When they aren’t looking, I leave the room, kicking off my shoes and carrying them in my hands so I can walk faster, walk to Houston’s house. Because that picture—I see it now. And if he hasn’t seen it yet, I want to protect him from it.
The sidewalks are empty, and the sun is setting, an orangey hue cast along the trees, homes, and cars. The color makes everything feel hotter, and my heartbeat makes everything feel more urgent. My feet are slapping the concrete, running until I’m close enough to see Houston’s house.
There are two cars out front, undercover squad cars. I can tell. The undercover isn’t very good. The door is closed, and the closer I get, the quieter everything seems. Maybe they’ve already talked. Or maybe they’re just sitting down, Joyce bringing them coffee—Houston wondering what this visit could be about. Someone is in there delivering news. Someone is telling Houston and Joyce news that will open up a scar so big I’m not sure how the wound ever healed in the first place.
I’m not sure cuts that deep ever really do heal.
I don’t know what to do out here. The pull I feel to go to the door, to invite myself inside, is so strong. My phone chirps with a message. It’s from Cass, asking where I went.
Forgot something at the library. Just go on without me.
I’m good at lying.
Okay, we’ll see you after dinner.
I stand two houses away, under a giant tree just starting to grow new buds for leaves, and wait. Every time I talk myself into taking a step closer to his house, I take one back. I’m about to give in to the other urge—the one to run—when the door opens, and a flash of pink bursts through the door. It’s Leah, and she’s holding a bottle full of bubbles. Houston’s hand is on her back, guiding her to the front porch. My feet step closer, the pull of him now enough to win the war.
“Do not leave from the driveway, okay?” he’s saying. His face is ghost white. He knows.
I walk faster; fast enough to catch his sightline, then let my pace slow almost completely. His eyes are empty when he looks at me.
“I’ll stay out front with her,” I say, the words sliding from my mouth in a panicked rush as I shuffle closer. His eyes fall to my hands, which are still clutching my shoes, then to my feet, which are bare and dirty from running here.
“I ran here,” I say. His eyes remain on my feet, his jaw working, and his teeth chewing at the inside of his cheek. He stays perfectly still for several seconds, until his mouth falls open, letting out what’s left of a strained breath. When he looks up again, everything behind his eyes is broken.
“Thank you,” his voice barely makes a sound as he turns to walk inside, slowly shutting the door.
He never looks back.
* * *
For two hours, I wait in the driveway with Leah. We spend the first several minutes blowing bubbles, each taking turns, soap dripping down both of our arms. We do this until the soap runs out.
The next hour is spent on hopscotch, each of us taking turns jumping through a course of squares I draw on the driveway with a rock from her yard. She’s giggling through each hop, and when she looks at me, I smile. I’m careful to make sure she’s no longer looking when I let my happiness fade back into the worry consuming me.
She hops through another series, taking several small hops on her right leg to turn around at the end and come back toward me. When she reaches me, she collapses against my body, her arms wrapping around my legs, her small voice humming.
“What’s that for?” I ask, allowing myself to hug her back, my hands patting her shoulders.
“I missed you,” she says, breaking my heart for everything she doesn’t know. “I’m so glad you came to visit me.”
“I’ll always come visit you,” I say, the words falling out before I can really think about what they mean.
Before I can say anything more, the door opens. Two men and a woman with badges and boring, black jackets step through. Turning to shake Houston’s hand, the last one hands him a card. I smile at them as they pass, my hand still on Leah’s shoulder, her head still resting against my thigh. She’s pulling at her lip, watching these strangers leave her house. I bet she was an infant when they were here the first time.
We all wait as the cars back onto the road, the messengers of nightmares and ghosts driving away. When they reach the end of the street, I look back to Houston. His eyes are dark—haunted—but they are waiting for me.
“Thank you,” he says, the same words he uttered before he went inside, his voice just as lost.
“You’re welcome,” I say, rubbing once on Leah’s back and gently urging her to move toward her father. She takes a few steps in his direction, then turns back to hug me once more before running inside, sliding under his arm as it props open the door.