—a return to life as usual.

My job is here. My home is here. My life, though…

Tossing the roller bag inside, I start the truck. While it’s warming up, I call Kenny, a friend and a local insurance agent to see if he wants to grab a beer. Voicemail and a canned text are my responses.

So long as I’m playing with fire, I text Charlie.

Great seeing you again, man. Don’t be a stranger. I’ll look you up when I’m back in town.