Hold On

Then again, you might.

In my living room (and throughout the house), there were some garage sale finds. There were some secondhand store finds. There were also some good, quality pieces I’d saved up for or put on layaway or bought on my card and paid off.

I’d thrown some scarves over ornate lamps. Other lamps had bright shades in pink or turquoise. Fringed, floral throws. A tiger-print ottoman. Whacky-patterned, mismatched toss pillows on equally mismatched furniture. A wicker bucket chair with a round paisley pad cushioning it. Lush potted plants everywhere.

The living room was smallish and painted a muted grape that somehow pulled all the colors and patterns in the room together, giving the whole thing a warm, fruity, cave-like feel. And the walls were chock-full, nearly edge to edge, of everything from prints of flowers to tribal designs to abstracts to cartoonish portraits to beat-up, old mirrors to framed pictures of me and Ethan living our lives.

The house was old, built back in the ’50s, so there was no great room. No cathedral ceilings. It was segmented into small rooms that, unfortunately, separated its occupants. But it worked for Ethan and me because it was just the two of us and we liked to hang together.

The renters before me had dogs that didn’t behave, so the carpet was new. Not even close to top of the line, but it was still clean and I took care of it so it looked nice.

The hall off the side to the left led to two bedrooms, a utility room, and a bathroom that Ethan and I shared. My landlord had let me paint Ethan’s room blue and it was decorated in boy. My room was a continuation of the boho feel but super-charged, painted a subdued turquoise and stuffed full of stuff, from furniture to knickknacks to pictures.

The door off to the right led to a kitchen that wasn’t all that big, but it was big enough to put a relatively nice kitchen table in it, which also worked for Ethan and me. We didn’t need a fancy dining room table (or dining room). Not for just him and me.

No one would be banging down my door to beg me to let them take pictures for some decorator’s magazine. But I liked it. It was me. It made me feel safe and comfortable and like I’d accomplished something. It surrounded my kid in me, hopefully making him feel the same way, but also showing him he should be himself and get off on that no matter what that was and no matter what anyone thought about it.

I could tell by the look on Trent’s face that he was uncertain about all of that.

I didn’t give a fuck. I’d never been to Trent’s house, but knowing his wife, I pictured doilies.

“You wanted to talk?” I prompted, and he looked to me.

“Yeah, you got any coffee?”

Recovering addicts and their coffee.

Shit.

I walked to the kitchen feeling Trent following me and trying not to think of Merry.

I achieved this miraculous feat but only by allowing thoughts of Trent to leak in. How he’d sorted his shit out after he left me. How he’d been clean and sober now for nine years, with his woman for eight, married to her for seven, and devoted to her and their daughter and newborn son.

And how he had not given any of that shit to Ethan and me.

Though, now he gave it to Ethan. Coming to me first to “touch base” and “make sure all’s good after that crazy guy went on a rampage.”

That had eventually led to the disclosure of his real purpose for seeking me out—he wanted to meet Ethan and he wanted Ethan’s new little sister to know she had a big brother.