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I start walking down the block, wrapping my jacket a little tighter around me and cursing whoever it was that invented the skirt in the first place. I’ve almost forgotten how chilly it is here in January. There’s still even a little bit of holiday snow stacked up along the curbs.
And here it is. The house I grew up in. Just me and my dad, for the most part. One story. Two bedrooms. A whole lot of repairs that never quite happened.
I walk up to the door. It’s late and who knows if my father is even awake but it’s not like I have anywhere else to go.
I tap on the door, knocking softly. A few seconds later, a light flicks on in the living room and my chest tightens.
The door swings open and my father gawks at me with a beer can in his hand. Gravity has done hell to the bags under his eyes and there’s more silver than brown in his mustache but otherwise, he’s the same as he ever was. Tobacco stench included.
“Hey, Hank,” I say, forcing a smile.
He looks me up and down. “Jovie.”
I nod. “Yep.”
More wrinkles crease his brow for several long, cold moments. Finally, he turns around without saying anything else and walks off, leaving the door wide open.
I step inside and close it behind me as my dad topples into his armchair across the living room.
The same as it ever was, indeed. The carpet is still that awful shade of dark peach, held over from the eighties, at least. Scratched furniture with layers of dust and the same damn couch that’s been sitting there since I was a kid.
The television blares loudly from the corner with one of those procedural crime shows. I step lightly to the couch and sit down on the edge, tapping my tongue against my teeth.
“What do you want?”
I flinch with the sudden growl of his voice. “I just wanted to ask if I could stay here for a while.”
“How long?”
“I’m not sure,” I say. He glares at me from the corner of his eyes. “Not long. Just need to save up some money and I’ll be out of your hair again.”
His gray eyes flick back to the television. “Rent is three-hundred a month,” he says, taking a swig of his beer. “Or seventy-five a week, whichever works best for you, and you’ll chip in for utilities.”
I dig my thumbnail into my hand. “All right,” I say. “I’ll go into town tomorrow and see about finding a job but I probably won’t get paid for a few weeks. I might need an extension on the first month.”
“You know where the spare key is,” he murmurs.
I stand up. “Thanks… Dad.”
He gives a passive nod. “Real nice to see you,” he says, his tongue hitting every word like an ice pick.
Overall, it’s a far warmer welcome than I expected, so I can’t complain.
I walk out of the living room and enter the hallway, my eyes instantly pausing on the picture frames hung on the wall. Baby pictures of me, mostly. A visual timeline from birth to age three and then nothing after that. My dad wasn’t really interested in keeping up with it, I guess. It must have been Mom’s thing.
I push open the door to my room and flick on the light. Not a damn thing has changed in here either, save the layer of dust on everything from years of forgotten neglect. Travel books and posters of landmarks across the country. Places I always dreamed about. Anywhere but here.
I sit down on the edge of the bed and glance around, silently reminding myself that it was all my idea to come back.
“Home sweet home,” I whisper to myself.
