He reached for the heavy canvas strap of my duffel bag, but I stepped in front of it, my boots planting firmly on the concrete. I did not want his hands on my gear. He had a nervous twitch in his fingers, his thumb searching for the silver lighter again through the thin fabric of his pocket.
“I will keep my bags with me,” I said.
“Suit yourself,” Chad said, turning back toward his dusty sedan. “See you at the Griddle. Don’t be late. Dad hates waiting.”
He got into his car and backed out of the driveway, his front bumper scraping slightly on the curb as he swung onto Maggie Street.
I stood on the driveway for a long minute, looking at the bungalow. The small lawn was long overdue for a mow, the wild dandelions growing thick around the concrete path. It was only late August, but the place already had the look of an abandoned property.
The flower beds I had carefully planted with blue hydrangeas before my deployment were completely choked with crabgrass. The wooden porch railing had a long crack running down the center where the paint had peeled away, exposing the grey wood beneath. It was clear that nobody had done any maintenance here for months. He had neglected the entire property.
I picked up my seabag and walked toward the main road to find a cab.
I dragged my green seabag down Maggie Street to the gas station on the corner and called a local cab. The driver didn’t say a word as we drove past the familiar shrimp docks and the weathered sign for the naval air station, eventually pulling up to the Quality Inn off the highway.
I checked into a first-floor room that smelled of stale air conditioning and carpet cleaner. I left my bags on the luggage rack, washed the travel dust off my face, and walked the three blocks to the Golden Griddle.
