Page 15 of Deep Gap

Me six feet under would have been best for everyone. I don’t say that lightly, or with an unwillingness to bear responsibility for my actions.

But that’s not what happened.

A single moment linked Ellis and me forever. It just wasn’t the way I hoped.

I don’t flinch when Byron lays a hand on my back. Perhaps today was just too much for me and my senses are on overload. Maybe I want the same unconditional warmth a hug from my parents brings. My fingertips are ice and I’m hunched, huddling in a ball where I sit on the hard porch boards.

Byron has left the back door open. The dogs have gone inside to drink from their bowls. The buzz of the dryer reminds me that my clothes are ready to get soiled again. It also interrupts me from apologizing for dragging Byron into my pathetic existence.

“Thank you for trusting me,” he says.

“Thank you for sticking up for me with my parole officer.”

Although I’m sure the finality changes little, I only have a few months left until that chapter is put to rest, and Phil isn’t obliged to look in on me. The State didn’t compel Byron to tell the truth about Waylon. He could have dropped me at Phil’s office and left. I owed Byron the consideration of understanding who he got himself involved with.

I stand and his hot hand catches my chilled one, dropping it when I look to where we are joined.

His voice is measured when he speaks. “I want you to stay here.”

Prisoners are moved without warning. I’d been taken for exercise when Ilona was told to remove her things from our cell. I want you to stay with me, my heart called out at the sight of the empty institutional mattress. Afterward, I dreamed of Ellis and told him, If you have to go, take me with you. Each night Ellis broke my shattered heart into smaller pieces, grinning and replying, you have to stay here.

“I need to fold my clothes.” I point beyond the glass slider. Janitor or beauty queen, I won’t show up to work rumpled.

“If Waylon’s kicking you out of the apartment, do you have any place to go?”

“No.” My mouth moves more than I whisper.

“I want you to live here, Greer. I have an extra room. I won’t charge you more than you’re already paying.” Byron’s brow furrows.

What will his neighbors say if they find out?

“I can’t do that.” All I can think of is dragging my dad’s business through the mud.

The parolee assistance program in North Carolina helped me get a place to live near the job Karen insisted I accept to comply with the terms of my release. I refused to darken my parent’s doorstep and ask them to give me anything more than they already had. A specter, I drift through windows when I’m positive the community is safely ensconced in their personal holiday celebrations to pay attention.

Byron gets up. I have to tip my chin ever so slightly to see him. He pushes his broad shoulders back. The outdoor lighting casts his face in the most fascinating harsh shadows. My body quakes, and I tell myself I’m reacting to the upcoming winter’s true temperature.

“I won’t let you go back alone, even if it’s to get your things.” His remark is steadfast. “Your options are limited to living on the street, which violates your parole, or to live with me. Even if it’s just however long it takes to get back on your feet, you have to stay here.”

I focus on Byron’s living room through the window. He’s removed the mesh netting when he placed the tree we chopped down in the stand. The green boughs have unfurled. A cardboard box with “ornaments” scrawled in black marker sits to the side.

“Here” has never sounded more like “home”. And the prospect of home has never been scarier. I’ll have to leave Byron’s house when he moves on; Relocates. Finds a girlfriend or someone to share the most intimate part of his life with. Decides living with a ghost is too much.

I’m as removed from the scene inside the house as I am when I glide into my parents’ home. But I agree to stay with Byron because I’m terrified… Of the next landlord’s constant intrusions being worse than Waylon’s. Of having my parole revoked. Of offending the one ally I have in the man standing in front of me. And because deep down all of my memories center around that kind of hurt, and it’s easier to survive expecting it than lying to myself that Byron is offering me a place to stay forever.

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I’d meant for Greer to sleep on the sofa with the tree lights twinkling. But once she agrees moving in with me is for the best, relief overtakes us and exhaustion settles in.

We decide the ornament box can remain unopened until the following day. I bring her a blanket and the spare pillow from my bed and make myself scarce. As I’m about to turn in, I have to go searching for Tallulah.

Trig’s pup snuggles at the base of the sofa, nearest where Greer’s head lies. From the carpet, Tallulah peers at me. Greer’s hand rests on the dog’s back, giving the impression she was mid-stroke patting Tallulah when she fell asleep.

Tallulah arches a single brow and then the other. Instead of asking her to mind, I wink. For as much time as I spend with my furry friends, I’ve never quite gotten the hang of questioning the world with the unique facial expression that only a dog can manage. Then I back off, stepping lightly down the hall. Tallulah is doing what I trained her to do. What does it teach Tallulah if I call the dog away from Greer when Greer obviously needs support?

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