Mum fished about her pocket before producing a gold disc. Her fingers clung to it as if it were more valuable than her fabric scissors. Bringing it to her lips, she gave it a slight kiss. She nudged it across the workbench, the brass dulled where his fingers had worn it smooth.
“It always brought him home.”
Her arms wrapped about my chest, hands not quite meeting. With a tight squeeze, she let go, stepping back. It hurt my heart to see the tears caught in the corners of her eyes. I tried forminga coherent thought, words that might soothe her soul. When nothing felt right, I hid in the silence.
“I hope it does the same for you.”
Her lips parted, like she wanted to say more. But the silence was easier.
She turned away, wiping her tears as she went inside. Before she set it on Pop’s workbench, I recognized the object. It had lived in the right pocket of his pants until every pair had the familiar indentation. She vanished inside, the thumping of her boot fading.
Picking it up, I pressed the button on the front. The top sprang open, revealing the compass inside. He’d comment that it was a piece of junk that never quite pointed north, but he wouldn’t leave the house without it. It might not be helpful when plotting out trails in the mountains, but he’d say, “It only needs to bring me home.”
After every camping trip, he’d hand it to me in the car, and I’d navigate us home. Every scratch and dent felt familiar in my hand. I pulled my tank top over my head, tucking it behind my neck. I placed the compass on my chest, next to the facsimile tattooed over my heart. My memory resulted in an almost perfect copy, down to the slightly askew arrow.
Boston was supposed to be my north. The shop, the clients, the noise of the city, that was where I belonged. The shop wasn’t mine to keep. A faceless developer cut a check, and just like that, the only place that felt like mine vanished. I couldn’t blame the owner of the building. Everybody would find another shop, but it wouldn’t be the same without us all under one roof.
It brought me back to Firefly, but still, this wasn’t home. Without the shop, I’m not sure I would have one anymore.
FLATLANDER MEETS PACKAGE
Me. 6’4”. 320 pounds. Shaved head. Skin covered in tattoos.
Her. 5’3”. 140 pounds. Messy bun. Smacking gum like it’s her job.
I eyed the items in the basket, debating whether I should return them to the shelves and bolt from the store. The tiny guardian of the counter stared at her phone, ignoring me for the moment, but as soon as I set my goods in front of her, we’d begin the dance. She shouldn’t be intimidating, not in the least, yet I hovered in the frozen section trying to avoid eye contact.
Milk. Eggs. Bread. Syrup.
In Boston, you could walk into a store, buy eggs, and no one would try to cross-examine your entire life. Here, I had a single obstacle. For such a small woman, the history between us was monumental. It had been decades, but I could still see her in physics, sitting two chairs in front of me. She never partook in the bullying, but she hadn’t stopped it either. Her husband, on the other hand…
At the tattoo parlor, I had worked on everyone from girls who wanted to piss off their parents to bikers recording their life stories in ink, and I had spent my fair share ushering outrowdy groups from the lobby. Tightening my grip on the basket, I shoved my hesitation aside and stormed down the aisle.
I set my groceries on the counter, ready to get the first of many awkward encounters out of the way. Being back in Firefly, I’m sure the rumors were already spreading, trying to figure out why Ellie’s house had an extra car. The speculation would fly, and by the end of the day, they’d have concocted a theory about an out-of-town lover visiting.
Bonny didn’t look up from her phone.
I waited for a moment, expecting a narrow gaze, even a look of annoyance. Instead, she continued scrolling as if I weren’t there. “Ahem.”
Her body didn’t move, but her eyes shot up. As they traveled up my chest, her back straightened. Eyes narrowed, and her head cocked to the side as if she were assembling the pieces of a puzzle. Before she called me a flatlander, she had to run through every face she had ever encountered since grade school. I almost wished she’d assume me an outsider. Then we could dispense with the pleasantries.
“Charlie?”
“Hey, Bonnie.”
Her face softened, but her eyes went back to studying my forearms and chest before cocking to the side and staring at my neck. Alpha and Omega. It had been my first tattoo, high enough that not even a dress shirt would cover the ink. That day, I decided I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life hiding. It had a literal meaning, the beginning of the end, as I made my escape from Firefly. I embraced a version of myself that Firefly taught me to tuck away. While Dad taught me how to survive in the wild, I had been busy developing my own survival strategies.
“You’ve changed.” Would it be rude to say she hadn’t changed? “Taller?”
This is how Firefly sank its fingers in. Sidestepping the obvious and leaning into levity, she attempted to soften the exchange. Next would come the questions. At first, they’d be innocent.
“Are you in town to see your mum?”
“Yup. She could use a hand right now.”
Controlled replies that offered no juicy bits warranting deeper probing. As she scanned the eggs, then bread, she gave me a sideways glance. I could swear the air shifted as she inhaled—a storm on the horizon. Innocent was about to turn intrusive.
“Just you?”
