Chapter 5: Interrupted
The walk back from the station was different. The space between them hummed, a quiet current set off by the kiss. They didn't speak much. Their shoulders brushed. Once, his hand found hers, his fingers lacing through hers for half a block before she pulled away to dig for her keys, the gesture so casual it barely registered as a retreat.
The house was dark when they got to it, a single porch light casting a sickly yellow halo over the sagging steps. “Come on,” she said, her voice low. She led him around the side, through the narrow gap between the siding and the rusted chain-link fence, to the back door. The key stuck, then gave with a familiar, metallic complaint.
She pushed it open, the smell of the house—old coffee, fried food, lemon cleaner fighting a losing battle—washing over them. She pulled him inside by his shirt front and closed the door softly, the click of the latch final in the dark kitchen.
“I think they’re all asleep,” she whispered, the words brushing against his jaw.
In the near-dark, her confidence returned. She wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him down to kiss her. This one was not soft. It was a reclaiming, a confirmation of the platform, all the pent-up, confused want of the last week poured into the press of her mouth. His hands found her waist, his touch firm through the thin cotton of her shirt, anchoring her.
A light flicked on.
They pulled apart, blinking against the sudden fluorescent glare.
Frank was sitting on top of the new washing machine, his legs dangling like a child’s. He wore a stained bathrobe and a expression of triumphant, greasy curiosity. He crossed his arms. “Gotcha.”
Fiona’s body went rigid. Her hands dropped from Joseph’s neck. “Dad. What are you doing?”
“Just investigating a strange hum in my domestic domain,” Frank said, patting the lid of the washer beside him as if it were a prized horse. “A new appliance appears, mysteriously, without my fiscal consultation. A fiscal miracle! And now, a suitor, creeping in the back door like a common thief of virtue.” He slid off the machine, his bare feet slapping on the linoleum. He took a few shuffling steps forward, squinting at Joseph. “Who’s been eating my porridge?”
The childish taunt, delivered with a theatrical, drunkard’s gravity, hung in the air. Fiona felt a hot flush of humiliation crawl up her neck. This was the reality. Not the quiet kiss at the station, but this: her father, smelling of cheap whiskey and unwashed skin, performing a deranged parody of paternal concern.
She stepped slightly in front of Joseph, a useless, instinctive barrier. “Hey, dad. This is Joseph.”
Frank was close enough now for Joseph to smell the sour sweetness on his breath. He peered up at him, his eyes watery and red-rimmed. Recognition, slow and murky, dawned. “We’ve met before,” Joseph said, his voice calm, level. “In the alley. Behind the bar. But you weren’t exactly…”
“Conscious?” Frank supplied with a grand wave of his hand. “A temporary diplomatic retreat! And now you’re here, in my kitchen, atop a tidal wave of unexplained laundry technology.” He leaned in, his gaze flicking between them. “You the phantom appliance donor, boy?”
“Dad, stop it,” Fiona hissed.