Darren knew something about love. He knew that if you neglected it for too long, it could be erased. And that one love could replace another. Blot it out completely. His wife knew it, too.
That morning, so long ago, when he had driven away from Claire and Trudy and Tammy, he turned the radio up loud and cranked the rear-view mirror to the side so that all he could see, all that was reflected there, was the grey-blue river and the pale sky and not that sad trio standing at the end of the driveway, fading into the distance. And when he pulled into that other driveway back in Brownsville, when he put the truck in park and turned off the engine, he couldn’t get out.
He sat there, staring at the front of his in-laws’ house, at the yellowing cream polyester sheers pulled across the living room window, wondering how he could arrange his face so that nobody would know. How he could possibly convince anyone that he was happy to be home.
When his head, his chest felt hollow. When everything inside him had been rearranged.
Minutes passed. He saw the sheers part and fall back into place. Still, he couldn’t move. He just sat there until the front door opened and Michelle came out onto the front step and stood there, hands on hips. Darren took a deep breath and opened the door, hopped down onto the gravel. His knees buckled. He steadied himself against the side of the truck and raised a hand to wave, pulled his face into a smile. He grabbed his duffle bag from behind the seat, slammed the door, and as he made his way around the front of the truck, he laid his hand on the warm metal of the hood, doubled over, and started to retch.
As his hot vomit splashed over the gravel and onto his work boots, Michelle turned her back on him and went into the house. And when she slammed the front door, her eyes turned from soft brown to flint.