Page 9 of Center of Gravity

“What’s herpes?”

“Thanks a lot, John,” Mom said, her lips pursed.

I stoppedby Dad’s room before heading out. The History Channel was still going and Dad had a James Patterson paperback open on his lap. He’d been working through that one for weeks. I didn’t think he was actually reading it.

“You’re going out a lot, lately.” He eyed the keys in my hand as I leaned against the doorway.

“It’s summer. Everyone goes out a lot.”

“Mmph,” he grumbled, but then added, “Can’t say I blame you. Job still going okay? You like it all right?”

“Sure.” I shrugged. “Had a looker on the first one today.”

“Don’t fuck clients.” There was that lack of filter I was still getting used to.

“He’s not technically my client.” I said it mostly to be argumentative. I could look all I wanted, but Rob had made it evident he didn’t want to be any more than a name I’d forget in a week. Which was fine with me. I didn’t make a habit of repeats and especially not with a cheater, if that was what he truly was.

Dad grumbled some more and I grinned.

“Don’t wait up for me.” We both knew he’d be out like a light before ten. He slept a lot.

“Don’t become an alcoholic.”

“Oh Jesus, Dad. I’m nowhere close to the AA threshold.”

“And use a rubber.” That was how he always sent me off.

3

Rob

By the time I’d finished my morning run, I’d all but erased the wine-smeared traces of last night’s call from my mind. Had I been any drunker, I would have lost my resolve and ended up panting on the end of the line while talking Sean through his jerk session on the other end. Many a night had gone that way between us.

I pushed a little too forcefully through the door of the convenience store a couple of blocks from my parents’ house, the bells hanging on the handles clanging against a postcard display. Happy scenes of Nook Island and sedate montages of oak-lined Savannah avenues slid to the floor as I made a wild grab for the wire rack, trying to catch it before it toppled over. Once I’d steadied it, I bent to pick up the postcards, giving the cashier an apologetic smile.

“Still hot out there,” he said with an arch of his brow.

“How could you tell?” I deadpanned back.

“You’re dripping all over my floor.”

So I was. I peered at the sweat spatter around my feet and opened my hands. “Got a towel? I’ll mop it up.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “It’ll get mopped at shift change.”

I grabbed a water from an ice-filled barrel beside the door, then roamed the abbreviated wine aisle for a new bottle, telling myself I’d limit it to two glasses that night.

The cashier’s gaze trailed my progress. “I see you running every day this last week, but not before. New arrival or tourist?”

I glanced over. He had a pleasant smile, his hands folded on the counter. I picked up a bottle of red, giving the label a cursory read before carrying it and the water to the counter. “Neither,” I said. “Or both. My parents lived up the street. My father passed a few months back, so I’m getting the house ready to sell.”

“Mr. Macomb?” The cashier’s mouth drew up slightly into a warmer smile. Up close, I could see his name tag, which readAlonse.

I nodded. “That’s him. Or me. Both.”

Alonse gave me a sympathetic frown. I prepared for condolences, which had always struck me as a strange social norm. He would offer a nice sentiment and in return, I would thank him and feel awkward for expressing gratitude over such a maudlin subject.

He rang up the wine and water, then paused in thought. “I wondered if something had happened to him. He’d come every other Tuesday in his little chair with the dog running alongside him.”