Winter Jacket: Finding Home (27 page)

But by the time I reached Colorado, I began to have doubts. Traveling through the state reminded me of the mountain cabin where it could be argued Hunter and I had spent our last happy days. Worry began to build that I might never be able to recreate that. Had we become too broken? Had too much time past? Maybe our night together at Troian and Nikole’s wedding had been the closure she needed. What if she had moved on?

I’d told Troian I was coming back for myself, not for Hunter. But that wasn’t entirely true—Hunter was here and it was Hunter whom I wanted. She made me want to be the best version of myself I could be. Pure physical attraction and curiosity was what had initially drawn me to her, but I had quickly confirmed the depth of her maturity and of her heart.

I returned to Minnesota, exhausted from the long road trip. Hunter and I had taken our time crossing the country with a multi-day detour in Colorado, but we’d dallied because neither of us had had any urgency to reach Los Angeles. On this return trip, however, I had driven non-stop with barely a full night’s sleep midway to see me through the trip. I couldn’t wait to be home.

I wasn’t sure what to expect when I pulled my car into the alley behind my house and parked in the detached garage. I had only sent Hunter a single text:
I’ll be back in town on Friday.
I’d left it purposefully vague, hoping she’d reply, but she hadn’t responded. I’d considered sending a second text to clarify that it wasn’t a visit—it was an indefinite stay—but I decided against it. I’d see her when I got back to town. I could tell her I was back for good when we were finally face to face again.

Sylvia was at the front door when I let myself in. I wondered how much human interaction she’d gotten since Hunter had moved out. I scooped her up and gave her a hug, burying my face in her fur. She must not have been too desperate for human contact, however, because she promptly wiggled away, looking offended by the show of emotion.

I didn’t bother to unpack anything. There was plenty of time to do that later. I practically ran up the stairs and flopped down on my bed. The flowery fragrance of my fabric softener pillowed up around me. My eyes fluttered shut and I wiggled deeper into the blankets.

My eyes snapped open when I realized something. I pressed my nose to the comforter and my pillows and inhaled. Everything had been freshly laundered. There was only one reason why my bed smelled so clean and welcoming:  Someone had recently washed my things.

I pulled my phone out of the back pocket of my jeans and pulled up Hunter’s number from my list of contacts. With the exception of my text to tell her I was coming back, we hadn’t talked since Troian and Nikole’s wedding weekend.

My thumb hovered over her number. I should have deleted it from my phone when she’d ended things. I was probably reading too much into the bedding situation. Like my still-packed luggage, there would be time to reach out to Hunter later when I felt more like myself. For now, I slept.

I woke up to the sound of shovels scraping against hard concrete outside. It must have snowed overnight. But Los Angeles didn’t have snow, I remembered.

Sylvia was curled up at the bottom of the bed and I lay in bed watching the steady rise and fall of her furry back. It surprised me that she had slept there all night; maybe she’d missed me, after all.

Downstairs in the kitchen, the refrigerator should have been empty except for a random bottle of ketchup. I opened the door out of habit and found the shelves stocked. I swallowed down the cresting emotions. My sheets should have been stale and musty. My favorite ground coffee shouldn’t have been sitting on the countertop beside the coffeepot.

After breakfast, I bundled up for the task of shoveling my driveway and the walkway that led to my front door.

“Hi, neighbor!”

The woman who lived alone in the house next to mine, Mrs. Grace, waved at me from her three-season room. She slid one of the screen windows down farther.

“How was California?” she asked. “Are you glad to be back? I bet you had no shoveling to do in California.”

I had no idea how she knew I’d been gone or where I had been. We rarely talked or even saw each other, and in the winter it wasn’t unusual to go entire months without seeing my neighbors. It was just too cold to linger outside.

“It’s not so bad. Just trying to get back into the swing of things.”

“Where’s Hunter these days? I haven’t seen her around lately.”

My emotions went unschooled and my face no doubt showed my surprise that my neighbor knew of Hunter and knew her name.

“Such a nice girl,” Mrs. Grace approved. “Did she tell you she shoveled my driveway for me all last month?”

“No. She didn’t.”

“I had surgery on my hip. It wasn’t a big deal, but it limited my mobility for a few weeks. Somehow Hunter found out and she shoveled the sidewalk and driveway without me ever asking.” She clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth and shook her head. “I tried to pay her, but she wasn’t having any of that. Refused to take my money.”

“That sounds about right.” It didn’t surprise me to hear of Hunter’s thoughtfulness.

“Next time you see her, tell her not to be a stranger. I know she’s not watching your house anymore now that you’re back, but that doesn’t mean she can’t visit.”

Mrs. Grace would never know how much her words made me ache with regret. “I’ll give her your message the next time I see her, Mrs. Grace.”

My neighbor shuffled back into her house and I resumed shoveling the front walkway. First my cat, and now my next-door neighbor liked Hunter more than me. But I couldn’t blame them. She was easy to fall for.

After I finished shoveling the sidewalk, I warmed up with a hot shower. The bathroom was filled with steam by the time I was ready to step out onto the bathmat. The vanity mirror was foggy, which made the writing on the mirrored plane more pronounced:
Welcome Home
.

The fresh linens on my bed, the groceries and Del Sol coffee in the refrigerator, and now this greeting—it was endearing and tender and so confusing. A sob surprised me, bubbling and catching in my throat, coming out like a choking noise.

All of these thoughtful gestures gave me hope, but I didn’t want that. I’d gone over it again and again in my head during the drive from southern California.

Despite my misgivings, I called Hunter before I could get too inside of my head. I held my breath in anticipation, not even sure what I would say if she answered, but the phone rang and rang and rang until her voicemail picked up. I ended the call; I wanted to talk to
her
, not her recorded voice.

