“Come on in,” I offer and step back, pulling the door open so he can amble in. “Can I get you something to drink? Soda? Iced tea? I’m afraid my uncle doesn’t have anything stronger. He’s been on the wagon since I still lived here.”
“Soda would be nice, although, we call it pop.”
“That’s right. I forget. Pop to a Californian usually means duck or else you’ll get popped in a drive by,” I say. He chuckles, his blue-green eyes dancing.
I walk into the kitchen and pull open the refrigerator door. Luckily Aunt Starla shops at Sam’s Club and has a plentiful stock on hand of various flavors of soda: diet for her, straight for Jake. I note she’s added a selection of Splenda sweetened drinks for me. The aspartame in diet drinks gives me an instant earsplitting, hair raising and nauseating headache.
“What kind of so… pop would you like? I have a whole storewide selection, so name your type,” I call out thinking he’s still in the foyer.
“Root beer?” He asks from the other side of the counter.
“Can or glass?”
“Can’s fine,” he says as he settles on a stool. I wipe the top and pass it to him then pull out a Splenda sweetened grapefruit soda.
“Found anything promising yet?” He asks.
“A couple of places. You didn’t tell me the house on Honeywell was your parents.”
“It is?” He asks. “I didn’t know. They sold it years ago and bought a place in Florida when Dad retired.”
“Ah, that explains it,” I say. The place was pretty worn down and in bad repair.
“I doubt the owners took very good care of it. The husband went to jail six months after they moved in and she’s an alcoholic who cared more about her bourbon than her kids. Last I heard, the kids had been sent off to foster care and she put them there. Can you imagine?” He shakes his head with a slight look of disdain.
I swallow hard suddenly missing my kids more than anything in the world. Given my choice between sleeping with Richard and tucking my kids into bed while reading a story, I’d have to say I’d take curtain B.
“Well, you’re probably better off remembering how it looked before your parents left then, Richard,” I say before I let some of the pop flutter down my suddenly parched throat.
“Rich, please. Richard sounds like a character out of Shakespeare.” he says.
“I swear: pop versus soda, Rich versus Richard and I suppose couch instead of sofa,” I grumble teasingly. “It’s as if I’ve moved into a foreign country. And to think, I call this home!”
Rich grins. “It can’t be all that bad, can it?” He asks, his eyes following me as I round the kitchen side of the counter and pull out a stool.
“No, not entirely,” I reply.
“So, what brings you home?” He asks.
“Truth is,” I say, not willing to sidestep what any potential suitor might see as a big bag of luggage they’re unwilling to help cart around. “I recently divorced.”
“I’m sorry,” he offers.
“Don’t be. It’s the best thing that could have happened,” I inform him.
“Okay then, congratulations!”
“Thanks,” I smile as we clink our cans together. After I take a customary swallow, I continue. “And I have three young children to provide for, so I figured I’d do better coming home to raise them where I don’t have to worry about gangs, drive by shootings and the plethora of crap they’d be facing if I stayed put.”
“Better cross Detroit, Flint, Saginaw and Lansing off your list of possible places,” he says. We both laugh.