Love is Always Write Anthology Volume 5

or something boring like that so he'd have the little white picket fence and porch he's always dreamed of."
    Scott's emotions rose precariously in his throat. Porch. He coughed to clear the lump, ready to tell this woman—whoever she thought she was who knew so much about Devon—that he was fine. A different voice from down the hall made him snap to attention.
    "What the fuck happened, Scott?" Marshall's gruff words made Scott believe there might be a God, at least at that precise moment in time, and he was happy to have his still-reeling body swapped from the woman's to Marshall's hold.
    "I think he had a panic attack, Marsh. Not sure he got to see Dev either. Don't let him drive home." Then she was gone and Scott could finally raise his eyes to the worried ones staring him in the face.
    "Do you still want to see Devastation?"
    "No! I just… I just need to go home. Please." Scott sagged against Marshall, partially for effect but mostly because of exhaustion and a feeling of rejection. The fewer people who saw him, and his maiden-in-distress act, the better.
    "There's a couple of taxis outside or do you want me to drive you? You'll have to wait until my shift is over but I'm almost done."
    "No. A taxi's good."
    Marshall helped him into the backseat of the cab, getting Scott's address from him, but asking no other questions. Scott loved him for that. Just as he was closing the door, a thought struck Scott.
    "Marshall, who was that woman?"
    "You mean Charlene? She's Wolfie's wife. Real nice girl, doesn't let any of the boys get out of line. She's been around a lot to give her support to Shadow."
    Scott's head was beginning to spin again, caused more by the slew of names being thrown at him than the panic attack. "Shadow?"
    "Smoky's drummer. His wife just died of cancer last week. That's why the boys are taking some time off. It's been hard."
    "I imagine it has been."
    ****
    The cab dropped Scott off in front of his house and within five minutes, he was inside and passed out on top of the covers of his bed—shoes and coat still intact. He awoke a few hours later, took another couple of Ativan for good measure, undressed, and crawled back into bed. The next day was Sunday and Scott really hoped he'd just sleep the entire day away.
    ****
    Exactly one week later a loud knock at the door interrupted Scott from a very boring evening of watching some nature show on television. To be fair, he wasn't really watching, just using it to break the monotony and silence of another Saturday night with nothing more exciting to do than learn the breeding habits of the Canada goose. He'd considered going out to The Little Shoppe of Jazz , but Saturday nights were much more crowded than during the week, and he was sure he wouldn't enjoy the music if he had to be shoulder to shoulder with other people. Plus, since he'd taken the week off—the first time in his entire life—due to illness—more like depressed sulking—he didn't feel it was appropriate to leave the house.
    The intrusion came as Scott was discovering it was the female goose that did the mate-choosing by effectively stalking her intended victim. They then began their courtship by establishing a bond, became completely monogamous and in love, and lived happily ever after. How fucking fabulous and easy was that?
    The first thing that came to Scott's mind was "the Girl Scouts are back with more cookies," and his brain excitedly did an internal fist-pump. The next, "but it's a little late for Girl Scouts to be knocking on doors." Dammit. Who the hell could it be? If they weren't bringing him more cookies, they could just take a hike anyhow.
    He dragged himself off the couch, mindful of his week-long un-showered body, his bed-head hair that had seen a lot of bed recently, and the threadbare pajama pants and t-shirt he hadn't bothered to change out of since the previous Sunday. He was mindful of them but didn't give a crap at the same time. By the time he reached the door—all of twenty feet or so of stepping over things that did not belong where he was stepping—he was angry at the person on the other side for interrupting his Canada Goose happily-ever-after and for not bringing him anymore cookies, but mostly for the latter.
    He didn't even check the peephole to see who dared to sully his stoop at ten o'clock on a Saturday night, just whipped the door open, a rude comment already formed on his tongue. He ended up stumbling on his carefully put-together words