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A large English sheepdog pushed through the door and entered the room, barking profusely at the sight of me. Then he jumped up on the table and landed on Dax’s back.
“Damn it, Winston!” Dax yelled.
I didn’t even know a dog that big could jump so high. The dog shot me the evil eye. This house is just full of welcoming people.
“Hello,” I said awkwardly.
He growled. It seemed Doggy was just as extra as his owner.
“Get off me, you fluffernutter!” Dax groaned.
The dog kept growling at me while I covered my mouth to keep from laughing. “Why is he so angry?” I asked, trying to stifle my amusement.
“He’s protective to a fault. He was napping upstairs when you arrived. I hoped he’d stay sleeping. I hadn’t planned on him coming down, although I should’ve.”
Dax sat up and somehow got the beast of a dog off him. He hopped down off the table. “I’ll be right back,” he said, guiding Winston out of the room and down the hall. The sound of the collar disappeared into the distance.
Left alone for a moment, I exhaled and wandered over to a shelf that displayed various things, including a large, white seashell that seemed completely out of place, given the room’s otherwise masculine vibe. It was beautiful. Remembering what my mother had told me when I was little, I lifted the shell and placed it against my ear in an attempt to hear “the ocean.” Met with the ambient noise that resonated from within, I closed my eyes and smiled.
“Please don’t touch that,” Dax called from behind me.
Shaken by his abrupt tone, I jerked, and the shell slipped from my fingers and crashed to the ground.
He let out a jarring shriek.
My hands shook. “I’m so sorry... I...” I bent to clean up the pieces, but he bolted to stop me.
“Don’t touch anything!” His tone was grating.
“Why? It’s my fault,” I insisted.
“Please just get up,” he commanded in an even harsher tone.
Burning with embarrassment, I stared down at the mess. That’s when I realized something had fallen out of the shell. It was a plastic bag filled with…ashes.
I slowly stood up and pointed to the ground. “What is that?”
His eyes lifted to meet mine, and after several seconds he finally answered.
“My wife.”
Wren
Trina kept shaking her head. “I don’t even know what to say.”
“There is nothing to say. There are no words at all. It’s been a week, and I still can’t seem to figure out how to describe what happened.”
I’d just recalled for my boss my odd experience with Dax Moody, starting with his reluctance to let me anywhere near him, and ending on the horror of having dropped the shell containing his wife’s ashes. Thankfully, although the shell broke, the ashes had remained safely inside that sealed bag—unlike my guts, which felt like they’d been splattered everywhere. I couldn’t imagine how I’d feel if those ashes hadn’t been protected, if God forbid, they’d been strewn all over the floor. I might’ve needed therapy.
“So how did you leave things before you walked out of there?” Trina asked.
“After he picked up the pieces—because he wouldn’t let me touch anything—he said his wife had passed away suddenly about a year and a half ago. He didn’t offer any details about what happened. We both agreed it was best if I left, so that’s what I did—right after I used his bathroom quickly since I’d nearly pissed myself.”
Trina frowned. “Gosh. That’s so sad.”
“Me nearly pissing myself?”
“Well, that, too, but mainly his wife dying. And it explains the dog’s territorial behavior.”
“Yup. Winston was probably like ‘Who the hell is this bitch with my lady’s man?’” I shook my head. “When I first walked in there, I thought Dax was just an uptight asshole. But man, by the time I left I could see why he was so guarded. I mean, to lose your wife so young…”
My time at Dax’s haunted me. I’d thought about little else since that day last week. There were so many lingering questions—ones I had no particular right to the answers to. How did she die? Is he lonely? I wished he’d let me massage him so he could’ve escaped reality for a while. Although, I was also relieved that I hadn’t had the opportunity to botch that up, too.
• • •
That evening, I hung out with my dad in the kitchen. We often sat at the table cracking pistachios after dinner and watching Jeopardy! on the nights he didn’t have to work second shift at his factory job.
I had no shame about still living at home with my dad at age twenty-four. There was plenty of space in our house, and we got along well. It didn’t make sense to spend my savings on rent. Dad didn’t want to be alone, and I helped him with cooking, cleaning, and bought groceries. So it worked out for both of us. I made enough money to have my own apartment, but this helped me save for an eventual trip overseas. Pretty sure it would be Europe. I hadn’t settled on an exact location there, but I knew I wanted to explore a new land at some point before I turned thirty. I had some time to figure it out.
