Giving up the battle for a moment, Melody turns toward the row of cars, searching from one side to the other. “Oh, crap. The car is back there,” she says. “God, I’m not thinking straight.”
Melody walks past me, and into the direction where Journey’s car must be. “It happens when there’s too much to think about.” I sound like an infomercial following her. I should stop talking and wait for her to realize she has the wrong keys to Journey’s car.
I watch and wait, like a creep in a dark parking lot. She fumbles through the keys for a minute before muttering to herself, “She didn’t give me the car key.”
“Let me take you home, and I’ll bring you right back. My truck is right there,” I say. Maybe I spoke up too fast. She might realize I knew Journey was messing with her.
Melody stares at the keys in her hand, either wondering if she missed the key, if she should take me up on my offer, or go back upstairs to retrieve the correct key from her sister. “Fine.” I’m shocked beyond belief to hear an agreement form from her lips.
“My truck is just—” I point down the row and head toward it, assuming she’ll follow.
The footsteps behind me confirm she hasn’t changed her mind, so I stop at the passenger side and open the door.
“Thank you,” she says, her voice soft and meek. I close the door once she’s seated and walk around the front to slide into the driver’s seat. I turn on the ignition and hit the buttons for the seat warmers.
How is it I’ve known the Quinn family my entire life and I have no clue how to get to her house? I’ve been there, but not since I was a kid and I was probably busy playing with my Gameboy in the backseat. “Where is your house?”
“Do you know where Parka Street is?” I guess she doesn’t seem surprised that I don’t know which direction to head in.
“The GPS will,” I say with a chuckle, wishing I knew my way around this town a little better. It borders my town, so I should be more familiar with the ins and outs, but I was only a licensed driver for a year before I left for the Marines. Other than working and toting Parker around, I haven’t ventured off too far since I’ve been back home these last two years.
“House number twenty-four,” she adds.
Twenty-four. D.O.A. eighteen-hundred-hours and twenty-four minutes, just twenty four years old on October 24th. Sometimes, numbers intrigue me, other times, they keep me awake at night, wondering if there’s a deeper meaning I should understand. The silence must be bothering Melody as she clears her throat. “I find it odd we were on the same flight the other day. Why were you in South Carolina?”
Odd, yes, coincidental, not so much. “I was at an exhibition for my dad’s business, but he called and told me I needed to leave a day early and get on a flight the next morning to head back because your dad needed help in the shop. That’s when I found out what was going on.”
“Oh,” she says as if she’s fitting pieces together that didn’t quite match up a few minutes ago. “There was only one flight going out of Charleston to Burlington that day.”
We still ended up sitting beside each other, which seems like more than a coincidence on a large plane with only two empty seats on the whole carrier. Odds are a couple flying together had to cancel their tickets, leaving the two seats open for last-minute passengers.
I pull into Melody’s driveway, lined with hedged bushes and small lights buried in mulch. The house looks well maintained with a sense of warmth from the glow of lights. “What kind of dog do you have?”
“A wild killer beast. He attacks people he doesn’t like.” In other words, she’d prefer it if I stayed in the truck and waited for her, but what’s the use in that. She’s exhausted. I can help with the dog. Mrs. Quinn was clearly okay with the idea.
“Wild killer beasts are my favorite,” I reply, hopping out of the truck the same time she does, following closely behind her as she makes her way up the front steps.
There’s a familiarity about her house. I remember bits and pieces from the times I was here, and it looks very much the same; the foyer walls covered with family portraits and decorative furniture perfectly placed.
Benji, I hear her call out. He must be a husky; he looks just like Brody’s old dog. She’s getting hooked up on the leash, wrestling with him to calm down from the excitement of seeing people for the first time in hours. He looks like a big goof. Once Melody has the leash secured, I take it from her hand. “Take a breather.”
Surprisingly, she doesn’t argue and allows me to take Benji outside. I wonder if she knew he would take me for a ride down the street. He’s got to be at least seventy pounds and I’m almost positive he must have incredible night vision for small animals. There isn’t a doubt in my mind he’s chasing something as he drags me along. Thankfully, we’re just outside the woods and after the creature he was watching disappeared beyond the line of trees, he remembers his purpose for being outside.
He’s quick to do his business and head back to the house, leading the way up the stairs and in through the front door. “He’s such a good boy,” I call out, assuming Melody is in the kitchen or adjacent family room. “Where do you keep the treats?”
Melody peeks around the corner and whispers, “One sec.” She’s holding her hand against her phone, blocking out the sound to whoever is on the other line.
“Oh, sorry. I’ll look in the kitchen,” I whisper.
I hear the soft mutters from the other side of the wall where Melody is conversing, but I can’t make out anything she’s saying, nor should I since it’s none of my business. She seems a bit frazzled again, though. Although this seems to be a common trait of hers.
My name is mentioned. I hear it clearly, making me wonder who she’s talking to. It could be Mrs. Quinn or Journey, I suppose, but I don’t think Melody would take the phone into another room if it was either of them.
Melody seems to have ended her call as I hear footsteps walking around the corner toward where I’m standing. “Is everything okay?” It’s still none of my business, but I can’t help wondering.
Melody leans forward to give Benji a scratch between the ears, smiling at him as if he’s all she needs right now. “My ex is in denial,” she says.
The guy in her pictures on Facebook. I guess he is her ex as her profile stated she was single, but I wonder how long he’s been an ex. “Your ex?” There was a time I thought she had gotten married, but I must have misunderstood whatever story I was overhearing. I only knew she was living in South Carolina and assume it was with a man from the story I conjured up in my mind.
