DAYLIGHT: A FIFTY FIRST TIMES STORY by Julie Cross (me)
Jack slides the key into the doorknob of his tiny apartment above my father’s church. His fingers still and he turns to me, “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather be at a hotel?”
“That’s so not us.” I twist the ring around my left finger. It’s foreign to my body, but in the same way a new pet is foreign to a person’s home. It represents work and responsibility, but somehow you know that it will eventually become a part of you.
He finally opens the door, stepping into the studio apartment with its combo kitchen-living-room-bedroom. My heart is drumming as I pass through the doorway, listening to Jack bolt the lock behind me. I fight the urge to wipe my palms on my mother’s beautiful white dress. Instead, I glance around the room at the stacks of records and novels piled neatly in different corners and the soft brown plush couch I used to lie across on summer afternoons, reading a library book, while my dad worked on his sermons or held meetings with church members.
A wave of fear and dread sweep over me as Jack’s gaze meets mine. If tomorrow morning is the last time I see him, if he doesn’t come home from his mission, this room that has held nothing but comfort for me, will never look the same.