Return (Coming Home #1) (5 page)

Elaine leaves the
coffee pot and walks over to me, her arm around my shoulders. We both stare at Brian. She just shakes her head slowly, but with a smile.

“That man.” And then she frowns. “I’ll show you the trailer...” Her voice goes soft. “I feel so bad sticking you in there. But Mark took the last cabin.”

That makes my eyebrows crawl into my hair. “He
what
?”

“About a month ago, he moved in. His apartment building
is going through renovations or something.” She waves h
e
r hand in the air like waving away the details. “We had an opening and of course we welcomed him. Nothing like having a police officer on the premises to feel safer.”

That makes my throat swell up. Having a cop in my life made everything
harder
.

I don’t say anything as she leads me out the door. The rain has stopped, leaving the night balmy
and misty, with raindrops stuck to the tree leaves like hanging diamonds. They glisten in the moonlight.

The tidy walk between the front door and the nineteen foot trailer is lined with colorful
succulents and cacti
that must look gor
ge
ous in the daylight. Everything is shades of grey right now, though.

Everything
. Especially my feelings for Mark.

Elaine pulls a key out of her pocket and opens
the padlock that secures the trailer’s front door. “Brian installed this today,” she explains. “There’s no easier way to make sure you’re safe.”

“You want me to padlock myself in?” I ask, my voice going up high.

She laughs. “I thought it was crazy, too, but Brian insisted you need to feel as safe as possible.
You can crack the door a little, attach the padlock, and then you have enough room
to fit the key from the inside to unlock it. You’re a y
oung girl out here, all alone.”

“I’m twe
n
ty-
two
. Not a young girl.”
Not quite a woman, though
, I th
ink
.

As she opens the door, she turns to me with a wistful expression. “You’ll always be a sweet little girl to me, Carrie.”

I can’t. I can’t let myself feel what she wants me to know. The idea that so much love could be waiting for me, the
unconditional parent
al
love that everyone wants so badly, makes me ache.

I used to have that.

Mark took it away.

I take a step up and enter the dark trailer, fumbling for the light
s
witch. When I called Brian a few weeks ago to ask about renting from him, he mentioned the trailer. Clean, dry, with full septic and water and electric. “I can’t let you live in there for free, but if you can manage
three hundred dollars
to cover utilities, it’s yours for the school year,” he’d said. That was enough
time to get established. To save
up for
first, last, and security on an apartment.

“You use it to go hunting, though!” I’d argued. “I can’t take it from you.”

“We don’t go on hunting trips like that anymore, Carrie,” he’d said sadly. I hadn’t asked why. Somethi
n
g in his voice told me not to.

“And,” he’d added, answering my unspoken question, “we were about to sell it.”

Oh. I knew that when
dad was arrested the feds took the entire bar and tried to claim it was all run with drug money. Brian had suffered.

Living in his trailer made me feel a little better. I’d argued him up. “
Four hundred
a month, and if the utilities get too high, you tell me,” I
had
declared. My voice
had
wavered, but I wasn’t going to back down.

I’
m not
a charity case. My
new
job pa
ys
well enough for
me to pay
four hundred
a month and w
ill
help me to kill off my student loans and dad’s funeral expenses if I c
an
hold on for two years.

I managed in
Oklahoma City all
alone, seeing Dad when I could, picking up extra shifts at the
bank where I worked
, living in a crowded house to cut expenses. All those lawyer fees...

Including mine. Once the district attorney sank his teeth into the case, he opened it
up to investigate everyone. I had turned eighteen a few months before and was in my second year at Yates. My first year I had doubled up, doing a year of high school and a year of college at the same time. The special program that admitted me paid for everything but books.

Dad had beamed with pride when I got in. His heart had nearly burst when I received a full scholarship to finish up.

But
here’s the thing: when the DA comes after you on drug charges and you’re eighteen and in college, you freak out. No dad to help because he was behind bars. No mom because she was dead.

