Wicked Restless

I press the button before I can chicken out, and a small dog scurries toward the front door from the inside. The side window gives me a view of its paws against the windowsill on the other side. A light flicks on in the hallway, and I can see the shadow of a person walking toward the door.

I think I’m going to be sick. This…this was a bad idea.

“Can I help you?”

A boy stands in the now-open doorway in front of me. This must be Emma’s brother, Cole. He’s awkward and his face looks caught somewhere between youth and his teen years. Maybe he’s ten?

“Hi,” I say, allowing myself a deep breath and a pause before speaking. It’s part of my new rule to think before I talk. I bring my hand up to scratch my face as the boy scrunches his eyes and closes his lips tight. He’s thinking he just opened the door to a stranger. He kinda did—dumb shit.

“I’m a friend of your sister’s,” I say to relax him. It doesn’t seem to help, though, and now he crosses his arms. “I was looking for your dad?” I’m not quite ready for his dad, but I think any more time alone with little brother, and he’ll slam the door on my face.

“Hang on,” he says, pursing his lips at me, and squinting for a second more. “Dad! Some guy’s here. He’s not selling anything!”

I chuckle to myself, but stay still at the doorway while Cole walks away leaving the door wide open. A few seconds later, his father steps around the corner. He recognizes me instantly—his feet almost skidding to a stop. His hair has grayed, and thinned. He has glasses on, pulled to the edge of his nose, and his body is thinner than I remember.

“Mr. Burke,” I say. I work hard to keep my voice even, to keep my mouth in an almost smile, to keep my eyes non-threatening. He has to know why I’m here. And he has to think I’m pissed. I am pissed. But I also think the man in front of me has been through hell and back—he’s wearing his depression like a coat.

“Why are you here?” he asks, his question more of a grumble really as he fumbles his glasses from his face, pushing them in his pocket. He steps outside, closing the door behind him, then guides me to an open chair next to a bench on the end of their wooden porch.

He picks up a pillow and slides it across the wood, clearing it of dirt and debris, then motions for me to sit. I’d rather stand. I feel stronger, more in charge when I stand. Nick Meyers always made me sit when I was called to his office. I give in to Emma’s father, though, and he quickly sits across from me, his body heaving out a breath.

He’s afraid.

“I’m sorry to just show up. Really…I…hmmmm,” I pause, running my hand along my face with a small chuckle. “Look…Mr. Burke.”

“You can call me Carl, Andrew,” he says. His eyes are tired, maybe a little sad, too.

I acknowledge his attempt to be civil with a tight smile before I lean forward, my hands clasped in front of me as my elbows rest on my knees. I tried not to look like a punk today. Normal jeans, a gray shirt, plaid button-down and my black hat—I debated on the gauges, but I ultimately decided the big holes sagging in my ears would put him off more. He keeps glancing at them, though, so I’m not sure I was right.

“I came for some answers. Well…one answer, mainly,” I say, my hands wringing in front of me. I twist the silver ring around my thumb nervously, and eventually it falls off, rolling along the crooked planks of wood between us, coming to rest against his work boot. He reaches down to pick it up, clasping it in his fist as he closes his eyes.

“You want to know why we lied,” he says.

My lungs collapse, and I struggle to fill them again. I expected confrontation. I expected denial.

I didn’t expect this!

I don’t speak, but nod slowly, my eyes waiting for his to open. When they do, they seem even more lost than they were when he first spotted me at his doorway.

“Katherine, Emma’s mother, had pancreatic cancer,” he says. His eyes fall even more, but their color—the same gray in Emma’s—begins to grow darker.

“I’m very sorry, sir. I heard,” I say, bowing my head. It’s hard to see his pain—it feels too familiar.

“Thank you. It’s been a couple years, but losing Kate was hard,” he says.

“I understand,” I say back quickly. We both stare into each other’s eyes for a moment, and I can tell he respects the connection we both share—for loss.

“I’m sorry about what you’ve been through, Andrew. With your father…and with James,” he says. I can tell he means it.