Right. That’s what I was doing. Exiting the vehicle, like I wasn’t three sheets to the wind.
Or was it five sheets?
I shouldered the bag holding all my worldly possessions and fumbled with the door.
“Gotta pull the handle first,” he said helpfully.
I yanked it and threw my weight against the door. It opened, and my upper body went airborne for one endless second, then my shoulder slammed into the sidewalk. It was the feel of my knee hammering against the door frame that made stars explode in my vision, though.
“You okay, man?” the driver asked, sounding more annoyed than concerned.
Pain ricocheted down my body, but yeah, I was fucking good.
I couldn’t blame him for losing his patience with me. He’d have to be nose-blind not to smell the whiskey on my breath.
Still, my fatigues marked me as a soldier. Shouldn’t that afford me a little more respect? I wasn’t that drunk, was I?
Balancing on one hand with my feet still twisted up in the car, I thrust my thumb up to the sky and nearly toppled to the right. Maybe my hands were too big.
“I’m good.” And yeah, now that I was listening, the words slurred.
Fuck.
This was not how I wanted to come home.
The driver mumbled something that might have been a curse as I bent and wiggled until my legs popped free and I rolled away from the vehicle. Still on my side, I swatted at the door until it shut with a light click. The driver must have reached over and yanked it the rest of the way closed, because after a stronger click, the car pulled away from the curb as he got the hell out of there.
As always, the first week of December had been a wet one, and though it wasn’t raining now, the sidewalk was damp and cold. I flopped onto my back anyway and stared up at the sky, swearing off alcohol for good if the world would just stop rocking.
I’d nursed a respectable buzz at the airport, and then downed a handful of shots for courage before climbing into the Uber. Jim Beam had caught up to me on the drive, and I could no longer feel my fingers or toes. Still, as I eyed the picket fence and the little blue bungalow behind it, I knew I wasn’t nearly drunk enough for this shit. The memories that had chased me into the service eighteen years ago still called this place home.
You’re not runnin’ away now, you fuckin’ coward.
Determined to stay put this time and deal with my shit, I peeled my arms from the wet cement and heaved myself into a seated position. Standing proved harder than it had any damn right to be, but I finally managed, thanks to the help of Mom’s picket fence. A post snapped off when I pulled myself up, and I got a sliver from the peeling paint, but I’d have to worry about that shit later. It was finally time to face my past.
I just needed the ground to stop rocking like the ocean.
How much did I fuckin’ drink?
Stumbling into the door, I righted myself and braced to knock.
No answer.
My arm kept weaving, so I couldn’t make out the time on my watch, but it was mid-morning on a weekday. Where else would Mom be?
I leaned on one shoulder and rang the doorbell. When the corresponding chime inside the house prompted no response, I pounded my fist against the damn bell. Still nothing. I wobbled back a few steps to peer around the side of the house. Dad’s old Chevy truck was parked in front of the garage, which meant Mom should be home.
Were the house lights on? The front blinds were closed, and the mid-morning light, paired with my inability to stand, made it impossible to tell.
What if Mom fell and hit her head?
The dark thought blindsided me, but it would goddamn figure.
Also, it couldn’t happen. No way could any god be that fucking cruel.
Only I’d seen far too much to believe that lie.
Fear burned away some of the alcohol fogging my brain.