Brian was investigated, too, so he and Elaine had their own mess to manage.

The arrest happened two days before the deadline for getting student loans, so guess how I paid that
eight-thousand dollar
lawyer retainer
fee?

Yep.
And with nothing left for tuition, I had to drop out. I left a mess behind to go to OKC and face an even bigger mess.
 

“Carrie?” Elaine whisper
s
. Blinking hard, I realize I spaced out. My hand is on the light switch and I turn it on.

A low glow fills the small trailer. I guess the thing was built about the same year I was born. The couch is all shiny grey and mauve and beige, in a
swi
r
ling pattern. The wood accents are scarred and gouged, but the trailer smells clean.

And it’s all mine.

No noisy roommates, no strange men to run into in the bathroom at three a.m., no
roommate
Janie begging me for condoms I didn’t have at one in the morning because she and her booty call ran out already.

No more.

“Here’s the sink. Brian hooked up water. And you have a bathroom,” she add
s
, pointing to the back. “You can use it, but once the tanks get full we’ll have to pump it out.” Elaine laugh
s
, a
b
it embarra
s
sed. “So use our bathroom
in the house
liberally.”

“Message received,” I sa
y
, laughing with her.

It feels good to laugh. Her shoulders shake and her face spreads with a look of youth that makes me blink. I imagine her my age, her whole life stretched out before her. What
was it like to be married at twenty, like I knew she and Brian were? Living your life committed to being a grown up like that must feel so different.

Being loved so young must feel like paradise.

The coziness of the trailer drains away and I’m cold suddenly. A shiver starts at the base of my spine and travels up. Exhaustion sets in.

I’m so tired.

Elaine stops laughing and walks to the door,
bending her head down as she climbs down the stairs, her sweater stretching across her shoulders. At the bottom of the stairs she looks up at me, the moon making her eyelids a mask.

Her lips are a smile.

“Welcome home, Carrie. No matter where you go, and no matter what happens, we’re always here for you.”

And then she closes the door.

The rush of air that pours out of me makes me see I’ve
been holding half my breath. For hours. It hurts a little to breathe properly. I make myself do it anyway. Lungs that have been on best behavior stretch out and scream a little.

It’s a good ache.

Now that I’m alone I can really examine my new place. The kitchen is a counter with a sink big enough to fit a gallon jug. That’s it. One stove burner. A tiny m
i
cr
o
wave above the burner.
The kitchen
is so
tiny I’ll be lucky to make microwave popcorn.

The counter is polished stainless steel. A dorm-
s
ized fridge is tucked to the right of the sink. The cabinets above have some old, mis-matched dishes in them.

Everything is neat. Not a speck of dust or dirt. Another deep breath and I realize the trailer has a scent. Cinnamon.

Elaine’s favorite. When I was a little girl she made reindeer ornaments
out of real cinnamon sticks. Dad would catch me sucking on one, a craft eyeball from poor Rudolph’s face stuck to my lip. He’d put Elaine’s ornaments up high, out of my reach.

But I still love the taste of cinnamon. Nothing better than a latte with a sprinkle on top.

Coffee. My mouth waters at the thought, but it’s way too late. Then again, my hands and feet feel like they’re buzzing anyway.
My body is too jazzed to sleep.

I make my way to my car to get the sma
l
l bag of groceries I’ve had in there for the road trip. Hot tap water and some instant coffee won’t kill me.

Someone clears their throat behind me and I whirl around, senses on guard. Brian and Elaine’s neighborhood is safe, but nowhere is
really
safe enough.

A man is standing behind me, leaning his bottom against a split-rail
fence, the ground beneath his feet lined with bright white pansies.

Mark.

I drop the bag in shock and hear a sickening crack.

“What the hell are you doing?” I hiss, bending down to get the bag. I look in.

My cinnamon is all over the place, the jar looking menacingly uneven. Damn.

“You shouldn’t be out here alone.”
His voice is hard, though his words are caring.
 

