Page 10 of The Two of Us

4

NOW

It takes a million phone calls to various car services before I finally find one that will drive me from Bangor to Speck Lake. I almost lost my shit when the fourth company I called said they’d never even heard of the town. The driver picking me up makes me shell out a hefty tip before we hit the road and I make sure to throw my luggage into his trunk with a heavy hand. The next two hours fly by as I work on the website of an up-and-coming fitness brand. When we cross over the town line, I peek out the window, taken aback by how much the town’s changed. Changed is putting it lightly. It’s completely unrecognizable.

We slow at a stop sign near Nadine’s Nursery and it’s nothing more than a dilapidated warehouse overgrown with ivy. Nadine’s Nursery used to be the go-to spot for all things plant related and it still holds a special place in my heart for being the nursery where I got my first succulent. I named it Jerry. Jerry died a week later because I was convinced succulents didn’t need water, but we had fond memories, nonetheless. RIP Jerry.

“Miss! This it?” the man yells.

His customer service skills are crap, and now I know why he required the tip up front. We’ve turned onto Winsome Lane—the street I could find my way back to in my sleep. The cul-de-sac is quieter than I remember, but I guess that makes sense considering the three kids that gave it life are all gone now.

I sigh. “Yeah. This is it.”

“Which house?” he says impatiently. I forgot how difficult it is to see the numbers on the houses in this area and the GPS gave out on him ten minutes ago.

“That little yellow one, right there.” I point.

“Looks like a lemon drop.”

I tilt my head as I take it in. “Huh. I guess it does.”

When I conjured up the image of home over the years, it looked dull and muted. It didn’t seem as inviting as it does now, but memories have a tendency of painting over the truth. The house stands out on the street with its wraparound porch and nautical-blue shutters, and it suddenly dawns on me that Dad must have paid someone to freshen up the house to increase its market value. My chest tightens. I was never offered the house, but that says more about me than him.

“Are you gonna get out or what?”

“Yeah. Sorry,” I mutter, flipping him off with the hand hanging low at my side.

I step out of the car, making sure to keep my eyes trained forward. I don’t have to look across the street to remember what their house looks like because it’s the last image I see every night. It’s what keeps me searching for sleep at the bottom of a liquor bottle.

A tingling sensation sweeps across the back of my neck like I’m being watched, and I’d bet anything it’s Mr. and Mrs. King wondering what made the prodigal daughter decide to return home. They once loved me as their own, but those days are long gone.

I gesture for the driver to pop his trunk and I lug my suitcases out, dragging them behind me. He doesn’t even offer to help. Again, I’m fucking bitter about the tip. I thrust the bundle of cash through his rolled-down window and watch him peel out of the driveway like he’s afraid he’ll get trapped in this ghost town the longer he lingers.

It’s not until I’m standing in front of the door, which smells of freshly coated varnish, that I realize I don’t have a key. I don’t have a key to my own house because I didn’t think I’d ever need it again. I knock on the door, cursing under my breath. Having to be let into your own home is embarrassing. As a last-ditch effort, I begin looking around the porch for the garden gnome that usually hides a spare key when the door opens. A woman in pale-pink scrubs with little hearts all over them smiles at me.

“You must be Mara!” She pulls me in for a hug before I have the chance to respond.

“Yes. Thank you for getting the door. I forgot I didn’t have a key.”

“No problem at all, hon. Come on in.” She opens the door wide enough for me to slip past her and I’m immediately thrown off by the smell. It smells clean in the way that reminds me of a hospital. Like disinfectant and plastic bed covers. Anxiety pulls at my nerves.

I take in the walls around me and notice the only photos left hanging are of me, my dad, and my childhood friends. My mom’s colorful paintings and ceramics that used to plaster the entryway have been replaced with more modern, Nordic pieces. Making my way into the living room, I’m caught off guard by the scraping of nails across the hardwood floors and before I know it, I’m flat on my back. Something licks every inch of my face with a tongue that feels like a Brillo pad and I gasp, struggling to come up for oxygen.

“Otso, no! Down, boy!” Laura screeches, reaching down to wrangle the dog away from my face.

I didn’t go to Harvard, but this is not a dog. This is a creature you’d avoid out in the woods. A yeti of sorts. It’s impressive that Laura’s small frame is able to hold the beast back.

I scramble to my knees. “Is this your dog?” The front of my shirt looks like it’s been submerged in a bucket of water.

“Otso? Absolutely not. No, this guy here is your dad’s.” She laughs, amused that I’d think such a thing. I take in the “dog” again, shocked he hasn’t turned one of my limbs into a chew toy yet. The Saint Bernard towered over me when he’d jumped on his hind legs and there’s no way his weight is under two hundred fifty pounds. When I meet his eyes, they tell me he wants to make out with my face again.

Think again, beast.

Since when does my dad like dogs? The news startles me. When I’d asked for a dog on my thirteenth birthday, he told me I wouldn’t be content in life if I had to clean a butt other than my own. On sheer principle alone, I decide not to like the dog in front of me. I smooth out my crumpled trousers as Laura drags him into another room, quickly closing the door behind her.

“Otso, huh? That’s an interesting name.”

“It means bear.”

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