Page 66 of Walking Wounded

11

Luke sits in an arm chair big enough for two in the Maddox living room, a mug of spiked coffee in his hand, a fire roaring in the hearth. He loves this room, he decides. It’s cozy, and warm, and it swims in and out of focus, swaying. The chair is deep enough to swallow him and it smells like cologne. Dark has fallen, and the house feels close and comforting.

“I love this room,” he says.

“Is he drunk?” Tara asks.

“Leave the boy alone.” That’s Will. The old man’s been an unexpectedly calming presence, seated on the couch and griping about the day in politics that’s playing out on the TV.

“He sounds drunk,” Tara persists.

“Been drinking all day,” Luke says, and takes another swig of coffee.

He lost an hour or so, sometime during the afternoon, someplace between the kitchen table and this chair. But now he’s good and rooted, only getting up to pee when he absolutely has to, enjoying the faded cologne smell of the chair, low murmur of the TV, the sense of having company and being in a safe place.

The sound of the garage door humming up and then down means that Matt is home. Which meansHalis home too.

Even though he’s drunk, Luke perks up a little, strains to hear the two sets of shoes come up the steps and enter through the kitchen.

“Hi, sweetie,” Matt greets his wife.

“Sandy,” Hal says, all respect and automatic kindness. The big asshole. But it makes Luke’s tipsy stomach flutter.

He hears what might be a kiss between husband and wife. And then Sandy says something too low to hear. And Hal says, “Oh no,” in a soft, sad voice.

A moment later, Luke’s view of the TV is obscured by Hal’s broad shoulders.

“Hi, honey, you’re home,” Luke says, and wow, he’sdrunk. He laughs at himself, vision blurring.

“God, this is embarrassing,” Tara says.

“Why are you drunk?” Hal asks in a gentle voice, and suddenly he’s on his knees up against the chair, close enough to put his head in Luke’s lap if he wanted to. Which he doesn’t, of course; he doesn’t feel that way about him.

“Blame Sandy,” Luke says, still grinning like an idiot. It’s a grin that hurts his face, but he can’t seem to wipe it off.

Hal sighs, but a small returning smile touches the corners of his mouth. In a low voice: “You thought about her, didn’t you?”

Luke nods, throat suddenly tight. He takes another long sip, lets it burn away the tension. “Yeah.”

Hal pats his knee. “I know, buddy. Okay. So. You want to stay for dinner?”

“Don’t wanna get up,” Luke says, shaking his head, which sets the room to spinning.

“You don’t have to. Just sit tight and I’ll be back in a minute.”

“Okay…” Luke’s eyes shut, and they’re too heavy to open again.

~*~

He was sixteen when his sister died, and her death was a depth charge in the midst of their family. It had always just been the three of them, if you didn’t count the Rycrofts downstairs. Dad long gone, before Sadie was even born, but Mom strong enough to work fulltime and fill both roles. A quietly strong woman; with Luke’s mouth and eyes, and a gentle hand when it came to punishment. Handstitched Halloween costumes and homemade birthday cakes, always. Soft forehead kisses at night, and elaborate bedtime stories. Her imagination had inspired Luke’s, made him want to be a writer.

Luke was always the dour kid, the grumpy one, picked on at school. He’d always preferred his own company, or Hal’s, to anyone else’s.

Sadie was the sweet one, the vivacious one. The one who thought the sun coming up each morning was a miracle. Beautiful like their mother had been as a girl, with the kind of smile that attracted inappropriate glances from grown men. By the time she was thirteen, Luke had started putting himself between his sister and crowds, trying to keep her hidden, keep her innocent.

Safe.

But then…

---