The Tiff Singularity (A Collection of Lake Wonder Fiction)

Denny Wants A Nap

Denny waves goodbye to Drake, tries to make sure he gets inside to his roommates and a well-locked door-- as much as she can from the street below where she's parked.

It's an okay enough place. There's a few apartments in the building, a motorcycle, and a car she knows is Larry's out front, the scent of something divine on the air... Denny waves goodbye again until he's in the apartment, then leaves.

It's easy. It's quick. And it's easier to get back home, almost like second nature.

Nature. What fun. Denny spent all of yesterday and most of this morning out in the woods-- not alone, for once, but with three people she cares deeply for. Drake and his weird little animal shifts, Robin and their proclivity for magic, Lucky and their insane, vast intelligence-- Denny's glad she got to go now, even if she wasn't at the time.

She thinks about it on the drive home, listening to one of the CDs Cory made for her years ago-- more Galaxy Brain than No Doubt, more Pfunk than Tragic Kingdom. It was an accident but, then... She's so tired from taking on all that toxic sludge in that fight out in the woods, and then carrying Robin back after that, and from the Gatorade debate, and-- she supposes-- from shifting as much as she did. Even if she won't admit it to anyone, she's exhausted.

She's never really thought about it before, how much energy it takes. It figures that Robin would know more about what Denny is that she, herself, would. Robin knows almost everything-- and Denny knows that Lucky knows the rest. She can't help but smile as she thinks about it, about them, about how much she loves each of them. And she does. She cares deeply about them and their welfare, even if she has no clue about things like medicine or healing magic.

Ah, well. It's not like that's what she was meant for. It's fine. She doesn't have to be good at everything.

Denny yawns with the back of her left hand to her mouth as she pulls up to the house. For a blissful moment, she forgot her father was here-- but there's his truck in the driveway, where he must have moved it after she headed up to the woods.

Denny parks on the street instead. If she were less tired, she might feel a surge of anger. As it is, she just sighs. Without drumming her hands on the wheel for once in her life, climbs out of the car.

She stretches gently, feeling the jacket shift up and down her arms. The town is a lot less cold than the woods had been, and she wants nothing more than to shed her jacket and hat and either take a shower to shake the cold from her bones or to just crawl into bed and go to sleep. One or the other, or maybe both.

Denny heads in through the back door like she usually does, through the door that leads directly to the kitchen. She has always entered through the back door. She has never thought to ask why but, then, she has a habit of not asking things about herself. It makes things way complicated-- way too complicated for her liking.

That's neither here nor there, though. Denny unlocks the door and steps into the warmth of the house. It's inevitable. Her mother has a thing about heat. Even with the heat going, Matilda is sitting at the kitchen table with a sweater on and a mug of something warm steaming in her hands. There's an article about something or other pulled up on her phone.

It would be one thing if it were just Denny's mother there, seemingly waiting and whiling away the hours. It is another entirely when Denny realizes that, sitting across from her, there is her father. He's sorting through a pile of mail from the junk drawer.

Denny lingers in the doorway a second too long, letting the cold in behind her in a way that sends a clear shiver down her mother's shoulders and spine.

"Stephanie, I'm glad you're home, but please close the door and quit standing there. It's really cold."

"Sorry, Mom." Denny closes the door behind her and behind to shed her coats with one hand. With the other, she puts her keys on the hook over the counter, the one by the door.