John B is no longer an indoor animal.
Stepping inside the screened in porch of the chateau feels like willingly stepping into a crab pot. It’s too many closed corners, too many sharp angles. The wicker lattice of the rug under his sneakers fills him with a reedy, fluttering dread. He swallows, and it clicks in his throat.
Standing there, he suddenly becomes painfully aware that his skin is raw from the wind, only noticeable when it’s no longer blowing. The sunburn makes itself known to him, too. Tight heat crawls across the triangle of his shoulders and the back of his neck, tingling across the bridge of his nose.
It doesn’t hurt, but he does feel it. Registers his own body for the first time in what feels like months. It surprises him more than he thought it would.
“Jesus, look at this place.” Big John’s voice bounces out from deeper inside the house. John B can see him moving in the kitchen, a murky figure swanning around in the dusky gloom. A heavy footed ghost, tone deep with warm, familiar humor. “Would it kill ya to clean up every once in a while, Bird?”
His dad sends him a look over his shoulder, and his glasses catch the glint of sunlight that pours in through the door. He winks, teasing, and for the first time since he got him back, John B realizes that his dad is here. Living and breathing, right in front of him.
Suddenly very aware of the heartbeat rising up in his throat, John B laughs, a little wetly, his chin dropping down to his chest. It’s a lighter sound than he expected it to be.
Inside, the ghost watches his son smile for the first time all over again, and his grin comes wide and slow.
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