The smell of bleachy cleaning solution got to him, so he left Denny finishing the kitchen floor and headed upstairs, taking it one step at a time, jaw clenched against the pain that radiated out from his lower back into his hip and leg. From his position by the front door, King rose and dutifully followed him.
As he ran the vacuum cleaner over the bedroom carpet, trying not to twist or make any sudden movements, he saw the lighter-colored squares on the walls where their pictures had hung. In a side nook was one they’d neglected to take down. A caricature they’d gotten of the two of them at some street fair was framed: him looking like a giant cartoon cop, Michelle like a tiny, cute perp begging for mercy.
She’d spent time begging during their marriage, all right, begging him to give up his notions of an Ozzie and Harriet family and come out partying, until the begging had turned to anger and then she’d stopped talking altogether. Meanwhile, his cop side had grown bigger and bigger until it had overshadowed the marriage. Chicken-and-egg thing: he didn’t really know which had come first, Michelle’s withdrawal or his own.
Truth was, they’d been poorly suited from the start. His growing desire to start a family and Michelle’s flagging one had sealed their fate.
He stuffed the caricature into the trash bag he’d been hauling from room to room and walked down the hall to check the other two bedrooms. One painted pink and one painted blue, a relic of the previous residents who’d had a boy and a girl and then outgrown the little house.
He’d wanted a boy, some antiquated notion of building a family line. But a girl would’ve been fine, too. One of each, even better. He did a quick check of the two rooms and found one of Michelle’s thongs and a bra in the back of the blue room closet. Strange, considering neither of them had spent much time in that room unless they’d had guests, which hadn’t happened in a couple of years.
King stuck his nose into Trey’s hand, a welcome distraction from thinking about what the lingerie meant. He stuffed it into the garbage and hauled it downstairs, leaning hard on the railing, King at his side. At the bottom of the stairs he checked his watch, considered taking a pain pill early and then forced the thought away.
In the kitchen, Denny finished rinsing out the mop and stood it near the back door. He checked his phone.
“Thanks, man,” Trey said. “Take a break. There’s cold beer in the fridge and I’m about to order us some pizza.”
“I’ll grab a beer, but then I’ve gotta go. Milo’s starting T-ball and normally Laura would take him to practice, but she’s leaning on me a little more.” Denny didn’t look at all upset.
“Are you in trouble with her?” Denny had been a big womanizer before falling for Laura and learning to walk the line.
“No, but...she’s pregnant again,” Denny blurted out, kneeling down to pet King.
Trey stopped in the middle of pulling out two beers and stared at his friend, ignoring the twist in his gut. “That’s great, man. When is she due?”
“Six months, so end of October.” Denny wiped his forehead with his sleeve. “I’ve been taking some extra shifts to bring in a little more. When I’m off, I feel like I should be with her, take care of Milo so she can get some rest.”
“You should. I appreciate your coming out today. I’d have hired a cleaning company, but money’s tight.”
“No problem. You’d do the same for me.”
It was true. They’d been partners before Trey had become a K-9 officer, had dodged plenty of bullets together, had commiserated over beers about department politics and women and life. But their connection went back way further. Having spent time in the same foster home, they were practically brothers. “Give Laura a kiss for me, and tell her I’m sorry I stole you away today.”
“Will do. She said to tell you she’s already counting on you babysitting for us.”
“Anytime.” Although Denny had been sunnier and more beloved in the foster home, it had been Trey who’d helped with the babies, known for being the one who could make them stop crying, adept at changing diapers and heating up bottles. Denny remembered, and had entrusted Trey with Milo often enough that Milo called him Uncle Trey.
On some level, he guessed, he liked babies and wanted to be a dad so he could show the world he wasn’t the same kind of slacker his own father had been.
“Got an offer on the house pretty quick, huh?” Denny cracked open a cold beer and guzzled half of it.
“Inspection tomorrow. Should go well. Closing’s next week.” And that would be that.
“Young family, I’m guessing.”
“Yeah.” The little brick two-story was perfect for kids, with a fenced yard sporting a tire swing and a picnic table, and a basketball hoop above the garage. That was why the place had appealed to him, too.
“You’d think Michelle would’ve helped. She owns half, right?” Denny waved his phone at Trey. “Looks like she’s partying instead, if you believe what she’s posting.”
Trey had blocked his ex-wife on social media, but he did still know her whereabouts. “She’s doing a girls’ week at the beach. Florida. Or so she said.” He swallowed down a sour taste in his mouth.
“You’re over her, right?”
Trey thought about it. It had been a year and a half since they’d separated, and their divorce had come through six months ago. The sense of failure still nagged at him, and he regretted losing his dream of a family. But Michelle?
Thinking of her partying down in Florida didn’t make him jealous about the men she was probably meeting. It just made him feel like a sucker, agreeing to take on the cleaning. “Yeah, I’m over her.” Then, restless, he took hold of two of the trash bags and started dragging them toward the door, ignoring the shooting pain in his back.
“Whoa, man, let me get that.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine.” Denny tried to grab the trash bags.
Trey held on. “I can get them.”
“You’re an idiot.” Denny followed him outside, beer in hand, and watched while he tugged the bags down the steps. “You can’t be a hotshot on the force, so now you’re trying to be a hotshot at, what, taking out the garbage? You’re gonna set yourself back.”
What does it matter? Trey opened his mouth to say, but snapped it shut, realizing he didn’t feel that way anymore, not exactly. The PT was undeniably awful, but he’d noticed a slight improvement in his last session. Maybe, just maybe, it would help. And he definitely didn’t want to set himself back, because if he lost more of his mobility, if he couldn’t get groceries or do his own laundry, where would he be?