Free Flight by Darren Hynes

then, “Peek Freans.”
    â€œNo Peek Freans,” her mother said. “I’ve jam jams though.” Emily asked her father for his car keys then, so she could go to the store and get Peek Freans. Her dad wanted to go and get them for her, but she raised her voice and he sat back down. Nearly forty-five minutes by the time she got back. The tea was cold and her father asleep on the chesterfield. Her mother forced her eyes away from the Young and the Restless . “Go to St. John’s for the Peek Freans?”
    â€œChrist,” Emily said. “I forgot the cookies.” Her mother’s eyes right on her. “If you didn’t get the Peek Freans what in the name of God were you doing all this time?” Emily sat on the edge of the sofa where her father’s feet didn’t quite reach. “Driving. Just driving.” Her mother went back to her show, and her father snored himself awake. Tucked inside her jacket pocket were three plane tickets to British Columbia. Three weeks from Friday.
    * * *
    TERRY’S DRYING OFF A MILK CRATE with paper towels when she pushes open the back door.
    He turns to her. “One second.”
    She stands there watching him, her hand in the pocket that has the old electric bill.
    He wraps the paper towel around his pinky in order to get at the rainwater that has fallen between the crevices.
    Though the clouds have lost their purple tinge, they still look like they have more rain to unleash. There’s wind too, chilly enough to raise gooseflesh, strong enough to mess her hair. The air is a mixture of dog shit and tree bark.
    â€œOkay,” he says, a thumb pointed towards her now-dry seat.
    She goes and sits.
    â€œNot too cold, is it?” He says it like it’s just occurred to him.
    She shakes her head.
    â€œBecause we can go inside.”
    â€œIt’s fine.”
    â€œI’d hate for you to get sicker – ”
    â€œI’m fine , Terry.”
    â€œOkay.”
    He doesn’t pay half as much attention to his own milk crate before dropping the soaked paper towels into the garbage pail beside the back door. He comes back over and sits down. Lifts his bum and inches the crate forward so that he’s closer to her.
    She notices how he can’t get comfortable, moving forward till his backside is almost off the seat, then sitting back again. His greenishgrey eyes rest on her, then move away.
    â€œI’m almost done down there,” she says finally.
    He smiles. “I’ll count the rest, don’t worry.”
    She looks away. Don’t worry. Worry’s been with her longer than her children. There to wake her in the middle of the night, and to keep her looking over her shoulder; worry’s the relative she never sees but knows is there, the taste she can’t get rid of, the message on her answering machine she can’t erase. Don’t worry? She wouldn’t know how.
    In the silence, she watches him pick the calluses on his right hand, every so often pulling away bits of dead and dried skin, letting them fall discreetly between his feet.
    â€œYou want to say something,” she says.
    He rips off another piece and tries releasing it without her noticing. Looks towards the door and then back at her again. Shifts forward some more so that his knees are nearly touching hers. He makes to stand up. “I’ll bring you my sweater.”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œBut you’re shivering.”
    â€œTell me,” she says.
    He sits back down. Looks at her. At last, he says, “I just wanted to tell you that I’m sorry about yesterday.”
    The air’s colder suddenly. She feels heavy in her belly despite nothing being in it.
    â€œI shouldn’t have mentioned anything,” Terry says.
    â€œI made a dumb mistake. You had every right to say something.”
    â€œIt upset you.”
    â€œIt’s okay.”
    A peck of rain lands on her forehead. She wipes it