I spent the remainder of the afternoon in the living room prepping syllabi and assignments for the upcoming semester. In a few weeks I would be back on campus and at the front of a classroom, once again commanding the attention of eighteen to twenty-one year olds. With two new classes that I’d never taught before, there would be a lot more work in addition to the never-ending stream of paper grading, but this is what I had wanted when I’d first proposed the new courses to my departmental chair, Bob.

Sylvia hopped onto the couch beside me and took a tentative step onto my lap. I held my breath and my body still; she had never curled up on my lap before. She kneaded her paws on my legs and stomach, looking for internal weaknesses, no doubt. Unsatisfied, she curled her lip at me and whined.

“What do you want from me?”

She sat on her haunches and the fur along her back stuck up like a wolverine’s.

“Are you having a bad hair day? Is that why you’re being so bitchy?”

She made a noise between a purr and a chirp and hopped up to the top of the couch.

“And, I’m talking to the cat,” I sighed. I really needed to get out of the house.

The sound of the front doorbell had me leaping over the couch and all other obstacles in my way. Hunter must have seen the missed calls, but she wanted to see for herself that I was really back. I slowed my step as I reached the front door. I ran my fingers through my hair, took a deep breath, and opened the door.

Hunter, however, was not on the other side.

“Dean Merlot?” I clutched onto the door’s edge. “What are you, um, I mean, hello?”

“I heard you were back in town,” she smiled, looking every bit of confident as I felt taken aback. “I wanted to see for myself.”

“I’m not exactly dressed to entertain,” I said awkwardly.

“I think you look great,” she beamed charmingly.

I looked down at my outfit—yoga pants and a track jacket over a tank top. I was comfortable, not attractive.

“Can I come in?” she pressed.

“Oh, um, sure.” I took two steps back and she stepped inside smelling like gardenias.

She walked straight to my kitchen and I was nearly startled at her familiarity with the layout of my home until I remembered she had been over last spring for the English department’s end-of-the year party.

“Glasses?” she asked, wiggling a bottle of red wine in her hands.

“Top cabinet, left of the refrigerator,” I said.

She opened the built-in and pulled two long-stemmed glasses from their cubby.

“Corkscrew?”

“Oh. Right.” I pulled out a drawer and fished around for the utensil.

Jessica poured two full glasses of wine, and instead of remaining in the kitchen, made her way to the living room. I had no choice but to follow.

The television was on in the background, slicing through an otherwise awkward silence. I swirled the wine around in its stemmed glass. “What is this? A merlot?”

Jessica smirked. “I do believe that’s the first time I’ve heard that joke.”

I took a small sip from my glass. “I’m sure.”

“How was California?”

My face must have revealed my surprise. I couldn’t even begin to speculate who had revealed the reason behind my semester-long sabbatical. I had worked hard to keep that to myself knowing how the university rumor mill worked overtime. I hadn’t told the Chair of the English department or even my colleague and mentor, Emily.

Dean Merlot—I mean, Jessica—laughed, but not unkindly. “Don’t look so surprised. You of all people should know that people here love to gossip. The past few months I’ve heard nothing but how I’m going to lose one of the English department’s rising stars to Hollywood, and that I’d better start advertising for your replacement.” She took a measured sip from her glass. “I had a feeling you’d be back though.”

I repositioned myself on the couch. “That was pretty presumptuous, don’t you think?”

Her emerald eyes practically glittered. “Showing up uninvited on your doorstep is presumptuous, Elle. Not predicting your return. I’ve looked over your student evaluations. You’re an excellent educator. That’s not something you can phone in. You either love to teach or you don’t.”

“Thanks.” I didn’t know if it was a compliment, but I’d take it as such.

Jessica swirled the liquid in her glass. “I guess I’m just curious why you left us in the first place.”

“You could always look in the mirror.”

She looked up sharply from her wine glass. I hadn’t had nearly enough wine to blame the alcohol for my words.

“Me?”

“You rule the faculty with an iron fist, Dean Merlot.” I purposely switched back to the more formal title. “I became a college professor because I love teaching, but I love the academic freedom we’re usually afforded even more.  If I wanted someone censoring my syllabi, I would teach high school.”

She sat erect on the couch. “The Board of Trustees is concerned we became too liberal under Dean Kraus. Several generous alumni have become less generous in recent years because of it. They brought me on to change the culture of the school.”

“Is that why you’re closeted?” She had said as much during our meeting when I’d basically demanded I be granted a sabbatical, so I didn’t think it an outrageous guess.

“Now who’s being presumptuous,” she murmured. Her gaze was focused on the top of my coffee table.

I felt the change in the room; the power dynamic had reversed. “You showed up at my house, uninvited, and with a bottle of wine.” A peculiar smile settled on my lips. “You said it yourself, Dean. People like to talk.”

She practically blanched before my eyes. “You wouldn’t.”

I sat back in the couch. “No. I wouldn’t. Because I know better than to use someone’s sexuality to control them.”

The conversation had taken an abrupt turn. We might have been sipping wine in my living room like civilized people, but we better resembled sharks circling in a tank. Whoever smelled blood first would attack.

Her eyes remained locked with mine, but when she reached for her wine, her fingertips bumped against the bell of the glass, knocking it over. We both watched helplessly as the glass tipped onto its side and poured its contents onto the floor. The empty glass rolled off the end table and shattered when it hit the ground.

I heard the quiet expletive: “Damn it.”

“I’ve got it.” I hopped up from the couch, almost relieved to have something to do instead of verbally sparring even if it meant my white surface rug was ruined.