Evan looked at the duffel. His name was stenciled on it in letters that had survived two years. The letters did not know about a kitchen. He walked past her, not touching, into the room he had painted before the deployment, gray sofa, stone fireplace, a photograph of the two of them on the mantel from a cookout that felt like a different marriage. The photograph was still up. That offended him more than the glass.
Megan turned the burner off. Her hands were steady. She had practiced steadiness for three weeks, since the date of his return stopped being a rumor and became a Tuesday. She had told Darren Tuesday. Darren had said he would not be here. He had been here because the garbage disposal had jammed and she had asked, and asking had become a habit with a bitter taste she had not broken before the boots hit the porch.
“Sit down or don’t,” she said. “But if you go after him through the side door I will call his sister and I will call your commander, and I will not be quiet about which call I make first.”
Evan sat on the arm of the sofa because his legs had done airport and bus and curb and did not want the fireplace. “Is it his.”