Page 14 of Hounded

I glanced at my suit coat and slacks. The burgundyvelvet shimmered where it creased at my elbows and broke over the tops of my boots. Frankly, I couldn’t wait to be back in my own clothes, but Indy’s attention was drawn like a magnet to the bare stretch of skin down my chest. His gaze traveled to the area just below my beltline and lingered there long enough to make me frown. I gave a muffled cough that stirred him to attention, and he resumed his speech as though he’d never stopped.

“Sorry. Ex-junkie. Recovering addict…” He cycled through the terms while waving his hand in a circular motion. “I’m two months sober, though. Got the pin to prove it.” He gave his duffel bag a kick, indicating the enamel number sixty fastened to the strap.

“Congratulations,” I said. I meant it.

His smile turned wily as he leaned in and lowered his tone to a whisper. “It’s kind of a given. Itwasrehab, after all.”

I nodded.

Indy grabbed the duffel and shouldered it before gesturing to the Airstream parked beside us. “Well, now that we’re all here, you mind letting me in? This is the right trailer, isn’t it?”

I reached into my pocket for his key fob. The small cluster came complete with a few novelty keychains and the ignition key for his car. Walking under the awning to the Airstream’s door, I unlocked and swung it wide.

Indy crept up behind me and stopped at the base of the fold-down steps. He leaned to look past me at the interior.

Wood floorboards butted up to white-painted cabinets and pale gray walls. Pops of navy and yellow camefrom the pillows on the couch and the short window drapes. I remembered every trip to the hardware store and the hours spent deliberating over fabrics and patterns. Well, Indy deliberated. I nodded along and gave the only input I had: I liked whatever made him happy. It made me happy, too, seeing bits of him like fingerprints all over our home.

I stood in the doorway while Indy slid past, and I hoped against hope that something would be different. I waited for recognition to dawn, for some knickknack to strike a chord, or for him to sit at his art desk and pick up his watercolors and brushes.

Instead, he made his way into the kitchen and turned a slow circle before saying, “Phew, I was scared it would be a dump. This ain’t half bad.”

The door fell closed as I entered and set his keys on the butcher block counter.

“Fridge and cabinets are stocked,” I said, giving all the encouragement he needed to begin rifling the pantry for snacks. “Hope you can find something you like.”

The duffel hit the floor with a thump as Indy pulled out a bag of potato chips and a package of chocolate cookies. There was real food, too, pasta and canned vegetables that would likely go untouched since I wouldn’t be around to cook them. That realization stung more sharply than I expected, and I looked aside as Indy opened the refrigerator.

“Thanks for all this,” he muttered, bent over and pushing past a carton of eggs and a block of cheese in a targeted grab for the milk jug. He straightened, laden with food and drink, and frowned at me.

“What was your name again?”

I couldn’t breathe.

“Loren,” I replied.

His eyebrow arched. “Just Loren?”

“Just Indy?” I tried to smile but wasn’t sure if I succeeded.

He shrugged. “Fair.”

He pinned the cookies and chips under one arm and twisted the cap off the milk. Tossing the lid on the counter, he tipped the gallon jug back for a lengthy swig, then wiped his mouth on his sweatshirt sleeve.

“Garbage food in that place, by the way,” he said. “Why’d you pick it?”

The strangling sensation returned, and I tugged at my collar as though it were to blame.

Honestly, I couldn’t remember why I’d chosen Hopeful Horizons or what I’d known about it beyond the photos and testimonials on their website. It didn’t seem prudent to tell him I’d opened a search window and clicked on the first result. I’d been too overwhelmed to look any further.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

It wasn’t an answer.

Indy’s gilded eyes fixed on me. It felt like an age passed before he replied, “Don’t be. I’m the one with the problem, right? Admitting it is the first step.”

He raised the milk jug again and guzzled from it as he shimmied past me into the alley of the living area. Dumping the snacks onto the couch, he approached the television and the cabinet beneath it. The milk dangled against his thigh as he opened one cabinet door and beganthumbing through the stacks of DVDs inside.

“Where’d you say your place was?” he asked over his shoulder.

---