Free No Shelter by Robert Swartwood

Arlington. During my shower I’ve been thinking about an excuse for my strange behavior, why I’d broken my only rule in allowing him to stay the night, but before I can even open my mouth he clears his throat.  
    “Holly?”  
    “Yeah.”  
    He wipes his hands on a towel, sets its aside, walks over and pulls out a chair and sits down. When I just stand there, staring at him, he motions for me to sit.  
    I sit.  
    He clears his throat again. “About last night ...”  
    “Josh—”  
    “We can’t do that anymore.”  
    I close my mouth, but in a slow, cautious way, like my teeth are filled with nitroglycerin. I just sit there, not sure what to say or do or even think.  
    He reaches across the table, takes my hand in his, gives it a quick squeeze. “You know I like you a lot. And, well, as much as I’ve enjoyed our booty calls”—he smiles at the term—“I’ve met someone.”  
    “You have?”  
    “Yeah.” Nodding now, staring at me to gauge my reaction. “Her name is Dawn and she plays the bass in this band that we opened for last month and ... I think I’m in love.”  
    I try to smile, I really do, but for some reason my face won’t work, all the muscles have gone on strike, and I just stare back at Josh whose own smile starts to fade.  
    “I figured you’d understand, right? Because, like, this was never anything serious. You’d told me that before and that’s what I accepted it as. Just two friends, you know, having a good time.”  
    He’s right of course. That’s all it ever was. But the nasty truth is our “booty calls” were designed to help free up my tension, get me grounded, and while I hate to admit it I just always assumed that Josh would be there whenever I called, always arriving within the hour. Having a girlfriend, I guess that’s something I knew was a possibility, something that would eventually happen, but for some reason I just never worried about.  
    Josh squeezes my hand again. “You’re happy for me, right, Holly? It means a lot to me that you get where I’m coming from.”  
    Still I try to smile and still I fail, just sitting there in my slacks and shirt, my hair pulled back in a ponytail.  
    “I mean, I wanted to tell you last night, before ... well, you know, but I just ... I could see you really wanted to do it and I figured I’d tell you later, and I guess it means I cheated on Dawn, but if she knew our arrangement and everything, I think she’d understand, even though I’m not going to tell her, I mean, of course I’m never going to tell her about last night, but if she—”  
    “Josh,” I say, and I can hardly recognize my own voice.  
    He looks at me, his eyebrow raised.  
    “It’s fine.”  
    “Really?”  
    “Yeah.” I pull my hand away, start to stand back up. “Now if you don’t mind, can you lock up when you leave? I have to go to work.”  

 
     
     
    15

    The Hadden residence is a three-story colonial just outside of Arlington. It sits in a neighborhood with several other three-story homes, many that could be considered mansions, and on a clear autumn day, when the leaves have all fallen, you can stand in the Hadden’s backyard and see the tip of the Washington Monument.  
    I turn off Arbor Drive into their driveway a few minutes before seven. I park the car and hurry toward the backdoor. The backdoor lets into a foyer, the foyer into the kitchen. The moment I open the door Sylvia, standing at the dishwasher, turns to me and smiles.  
    “Good morning, Miss Holly.”  
    “Morning, Sylvia. How are you doing?”  
    Before Sylvia can answer, David and Casey shout my name in that singsong way of theirs. They’re at the kitchen table with their mother, Marilyn dressed in one of her smart business suits, skimming the Post while she takes deliberate bite after bite of her Special K.  
    I smile at Sylvia and touch her arm as I walk past her, the housekeeper going back to her duties, and then I’m at the table and