Page 9 of Unstable

“Why don’t we go inside?” Gatlin gently suggests from behind me. “I think you’ll find not much at all has changed in this house.”

How would he know that? He didn’t grow up here. He didn’t even show up until after all that made this house a home was gone.

The door we use is actually a side entrance that comes in from the carport, so you enter through the mud porch. That way, you can strip off anything you picked up around the ranch that mom wouldn’t want tracked through the house.

Off to the right is what we always called the “country kitchen.” It’s where meals were eaten, leaving room in the much smaller kitchen for food prep and dish washing. And in it, still sits the same large table that was there the day I left.

A few more steps and we’re in the actual kitchen.

Okay, so maybe he was right about these first two rooms not changing, but really, how much would you possibly modify in them? Old moss green countertops work the same no matter their color and chicken-themed drapes and wallpaper border, although as tacky today as the day they were hung, are appropriate for a farmhouse.

“The fridge is new.” I spin to face him and boast, crossing my arms and jutting out my chin in triumph.

“Old one finally gave out.” He takes off his hat and hangs it on the wall hook- also a chicken. It would appear the “no hats in the house” rule stood the test of time. “So you got me there, the fridge is new,” he chuckles.

I wander farther into the living room and find, that sadly, pitifully so in fact, he’s right again—same brown couches with pink and white flowers, same shag carpet, the color of wet clay…and on the very coffee table whose corner gifted me with my first black eye sits that infamous white porcelain bowl filled with none other than—potpourri.

Guess everyone and everything here stood still, pretending nothing ever happened and moving on wasn’t necessary. Whatever…I didn’t have to live here anymore, in stagnant denial.

“I assume you’ll be staying in your old room? Want me to take your bag up?” Gatlin invades my thoughts with his presumptuous offer.

I whirl on him, my eyes tapered to piercing slits. “Listen, I’m not sure how much or how little you think you know about me, my life or what happened to the family that once lived in this house, but I can assure you, it’s not the whole story. And I know that because every story has at least two sides, and since today is the first time I’ve ever met you, you sure as hell haven’t heard mine.”

I still haven’t ruled out the possibility he may be lying and about to kill me, so it’s probably best not to provoke him—but he doesn’t get to assume anything about me.

My chest is heaving from my outburst, but his stoic demeanor doesn’t shift an inch. Nor does his expression, which is expressionless—no hint of pity, anger, curiosity…a beautiful blank slate.

“Want to tell me?” he asks, as calmly as he might the time.

“No, I don’t want to tell you.” I feel my face scrunch up in shocked aggravation. Who in the hell does this guy think he is? “What I want is for you to back off the things that are none of your business and answer some questions that are mine.”

“You can ask me anything you want, Henley.” Now he smiles. I wish he wouldn’t have. It’s hypnotic, an obvious tactical maneuver that he knows has his desired effect— compelling me to thaw a bit. Perhaps I’m not as impervious to human reaction and emotion as I give myself shameful credit for after all.

“And I will, later. For now, I’d like to be left alone. It’s been a long day. I need to,” I have no idea, “do stuff. So, if you’ll excuse me.”

“Of course. I’ll see myself out. And if you need anything, I’ll be down at the cabin. You don’t even have to walk over, just yell…I’ll hear you.”

“I won’t need anything.” I turn my back to him and begin to walk from the room. “But thank you,” I add in a hushed voice I’m unsure if he heard.

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