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Sniffing my tears away and getting up to go downstairs I notice the sheets.
Those look new. Courtesy of the Palazzo’s I imagine. Bless them.
New, but very I just had sex on your bed last night sheets, Mrs. Patterson.
Fuck.
I race to strip the bed, and in my rush to get to the laundry to put them in the machine to wash, I feel my ankle twist.
It feels like everything’s going from bad to worse without Xander here. I already miss his calm strength, his corny jokes.
His huge and imposing size that just makes me feel safe from the world.
But the world’s here and I’m in it, and the Patterson’s are pounding on their own front door, ringing the bell.
I even hear my cell phone ringing, which could only be my dad.
“I’m coming!” I call out, trying to sound cheerful, tucking my chest back into my robe and hobbling in agony to the front door.
Passing the living room window I can see the Patterson tribe lifting heavy luggage from a cab.
With an out-of-state patrol car behind it.
My dad’s precinct.
I swallow hard and start to shake uncontrollably, suddenly not wanting to open the door. Not ready for the Patterson’s or my dad or anything.
I just want my Xander back.
“Honey? Honey, its dad. Open the door will ya?” I hear a familiar voice holler.
There’s an edge of worry to it but the Patterson’s all look completely happy from where I stand.
I take a final breath, swallowing hard again, and with my shoulders sagging I feel myself moving towards the door and pulling it open.
I’m expecting Armageddon, and it feels like the ground will open up and swallow me whole until I feel my dad brushing past me.
“Jeez, Gillian! I’m about to bust out here, what took you so long to open the damned door?” he mutters, making a bee-line for the bathroom by the laundry.
I remember his prostate thing, but why is he here?
There are high-pitched squeals and a loud “yoo-hoo” from the curbside.
I look up to see Mrs. Patterson flapping her hand, waving hello. She has on a huge straw hat and enormous sunglasses.
She looks happy. They all look so happy.
The Patterson’s. Not my dad.
Her husband is helping the cab driver unload, the kids are racing towards the house, ignoring me completely as they race outback to reunite with their beloved dog, Orion who’s yelping with glee.
I feel like I’m frozen, stunned somehow.
My dad appears behind me, sighing to himself.
“That’s better,” he lets me know, icily pecking my cheek as he sidles up next to me.
“You okay honey? Slept in, huh?” he observes. “I drove down anyway. To surprise you. The place looks great, I don’t know what you were so worried about,” he remarks with forced casualness, murmuring into my ear that I should go get dressed.
“I’ll see the Patterson’s in, just get dressed hm? Then maybe we can grab some breakfast someplace. Have a little chat.”
Like a zombie I limp up the stairs again, close the door, and dress, coming back down in time for more of Mrs. Patterson’s gushing homecoming hellos.
Nobody but dad notices my limp. Nobody mentions the huge black car in the driveway. But I know my dad would have already run the plates.
It’s a good ten minutes before anyone even lets me answer a question they’ve all spent so long guffawing about themselves.
Their time away, the flight, the kids. Blah. Blah. Blah.
It’s all so… normal.
“Gillian was worried the house would be a mess when you got home,” my dad announces, looking over at me with a little suspicion.
Mrs. Patterson raises her brows as she scans her home here and there.
“It’s alright sweetie. You did your best, we’ll have a maid come through and clean the place properly,” she says primly and I actually laugh out loud. Almost hysterically for a moment.
“Honey?” my dad says leaning over. “Get a grip. I’m here now. Everything’s okay.”
All eyes are suddenly on me. An awkward silence filling the air.
Not wanting today to be anything but about her, Mrs. Patterson rescues me, loudly announcing she’s dying for a cup of coffee.
“A real cup of coffee. That stuff they serve on the plane just isn’t like the homemade stuff, is it?” she asks everyone, and tossing off her huge hat, she finds an apron and settles herself into the routine of being Mrs. Patterson at home again.
“Your father tells us you had an accident?” Mr. Patterson drones somberly.
He’s an older, round man. Shorter and way more serious than his wife. A large shining head with a tuft of gray he refuses to stop combing over in an attempt to claim he ‘certainly isn’t going bald.’
“You did, didn’t you?” My dad echoes, his own way of asking for some more information in a nice way.
In front of the company, I feel obligated.
“I did. I was walking Orion, who ran off—”
