No Ordinary Home. Mary Sullivan

room will be locked.”

      “It goes with me.” It was a point on which she never compromised. Everything she owned was in her bag. Like a turtle, she carried her home with her. It wasn’t much, and it was cheap stuff, but it was all she had.

      She walked with him out of the hotel and down the street until they stopped in front of a Mexican restaurant.

      “Is this the one you mentioned last night?”

      “Yep.”

      “I’m going to order enchiladas.”

      “I don’t know. It’s breakfast. You might want huevos rancheros.”

      “Ooh. You have a point.”

      He reached past her to open the door. So strange. No one ever treated the homeless, the nomads of the world, with courtesy. Most times people ignored them, or didn’t see them, the invisible of the streets.

      With the slightest touch at the base of her back, he directed her into the restaurant ahead of him. It should have offended her. She could make her way into a building on her own, thank you very much, but that feather-light, brief and respectful touch charmed her.

      Mr. Decency.

      “Finn might already be here,” he said.

      He wasn’t. They got a booth by the window to wait for him.

      They spotted him standing across the street in front of a low-rise apartment building, unmoving.

      “What’s he doing?”

      “His friend lives there. He’s going to visit her while we’re passing through. He hasn’t seen her since they were kids.” He gestured with his chin toward Finn. “That’s why we stopped to stay here last night instead of driving straight through to Denver.”

      Austin pushed his menu aside. “You should let me drive you to Denver.”

      “No.”

      “That’s it? No discussion. No thank you for the offer.”

      Gracie blushed. “I don’t mean to sound ungrateful. Thank you for the offer, but no.”

      The waitress poured them coffee.

      “Finn might be a while. Let’s go ahead and order.”

      Thank goodness. The smells in this place had Gracie’s mouth watering. She ordered huevos rancheros. So did Austin.

      Who was this guy who treated her so well? While they waited for their food, she asked, “What’s your story?”

      He paused with his coffee cup halfway to his mouth. “My story?”

      “Yes. Where are you from?”

      “Ordinary, Montana.”

      The waitress brought a basket of warm tortillas. Gracie took one and bit into it. Heaven.

      “Have you lived there all your life?” Her fascination with happy homes and secure childhoods seeped through. She couldn’t help sounding wistful.

      “Yeah. I grew up there. The guy we’re visiting in Denver was the sheriff when I was young. He influenced me to enter law enforcement.” It sounded like an ideal life. Lucky guy.

      “You said you’re a deputy, right? Think you’ll ever be sheriff?” She could see him in a position of authority. Easily.

      “Probably.”

      “People have to vote for you.”

      “I treat the people of Ordinary with respect. They respect me in return.”

      She studied his face. No arrogance. “You’re that sure of yourself? Think you can do the job?”

      “I’ve been trained for it, but I also want to do it. It’s my life’s work. No doubts there.”

      His life’s work. How did it feel to be so sure of yourself and your future that you’d already mapped out your life? How did it feel to know where you belonged?

      “What about you?” he asked.

      “What about me?”

      “Why are you homeless?”

       None of your business.

      When she didn’t respond, he said, “You’re young and healthy with no apparent mental-health issues.”

      “How do you know?”

      “I know.” He sounded confident of her mental state, but how could he be? The guy didn’t have a crystal ball.

      He was right, though. Her mind was sound.

      “So? Why are you homeless?”

      Thank goodness their meals arrived. She ate without answering.

      * * *

      HOLY LEAPING BATMAN.

      Finn stood in front of the door to an apartment that might turn out to be a Pandora’s box, once again channeling the twelve-year-old kid who’d loved comic books, for whom writing and illustrating comics were more important than anything else on earth—and he hadn’t even seen the grown-up Melody yet, hadn’t talked to her and or seen the changes adulthood had brought.

      Back then, he’d had no interest in girls—until Melody had exploded into his life, and had appreciated his work. Had loved it.

      He’d wanted to write and illustrate comic books for the rest of his life.

      Where had that boy gone? He’d grown up and had left foolish dreams behind. He lived in the real world now, working as a vet with a steady income, not as the cartoonist he’d always thought he would be.

      Aw, hell, everyone had to grow up at some point.

      He jiggled the keys in his pocket.

      Nuts, he shouldn’t be this nervous, not as a grown man. His heart raced as though he were a scared kid who’d been locked in a dark basement. Crazy. Someone was playing a nasty trick on him, turning his nervous system into an arcade game, with balls of both excitement and dread careening every which way.

      Melody Chase had played a trick on him twenty years ago when she’d run out of his life.

      Come on, man, get real. She didn’t play the trick. She was a kid. She went where her mother told her to go when she told her to.

       Yeah, I know, but she never called. She never wrote.

      He’d been crazy about her, but in her mind, he’d been what? A footnote? A blip on the radar of her existence? Just a boy who’d kept her distracted in the hospital with card games and cartoon drawings...and that was it? Was that all he’d been to her, while it had taken him too freaking long to get over her?

      Yeah, he was still mad, even though he knew it was that twelve-year-old kid’s unreasonable feelings that lingered. This wasn’t the rational response of a grown man. He raised his hand to knock. He wanted to see Melody anyway, just to see if she was as perfect as in his memories.

      How much had she changed? How much had he? Would she like what she saw? Did it matter? God, he’d been such a hopeless kid with a childish crush. He was a thirty-two-year-old man now, not a boy given to flights of fancy.

      He’d had plenty of girlfriends. No need to be nervous.

      His knock echoed loudly in the empty hallway.

      He’d measured all other women against his childish memories. Not fair to the women he’d dated. Not fair at all.

      What if he’d imagined the crush she’d had on him all of those years ago?

      Didn’t matter. She was in trouble. She needed him. He was here.

      He ran his fingers over his hair, bringing it under control. He should have gotten that