Free Homing by Stephanie Domet Page A

to the bathroom, closed the door with a deliberate click though she was alone in the house, sat down on the floor and began to cry great sobs that wracked her, that made her worry she wouldn’t be able to stop, that the deep sadness she felt would overwhelm her, overpower her, sweep her — and everyone she loved — out into a hot and salty sea.
    She read the book one night when sleep eluded her. She read it avidly, eagerly, attentively. If there was a message there for her, beyond the one that was there for everyone, if there was something there for her alone, for Leah from Nathan, she didn’t see it. She wanted to, desperately, but she just didn’t.
    And now, from time to time on nights like this, nights when sleep once again played hard to get, Leah sat in the kitchen, Neil on her lap, and tried to think just what the message might be. She rocked and scratched and wondered and thought. The night wore on.
    * * *
    Charlotte finished another drink, put the empty glass on the bar decisively. “Well, Nervous Guy,” she said, as Nervous Guy’s jaw dropped open, “I’ve gotta ride on outta here. Been nice talking to you.” She tipped her hat once more, turned on her heel and sashayed out of the bar.
    * * *
    Amanda ground her pelvis into Henry’s. Across the dance floor, Johnny Parker looked up from a sea of blondes and gave Henry a smiling thumbs-up. Henry swallowed the despair that was beginning to rise in his throat, smiled back at Johnny Parker and returned Amanda’s pressure. She looked up at him through her bangs with a look that made Henry’s heart flip. No, to be accurate, it made his stomach swoop. Okay, to be truly honestly honest, he thought, it made his cock swell. Or maybe it was the grinding of her pelvis that was doing that. Either way, Henry thought, it’s now or never.
    He leaned down so his mouth was just beside Amanda’s ear. Her hair smelled like flowers. He breathed in as if it was oxygen. He didn’tknow what he’d done to deserve this, though he could hear Johnny Parker’s drunken voice in his head telling him it was his birthright, it was what he was entitled to as a young, good-looking, single, guitar-playing god. He wouldn’t believe it if Johnny Parker actually said it, and he sure wasn’t about to take it from the voice in his head, but Henry was past caring what he’d done to deserve what he was about to receive. He cared only about receiving it.
    â€œWanna go?” he breathed into Amanda’s ear.
    â€œWhat?” she yelled.
    Henry sighed, but was undeterred. “Wanna go?” he asked, louder this time.
    â€œWhat?” she yelled again.
    He stepped back from her ear, made eye contact. “Go,” he yelled. “Let’s go!”
    â€œOh,” she said, surprised. “Oh, okay. Let me tell my friends.” She looked over at Johnny Parker and his blondes. “Cherry!” she yelled. “Tina! I’m going!” She pointed at Henry, whose heart — no mistaking it this time, it was definitely his heart — dropped like an elevator free of its cables. Tina, Tina, Tina. Why couldn’t she have been named Emintrude or Aloysius or some rare name he’d never heard? Those two syllables, the first creased his mouth into a smile, the last left his lips wanting hers. And where was Tina this fine night? Who was she making smile, whose lips were hers gracing? He felt that in his stomach, that was certain. He felt it like ice in his bowels. Her limbs, golden, all tangled up with some old codger’s. Her hair on the pillow, flaxen, mixed with obscene grey. Jesus Christ. He closed his eyes. He staggered.
    â€œWhoops, baby, watch out,” Amanda said, putting out a hand to steady him. She gripped his left buttock, squeezed. She grinned up at him, her blue eyes depthless, her lips pink and chapped.
    Henry steadied himself, shook off her hand. “Okay,” he said,