Escaping the Past

Brody walked out of her room and Lou closed the door behind him. She took off her clothes and walked into the bathroom, stepping beneath the spray of the shower. The heat pounded the tension from her body and eased the strained muscles of her shoulders and back. She came out of the shower feeling like some of the stress of the day had been washed down the drain. She brushed through her wet locks with a wide-toothed comb and then dressed in a tank top and long pajama pants.

Lou opened the screen door and flopped down in the rocker outside her room, hanging her hair over the back of the chair to dry. She absently chewed her fingernails.

Then she heard a sound coming from the shadows. Then she heard it again. The catch of someone’s breath? The rocker squeaked and then there was a sniffle, followed by someone loudly blowing his nose.

“Brody?” The squeaking rocker stopped. “Brody? Is that you?”

A muffled voice called back. “Yeah. It’s me.”

“Are you okay?” she asked nervously.

“I’m on my way to being okay.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing, Lou,” he sighed. “Just go to bed.”

She got up slowly and walked across the porch on bare feet. She could see him sitting in the shadows, tears pouring down his face, a full glass in his hand.

“What are you doing?” she asked quietly.

“Getting stinking drunk, just like I told you I was going to do.”

“How much have you had so far?”

“

Just one glass as of this moment.” He extended the full glass in her direction. “This one is number two.” He wiped his face with a handkerchief.

“Drunk yet?”

“Hell, no.”

“Close?”

“Not even.”

“Want some company?” Lou asked as she sat down in the rocker beside him.

“Do I get a choice?”

“Do you want one?”

“Not really,” he admitted.

“What are you drinking?”

“Jack Daniels.” She looked at him blankly. “Whisky,” he explained.

“Oh,” was her only reply. “Do you want me to leave you alone so you can go back to crying?”

He sniffled twice and a tear fell from his left eye. “Looks like I can cry just fine with you, here.”

“It’s perfectly natural, you know. Crying when your mother dies. I cried for weeks when my mother died.”

“But you’re a girl.”

“Pardon?” she tried to look offended.