Gun Shy(29)

I dream about Leo. About the dog barking and dirty well water and Karen. About a snowstorm and two cars and death.

I wake with a start again around three. The dog is going crazy outside, barking up at my window. I go downstairs and let her in even though Damon forbids animals in the house with his allergies. I let her sleep on the end of my bed until morning, when I sneak her back outside.



In the morning I’m up early to sneak Rox outside. Damon despises the dog, makes her stay out in the yard. In winter he (very begrudgingly) lets her sleep in the garage, but the poor dog just wants to be with me. Sometimes she disappears for a day or two, back down to Leo’s I suppose, and when she comes back she smells of campfire and rain.

Downstairs, Ray is passed out on the couch. I almost shit my pants when I stumble into the living room and see him there. I hurry Rox outside and close the door again, making sure it’s locked.

“Morning, sweetheart,” Ray says, sitting up on the couch. He’s still wearing his jeans and sweatshirt, his shoes neatly placed beside the couch end, his dark hair mussed up at the sides.

“Morning,” I reply, suddenly feeling self-conscious in my thin cotton pajamas and the way my nipples are poking out against the fabric, bemoaning the cold. I cross my arms over my chest, smiling briefly. “I’ll make some coffee.”

I brace myself for more awkwardness with Ray, but he simply asks to borrow a towel and takes himself off to the bathroom. I hear the shower start a moment later and breathe a sigh of relief. The coffee starts to drip into the pot, a reassuring sound to my sleep-addled brain. I’m flicking through the local newspaper when I spy something on the kitchen table, amongst a bunch of empty beer bottles.

A milk carton. I don’t remember leaving it there after I cleaned up. Maybe the guys had some milk after they finished their beers. Damon occasionally likes that rum that you mix with milk.

Glancing around to make sure I’m still alone, I cross the kitchen, picking up the carton. It feels strange in my hand. Waxy. Old.

It is old, I realize, as I turn it over in my hand. It’s barely held together by the plastic coating that’s started to peel away from it. I put it to my nose and sniff it. It smells unbelievably sour. I make a face.

“Whatcha got there?” A voice calls out behind me. I drop the carton, turning around to face the noise.

It’s Ray, dripping wet, a towel wrapped around his waist as he makes a puddle on the floor I just mopped yesterday.

He has a kitchen knife in his hand. “Which one of you showers with a weapon?” he asks, clearly amused. Oh, shit. The same one I took into the bathroom last night. I laugh it off, pretend like it’s no big deal, going back to the counter and pouring the now-finished coffee with a steady hand. Three cups, one for each of us, and then I pray that Ray goes home. I push one of the mugs toward Ray and he smiles, “Thank you, sweetie pie,” as he places the kitchen knife down on the counter between us.

“I’ll just take this up to Damon,” I say, picking up the third coffee and going to walk past Ray. He catches my wrist, and some of the hot coffee splashes onto my hand. I wince but don’t move. It’s the hand that got burned in the accident. The nerves have never really settled and it hurts like a bitch.

“He’s getting something from the attic for me,” Ray says. “What’s for breakfast?”

I put the coffee down on the counter and start pulling plates full of leftovers out of the refrigerator. When I turn back to the table, Ray and the milk carton are gone.



Damon knows his brother is a creep just as much as I do. So when he comes down from the attic, a black trash bag in his hand, he makes a beeline for me. I can tell he’s looking for Ray at the same time.

“Morning,” I say, handing him fresh coffee. When he’s nice to me, I’m nice to him. We get into a rhythm like this, and we can go for weeks without him turning into a demanding asshole. The only good thing about Ray coming to visit is that it makes Damon and I get along. I know how much he wishes he could ‘divorce’ his brother and never see him again — he tells me every Thursday night after Ray leaves. Every Thursday night, for the past almost-decade, we’ve had the same conversation. But not this week. Because this Thursday night, Ray didn’t leave.

Ray’s never stayed overnight before. It’s weird. He’s never worried about drinking and driving before — ironic since his brother is a police officer. Still. Our delicate schedule has been altered, and it makes my skin crawl. I like predictability. I like routine. I like not having a fucking creep on my sofa in the morning.

“Where’s Ray?” Damon asks, sipping at the coffee. His blue eyes close when he takes that first sip, like he’s in heaven or something, and it makes me unreasonably satisfied that my coffee-making skills do that to somebody. At least I’m good for something.

“Smoking,” I say, pointing at the back door that leads from the kitchen off to the backyard.

Damon nods, leaning against the counter beside me. He’s dressed in his tan-colored sheriff’s uniform, gun holstered snugly on his hip. All he’s missing is the hat.

“He give you any grief?” Damon asks quietly.

I shake my head. “No. He was fine.”

No use upsetting Damon unless his brother actually does something. Being born creepy in itself isn’t a crime. Should be in his case, but still.