Georgie, All Along (12)

I’m interrupted by a noise at the back door, a thunk that I first think might be a raccoon. Good thing I locked it behind me, because those furry, hateful garbagemen have gotten into this house more than once owing to my parents’ door-locking neglect. But when I hear the distinct sound of a key in the lock, hear the door creak and stick and creak again, I’m headed back toward the kitchen, forgetful of my half-dressed state. There’s no way it’s my parents; last night they were somewhere in Colorado doing a hypnosis retreat. It could be Ricki, my dad’s sometimes employee who’s checked on the house before during their travels, but it’s a weird time for her to come by.

I see a shadow—a big shadow—moving behind the sheer curtain that covers the windowpanes of the back door, and I feel my first pang of alarm. One shove and the door is coming open, and I do the first thing I can think of, which is to grab the peanut-butter-coated knife I left on the counter and brace for confrontation.

I put it together in pieces first—the olive-green ballcap, the jeans, the stained T-shirt. That beard and, when he raises his head, that look of utter consternation with everything in his line of sight, especially the woman he had to bail out for milkshakes this afternoon. I get that whisper of familiarity again, but this time, I’ve got a peanut butter knife in one hand and many, many pages of my teenage dreams in the other, and suddenly it becomes shockingly, absurdly clear.

I can only think of one thing to say.

“Evan?”





Chapter 4


Levi


Of all the damned things.

Of all the damned things to be called.

Today of all damned days.

I’m standing in the doorway of the house I’m supposed to be sleeping in for the next two weeks and staring at a half-dressed woman who’s just called me by my brother’s name. She’s got a butter knife in one hand and an old notebook in the other, and the look on her face is somewhere between bewildered shock and delighted surprise.

“No,” I say flatly, and her forehead crinkles, and then she seems to realize two things.

First, that I am not, in fact, my brother.

And second, that she isn’t wearing any pants.

“Oh my God,” she yelps, shoving the notebook in front of her lap and lifting the butter knife into the air, and because I’m not any less shocked by this scene than she is, I do something equally as ridiculous.

I turn my back on her, and then, for good measure, I lift my hands into the air in a surrendering posture that’s still, all these years later, shamefully familiar.

“I didn’t see anything,” I say, which is mostly true. I saw enough to know that she’s the woman from Nickel’s this morning, that she’s got legs for days, and that she has real questionable taste in loungewear, if that robe is any indication.

“Oh my God,” I hear her repeat, more quietly this time, and I open my mouth to say something—something that’ll keep this woman I’ve clearly intruded on from throwing a blunt butter knife at my back—but before I get even half a word out, I hear the fast, rhythmic clink of my dog’s collar, the panting, unrestrained joy that accompanies it. I shoot an arm out to stop the next phase of this disaster, but my reflexes are slow from the surprise, or I’m bracing for that little knife’s impact, and Hank zooms right past me, knocking me off balance a little, leaping through the back door and into the kitchen, where this pants-less, probably terrified woman is surely still standing.

“He’s friendly,” I say, too loud and too sharp, a thud of fear landing in my gut at the thought of something happening to Hank—brawny, barrel-chested, often misunderstood Hank, who even after three years with me still has a bit of hand and foot shock from previous hits he must’ve taken wherever he was before the shelter found him—in the middle of this mess. I slap a hand over my eyes in deference to the woman’s unclothed state and turn back to the doorway. “Please don’t—”

I’m interrupted by the sound of her soft “Awww,” Hank’s paws pattering in excitement on the tile floors, and I know that, at least in terms of my dog, all is well. Maybe that’d be more of a relief were I not still standing in the doorway with a hand over my eyes, wondering what the hell had happened since I last spoke to Paul Mulcahy, who promised me an empty house.

I clear my throat, but I doubt the woman can hear me over Hank’s snuffling delight.

“Pants!” she blurts after a second, as if she’s newly struck by the absence of them and the presence of me, so I say, “I’m a friend of Paul’s,” before she can also remember the knife-throwing option.

“Back up,” she snaps, and yeah—whatever blend of mistaken identity and shock and Hank-charm is wearing off, I can tell. I keep my hand exactly where it is, squeezing my eyes shut tight for good measure, but I’ve got the sense she’s still wielding the butter knife. However patchy my past is, I never made a habit of home invasions, and I definitely never scared someone like this. I do exactly what she’s asked and take a step back.

And feel the whoosh of air as the door slams shut in my face, the lock clicking firmly behind it.

I’m not locked out—the key that I used to get in is still in the door—but I can see how, in all this chaos, she’d forgotten that. And I’m sure not going to use it again, not after—