“It’s five feet from my
front door to my car,” I say, making an impatient sound. I turn away and march up my own steps, reaching for the door handle.

His hand closes over mine.

“Let me help,” he says, his hot breath in my ear. Skin that hasn’t reacted to anythi
n
g in three years gives a jolt.
His body is two inches behind mine, his heat infiltrating my back.
Warmth spreads through me, combined with the flush of wanting
him.

Wanting
more
.

My hands are full with the bags and I don’t want to break anything else. I nod and he opens the door. As fast as I can, I get rid of the bags, then turn with a fake grin on my face.

He’s supposed to know it’s fake.

“Thanks for all your help,” I say in a voice that says the opposite.

He doesn’t move. “You look great,” he says, perched one step below me. Our eyes are even.
It’s unsettling, because normally he towers over me. Now we’re equals. My eyes study his, not from the perspective of looking up.

Looking
at
.

We say a thousand words with one long look, but none of them is right. No silent words can heal the rift between us. A light breeze lifts the sandy blond hair off his forehead. The skin around his eyes wrinkles, showing a wistful longing.

And then it
turns to a raw hunger that makes me shake, because I feel it, too.

“You let your hair grow out,” he whispers, his fingers reaching out to touch one unruly lock. It rests right over my heart and the way he tenderly picks it up sends my pulse into a salsa beat. The air goes inside me and pauses, waiting to find sanctuary from so much that crackles between us.

And then I release it to the wind,
to mingle with Mark’s hair.

“It’s easier,” I say, fumbling for words. I couldn’t afford the haircuts, not while trying to help
D
ad with lawyer fees and prison money. Letting it grow out was my only choice. Besides, when you don’t have someone special to look bea
u
tiful for, why bother?

My hand is still on the doorknob but I don’t move.

“I liked it better short,” he adds.

Memories of
D
ad, of
adding funds to his account so he could buy soap and toothpaste in prison, of counting out my pennies and nickels from tips at the diner so I could make rent, whip through me.

Mark’s words break the spell.

“Goodnight,” I say firmly, and close the door. With trembling hands I put the padlock on.

A
s
it clicks into place, my heart rate returns to normal.

Whatever that is.

“Yoouuuuuuuuu!”

My best friend
Amy’s squeal of welcome is so blood-curdling you would think I’d just been murdered. Her hair, though, is a nice, sedate
black
color. Not something you would find in a Kool-aid
packet
. And her hair cut is chic. Refined.
It’s long and controlled, framing her big brown eyes.
 

She looks so put together I shrink a little in her arms. A flowery perfume
tickles my nose. Hyacinth? What happened to the sandalwood essential oil she used to put at the edge of her hair, to tame it?

Our hug is genuine, even if she feels a bit unfamiliar. “I can’t believe you’re home!” she squeals again. People in line, waiting for their coffee fix, give us a glance. Nothing more. We’re just two silly women in the town’s new (well, new to me...) coffee shop.

“Half
caf mocha skim latte!” a barista cries out. I know that voice. When I look over Amy’s shoulder I see Mikey behind a hissing machine. He wears a red apron with the store’s logo on it, a white outline of a man’s face, eyeballs wide and bloodshot, the words “COFFEE FREAK” large above the
expression
.

Subtle.

I’m more than a little freaked out, standing in what used to be Dad’s bar.
I
t’s a short
walk to the university. Dad loved that. He could work at the college and walk here in under five minutes. It made life easier.

Back when life
was
easier.

Amy pulls back from me and we examine each other. “You let your hair grow out!” she exclaims, and touches the exact same piece of hair Mark did last night.

I shiver.

“You cold?” she asks, her brow furrowing. “Let’s get you a drink.”

The
thick eyeliner she always wore
i
s
now
gone, a lighter touch making her eyes seem big and alert. The lip piercing is gone, too. A tiny sapphire nose jewel is tucked in her nostril. Discreet. Beautiful. And just enough.