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I take Jonas's hand as he helps me out of the car, but I don't let go of it as I stare up at the building. It's a basic four-story apartment building, nearly identical to the rest of them on this street.
The outside is a dull gray, with some signs of wear and tear from the elements. The front steps are gray-painted concrete. On either side of the main entrance are two small balconies, both of which have a few plants growing in them, adding a bit of color to the otherwise dull exterior.
Looking at it with adult eyes, this street has a charm that can't be denied, maybe because everyone living here knows what it's like to be down on their luck but still hope for better. They care enough to plant flowers and try to make their homes pretty
We didn't have any flowers on our small balcony. But my family was the outlier. Maybe because we didn't have a woman's touch. We lost my mom too soon. But even then, I can't really imagine her fussing with plants. She always seemed too busy. Too overwhelmed.
But maybe things would have been different if she'd lived. Maybe I would have felt like I mattered. I don’t let myself dwell on what might have been for long. Not when I have my future right next to me, holding my hand.
"Are you ready?" Jonas asks, rubbing his thumb along the skin of my knuckles. He's alert the same way he was at the diner that night. Like he's ready for anything, his eyes scan the area as if assessing the possible threats. "I'll be beside you every step of the way, Wife,” he reassures me. His steady presence soothes the tangled knot of anxiety in my stomach. He's got me. He's so sure of it that I believe it too. With his support, I can do this.
I look up at him and exhale heavily. "Before, when I didn't want you to come, it wasn't because I didn't want your help. It was more than that. It felt like I would be...putting too much burden on you. Like I was just giving you all my problems. It would be so easy to let you shield me from the world. And especially from my family. I didn't want that between us. I didn't want to just be a problem for you to fix.”
His face is so serious. So intense. "What changed?"
"I realized I can help ease some of your burdens too."
His gaze flicks over my face, finally settling on the tip of my nose. "Becca's car," he finally murmurs, brow furrowed. I nod and he rolls the hem of his t-shirt in his fingers. "Sometimes I'd lie awake worrying that I wouldn't get down there in time. Or that she'd figure out how to fix it herself."
I inch closer, and rub my hand up and down his bicep. "I didn't know all of that, but I could see how anxious you were to get out of the house this morning, so I had a bit of a clue."
His hand comes to my face and tucks my hair behind my ear. His thumb rubs along my cheekbone. "Thank you," he says in a near whisper, then presses his lips to my temple. The reverence in his touch brings tears to my eyes.
I blink quickly and pull back with what I'm sure is a shaky smile. "Let's do this."
As we climb the steps to the second floor, they creak under our combined weight, reminding me of countless nights, sneaking back in after staying late at the library. I don't know why I thought I should sneak since my dad didn't really care where I was, but I always tiptoed anyway.
I pause outside the dented white door on the third floor. I remember there being gold numbers on it when I was a kid. Sometime over the years, the numbers were torn off and replaced with stickers, now worn and faded.
Taking a deep breath, I push it open. An ocean of memories floods in. I haven't stepped foot in here in almost a decade. Maybe I should have knocked. It's not my house anymore, and it's definitely not my home. I peek back at Jonas, knowing wherever he is, is home for me now. That thought is both scary and comforting. If he ever chose to walk away from me...that devastation would be bigger than anything I've ever felt before. Hurricane-level destruction. But meeting Jonas's warm, supportive gaze, I can't bring myself to worry about it anymore. He's about to see the worst of it, and if he can stay through this, he can stay through anything.
I take a few steps into the apartment, and give my eyes a minute to adjust from the harsh fluorescent light from the hall. Jonas shuts the door behind him, and I hear the snick of the deadbolt being turned.
I swallow, feeling Jonas's hand tighten around mine. I realize that even if this is my battle to fight, I'm not fighting it alone. His presence is a silent vow that no matter how this goes down, he's here for me.
"Dad," I call quietly, automatically zeroing in on the old recliner in the corner of the room. The one with the perfect view of the TV. He's there, some game show on the screen, exactly like he was most of my childhood.
He looks vacant.
I call for him again, and slowly, his head turns toward me. I was expecting to see indifference or anger. There hasn't been any money coming in from me for months, and I know that has to have pinched. But what I get instead shocks me to my core.
A slow smile wreaths his face. I haven't seen that smile, not for a long time. It's different, though. The lines around his mouth and the corner of his eyes are deeper. Aren't they supposed to be smile lines? Shouldn't they only be there if he's smiling a lot? I don't remember him ever making that expression enough when I was young to justify those lines now.
"Janey," he says, his voice stronger and clearer than I ever remember it being. "My Janey."
He sets his hands on the arms of his recliner, and out of habit, I rush forward to help him. But he rises with only a small wince, then he's standing tall, taller than I remember. I take a small step back and tuck my hands at my sides. I'm off-center like the axis of the world has shifted and I'm in danger of falling off.
I stare up at him, at this stranger wearing my father's face. The sharpness in his gaze, and his focus is disconcerting. "What happened to you, Dad? Last time I saw you, you could barely move."
He lowers his head and brushes his hands absentmindedly through his gray hair. It's clean and thick, neatly clipped on the sides. Who is this man? My dad's hair was always long and lanky. Once in a while, especially in the summer during a heat wave, he'd get out the clippers, slap a number #2 guard on it, and shave it off. I would use a small blue hand broom and dustpan set to sweep it up. The hair always got stuck to the brush, and I'd have to pull them one by one off the black bristles, and drop them into the garbage can.
He clears his throat, pulling me out of my memories and back to the room. "After you left us...I don't know. I guess I thought that if you never came back, it would be my fault. That was pretty hard to live with. I wanted to be someone better, someone you could be proud of. And now here you are. Finally home. Are you back for good?"
"Back? Here in the apartment?"
He chuckles, a warm, soft sound that I want to hear again. "No, honey. In Chicago. Did you get tired of all that sun in California?"
I stare at him, dumbfounded. "I don't understand. I never lived in California." He frowns, shooting a brief glance at Jonas. I should introduce them, I suppose. I don't really know the protocol for introducing your husband to your dad. But I'm too confused right now. I don't understand any of this.
