Arlen folds my fingers around the key and says my name soft.
Arlen: This is yours now. Ours.
The yard smells like rust and hot metal, and the gate sign buzzes over our heads.
Arlen: New locks. New start. No more of that crying shit, Dara.
I nod, because I'm good at nodding, and I don't want to find out what happens.
He pulls me in by the back of my neck and kisses my forehead.
It's gentle, and that's the part nobody else ever sees.
Arlen: You and Cal are gonna be fine. Long as you listen.
Dara: I listen.
I say it too fast, like a dog.
For one whole second I let myself have it, a door that locks and a man who comes home.
Hope is a stupid thing to carry around in your chest, because it flaps the whole time.
The office is one room with a window unit and a coffee cup full of cigarette butts.
Arlen: Give me your phone.
He doesn't ask, he just holds his hand out and waits.
I put it in his palm, and he scrolls with his thumb, slow, like he's reading a bedtime story.
Arlen: Who's this? Tobin?
Dara: He's my brother.
Arlen: He's a fuckup. He doesn't get to know where you live now.
My face goes hot, and one question has me blushing like a kid.
Arlen: You gonna cry?
Dara: No.
Arlen: Good. I don't have the fucking time to babysit your feelings today.
He sets the phone face down and smiles at me again, and that's the worst part.
Arlen: I give you a key. I give you a home. And you stand there looking at me like I'm the bastard.
Dara: I didn't say that.
Arlen: You don't have to say it. It's all over your face. You're an ungrateful little bitch sometimes, you know that?
The word goes in like a splinter, and I'll turn it over for hours tonight.
Maybe I am ungrateful, since he works and pays and put a roof over Cal's head.
My hands are shaking, so I keep them in my pockets where he can't see.
He sends me out for a box of invoice pads from unit twelve.
The key is on a nail by the door.
Gravel pops under my sneakers, and past the fence a bike engine rolls by and fades.
Unit fourteen is open, not all the way, just enough to show a slice of dim light.
I hear a laugh, then a low voice, then a sound that isn't a laugh.
I look, even though I shouldn't, because something in me needs to see the worst thing.
Arlen has Hank against the metal wall, Hank's polo already untucked.
Arlen: Shut the door, Hank. Unless you want the whole yard watching.
Hank kicks the door, and it rolls down and slams.
I stand in the gravel with my heart going like a bird in a box.
The key in my pocket is still warm from his hand.
Ten minutes later the door rolls up again, and Hank comes out first.
He's fixing his belt, and his name patch is crooked on his chest.
Hank: Ma'am.
He says it like we're at church instead of a storage yard.
His neck is red, and he grins at me on his way to his truck.
Arlen comes out behind him, buttoning his shirt, and he sees me and doesn't flinch.
Arlen: What are you standing there for?
Dara: The invoice pads.
Arlen: Then get them and get back to the office. And wipe that look off your face.
He walks past me and pats my cheek with two fingers, like I'm a kid.
Arlen: See? Nothing to cry about.
I get the pads, and my hands are still shaking so bad I nearly drop them.
I don't ask him about Hank, because fuck that, and I don't ask him anything.
That's the thing about a fresh start, you pay for it in pieces and never see the bill.
The key digs into my thigh through my pocket, and I hold on to it anyway.