Page 6 of Deacon

He goes downstairs. I stand, fists clenched, and wait for him to go. After a bit, there’s quiet. I get changed into jeans and a t-shirt and creep down to explore the kitchen.

My stomach sinks—he hasn’t left. He’s leaning in the doorway, cigarette in his fingers. His pale eyes are locked on the horizon, one foot inside, one foot out. I halt, contemplating going back upstairs, but he turns, narrowing his gaze.

“Come here,” he says.

Dragging my feet, I move closer and stop. There’s no way in hell I’m getting within arm’s reach. He takes a pull on the cigarette, tilting his head.

“This is a fresh start for all of us,” he says. “Back home, we were nothing. Here, I’ve got a business, land to develop. I don’t want the shit you do to blow back on me.”

I don’t know what he means. Mouth dry, I tuck my hands behind my back.

“I…won’t do anything,” I whisper.

He kicks the door shut and comes closer, until he’s towering over me by over a foot. “You keep your legs and your mouth shut. Put your head down, get a job, pay your rent. Don’t be a whore under my roof.”

In my chest, it aches. It shouldn’t ache anymore. This is nothing new, but it still opens the doors to a flood of shame.

“I haven’t done anything,” I whisper.

That’s a mistake. It’s better to just accept Aiden’s point of view. His jaw twitches, a glint appearing in his eye. He points at me.

“I know your type,” he says. “I married your type.”

If I had a dime for every time he’s said that, I’d be loaded. It still doesn’t make sense. He acts like I’m prowling the streets, trying to get myself knocked up. I’ve had sex once in my life. It wasn’t good, and I haven’t tried it since.

But Aiden doesn’t have to make sense. He’s the patriarch, the bill-payer, the end-all-be-all. Whatever he says is gospel.

“Yes, sir,” I say. “I can behave.”

“Can? Or will?”

His jaw works again, like he’s gritting his teeth.

“Both,” I burst out. “And I’ll start looking for a job right away.”

“Good.” The word falls from his lips, short and cold. He taps out the cigarette in the sink and tosses it. I draw back against the counter, watching as he gathers up his keys and wallet.

Then, he’s gone—Hurricane Aiden off to ruin somebody else’s day.

I’m left in the quiet house, alone. My shoulders sink. I got off easy, and now I can finally relax.

Alone is my favorite place. Quiet is my favorite sound.

I make dinner and eat. Then, I put together three plates and set them in the microwave. When the kitchen is spotless, I tread through the silence up to my room and lock the door.

Carefully, I unwrap the specimen cases. A familiar sense of safety slips over me. There are over two hundred different kinds of insects here, and hundreds of butterflies. My little jewelry box, a piece of my beloved Appalachia.

My mouth tugs up into a smile.

The wind whistles against the house. It’s winter and dry-cold outside, not like the breeze that trails through the soft green valleys of the Appalachian Mountains. No, this is a brutal cold I know will chap my skin raw.

A heavy feeling fills my chest. It takes me a moment to identify it.

I’m homesick—not for the aging farmhouse, but for the hills that raised me. My home, despite everything.

That makes me stop and stare out the window at the distant mountains that aren’t like the ones I grew up with. I miss the pines, the grass that ripples when a storm comes through. I miss being tucked away in the hills, high up enough so I can see the rivers snaking below.

I miss what I know.

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