Page 114 of Yearn

Yet, she’d seen Dominic too. The day he moved in, shoulders hunched like a man carrying ghosts. How gentle he was with the boys. How he fixed the gutter, shoveled the walk, left a bouquet on the porch on my birthday when he thought I wouldn’t notice.

She’d seen that too.

So when she called out “the family’s back together,” was it a blessing?

Or a warning?

I looked in the other direction.

Across the street, the Masons were out front again, watering their lawn for the fifth time today like they were trying to resurrect Eden. The husband stood by the hose while his wife supervised from the porch, two enormous American flags billowing behind her like patriotic wings. They loved this country more than God and in the loudest way possible—bumper stickers, lawn ornaments, and a mailbox painted red, white, and blue.

By the walkway stood those damned racist ass jockey statues—two of them, short and sun-faded, with red jackets, white breeches, and cartoonishly wide eyes. Their skin was painted a glossy, impossible black. Their big red lips were frozen in exaggerated grins. Those damned statues had no business surviving past the 1950s.

I’d filed complaint after complaint with the homeowners’ association. Every time, I got the same bland email back—We’ll review the matter at the next meeting.

But nothing ever changed.

The jockeys stayed.

The Masons smiled. And their sprinklers hissed like applause every time I pulled into my driveway, watching me the way people watch things they’ve already decided don’t belong.

Now the husband watched us, turned to his wife, and shook his head in disapproval.

I guess we have a big audience tonight. Whatever. Fuck all of these people.

Mrs. Patterson remained outside, sweeping that broom at half speed.

I lowered my voice and lifted my chin. “I have been happy that you’re gone. No one in this house has missed you—”

“Lies.” Scott popped the trunk and grabbed his suitcase. The wheels thumped down like a gavel. He hauled it up by the handle and headed back to the house.

I could feel Mrs. Patterson listening, could practically hear the gossip script writing itself in her head.

I shifted closer to Scott, blocking her line of sight. “Don’t do this.”

“You need me. The boys need me.”

“This is stupid,” I followed him back into the house. “Your wanting to be here when you are not wanted here. That’s not stability. That’s ego.”

“It’s the law.”

“It’s a temporary order. Which means it can also be temporarily ignored when it conflicts with safety. Emotional safety is still safety, last time I checked. You are messing with mine—”

“Cute. Let’s see if that will really work on the judge.”

“We’ll see, but for now.” I closed the door. My hands shook from how angry I was. “For now. . .here are the rules.”

“Rules?” He stopped in the living room. “What fucking rules?”

“You can sleep on the couch. You willnotsleep in my bed.”

His head jerked back. “It’sourbed.”

“It’s the bed whereIsleep, you haven’t earned the right to call anything ours since you cheated.”

He pointed to the papers. “Court order says cohabitation in the marital residence.”

“Cohabitation,” I repeated. “Not consummation. Not proximity. Not whatever fantasy you thought was going to happen once you forced yourself in here.”