Page 2 of Wall

What if there was an accident and his phone is on the side of the road, shattered? What if he’s in an ambulance, and they don’t know he’s allergic to penicillin?

I’m being crazy. He’ll walk in any minute with a perfectly reasonable explanation, and I’ll look like I’ve lost my damn mind. I glance down. Am I wearing the same clothes as yesterday? No, it’s been longer. Maybe I’ve had these on since Friday? Crap. I was off on Friday. These are the sweats I put on when I came home from work Thursday night. I crane my neck and take a sniff. Not good.

I should take that shower. When was the last time I washed my hair? Maybe Wednesday before work?

But what if John calls while I’m in there?

Or what if the hospital calls, and I have to leave? Crap, I can’t go looking like this. I’ve totally let myself go. I’d put more effort in if I didn’t have to wear scrubs every day. If I had an office job, I’d do more than a messy bun.

I hear a vehicle turn down our cul de sac. I freeze. My heart leaps into my throat. Is that a bike? No. A car. It keeps driving past our house. I stay there, my stomach sinking, motionless in the middle of my living room, and stare unseeingly around the two-story Colonial John and I bought three years ago.

My gaze catches on our wedding photo, hanging above the TV console. I’m barely nineteen, five foot three, and all smiles. John takes up most of the frame. He towers over me. He’s not much of a smiler, but his eyes are twinkling like crazy. He’s happy.

He hasn’t looked like that in a while.

I lower my gaze to the rest of the living room. There are several half-empty Diet Coke cans on the coffee table. The carpet needs vacuuming. There’s a pile of newspapers in my grandmother’s rocking chair. I keep meaning to call and cancel the subscription.

Things haven’t been going so well. Life has thrown us some curveballs lately.

But John and I are regrouping now. We’re focusing on us.

Whereishe?

Another vehicle turns down our street. This time, there’s a crunch of asphalt and a sputter as his engine cut off.

He’s home.

A wave of relief rocks me on my heels, followed immediately by a surge of fury. Where has he been? How dare he make me worry like this, on top of everything! He better have a damn good excuse.

I want to run outside, make sure with my own eyes that he’s okay. But I’m also shaking with rage and fear.

It’s an eternity before his feet crunch on the driveway. His big boots stomp up the walk and across the porch. His tread is lighter than usual, but if he’s trying to be stealthy, he’s failing. For some reason, he lingers at the door. Maybe he’s looking for his keys.

Well, I’m not helping him out. I’m on the far side of the living room, arms crossed so hard I’m cutting off circulation to my hands.

He eases the door open. He probably thinks I’m asleep. He should know better. I spend most nights wide awake on the sofa now, watching old sitcoms likeI Love LucyandTheCarol Burnett Showuntil I pass out sitting up. It’s the only way I can sleep.

John ducks through the doorframe and stops when he sees me. His helmet’s hanging from his hand, his cut’s folded over his arm, and his black T-shirt’s untucked. He looks like hell.

He clears his throat. “You’re up.”

The smell of whiskey hits me from all the way across the room. “Did you drive home drunk?”

He scrubs the back of his neck. “No. I been sober a few hours now.”

“How drunk were you that you still smell like a distillery, and you’ve been sober for hours?” My voice is shrill, even to my own ears. I’m so pissed. He’s a mess. His eyes are bloodshot, and his brown hair’s sticking up at all angles, which is hard to accomplish with a crew cut.

“Very.”

I sigh in exasperation. “Is that all you’re gonna say?”

He’s quiet for a long time. My anxiety ratchets even higher, sweat prickling the back of my knees. His expression is scaring me. I hardly recognize him. John’s a stoic guy, a man of few words. I haven’t seen this look on his face before.

He sinks down onto the couch. “Sit, will you?” He gestures to the ottoman facing him.

What’s going on? What’s happened?

“What’s wrong? Oh, my God. Was there a bad fire? Is everyone okay?” My mind’s running wild. There was a five-alarm a month or so ago, and a guy from John’s station was hospitalized. An older couple didn’t make it. John’s been really torn up about it.

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