She figured Hank would be too lazy to change the locks.
Jean wanted to take a moment to just stare at the crappy old house. She wanted to stand and contemplate what they'd almost had.
It's just a starter house, Hank had said. Eventually Cole will want his own bathroom and shit.
Aren't we a bit old for a "starter" house? Jean had retorted.
They also said you were too old to have a baby and boy did we prove them wrong!
Jean had noticed that Hank's car wasn't in the driveway and she wondered if she should say hello to the neighbors, see if anyone remembered her.
But then she noticed the lights were on inside and she had to cut her nostalgia short.
Was Hank home afterall?
When she walked in there was a stranger in the house. A tall man who, if she had to guess, was in his late twenties or early thirties.
He was sweeping, facing away from her, but quickly stiffened- turning to face her.
"How did you get in?" he said.
She mutely held up her key. "Who are you?" she said.
The man frowned at her, holding his broom in a defensive stance. As if he were willing to weaponize it.
"Who are you?" he echoed.
Jean chuckled nervously. She didn't like the way this man was studying her. She lifted her hands in the air, half mocking, half frightened.
"I just came to check up on Hank," Jean said. "He stopped returning texts. Won't pick up calls..."
The man had a pale complexion and glacial blue eyes, which regarded her with a sudden realization and widened.
"Jean Anderson," he said, dropping the broom. "It looks like we got off on the wrong... as they say, 'the wrong foot.'"
With a sigh, she took a tentative step further into the hose.
It was cleaner than she'd seen in years. The counters were cleared of the expected trash (fast food bags and beer bottles) and shined as if they'd just been dusted.
Jean's nose also detected something like... an air freshener? Maybe one of those spray bottles.
"Is Hank renting the place to you?" Jean said.
"No, we're living together."
"L-living!" she sputtered. "But... but..."
"Is something clogging your airway?" the man said with a smirk.
Jean glared at him and scrambled for a retort. Then there was a banging at the back door that captured both of their attentions.
It was Sumo,whining to be let back in from the yard. The young man opened the door and was rewarded with 50 pounds of Saint Bernard leaning against his shoulders and licking his face.
"Jean Anderson is here," the man murmured. "Say hello, Sumo."
It took a few minutes, but the dog noticed her and turned, tail slowing in uncertainty.
Well, it had been a long time.
But once he'd given her a good sniff his tail picked its pace back up. Sumo licked at her hands happily, but didn't jump up on her.
Good, so he remembered.
"Good boy," the man said. "Spread the love."
"Excuse me, but..." Jean wanted to ask about the nature of their relationship. Was there a polite way to phrase it?
Blue eyes, which had been fixated on the dog, glanced up to meet her gaze.
Jean tried to maintain a pleasant smile. "What is your name, young man?"
The man- or was he a boy?- beamed at her. "I'm Connor."
Then he scrambled towards the kitchen.
"Would you like some coffee?" Connor said. "Have you had lunch yet?"
Taken aback, Jean nodded absently and averted her eyes from Connor's 20 watt smile.
Continuing to examine the house, she noticed a pile of broken wood had been swept under the table.
"L-let me just throw that away," Connor said. He left his task incomplete and hurried over, hastily gathering up the wood.
He efficiently gathered it all up into one pile, but ran into a problem when he reached the front door. There was no way for him to open it without dropping something.
"I'll get that for you," Jean said, graciously holding it open.
"Thank you," Connor murmured.
He was certainly raised right, she thought.
When he came back inside she asked, "Were those shelves?"
"It was an accident," Connor said.
She knew Hank's temper better than anyone, so she let him leave it at that.
As Connor returned to the kitchen to make her coffee she thought that his mannerisms were similar to that of a fancy butler.
If it weren't for his sweatpants, he could pull off the look.
She patiently sat on the saggy old couch in the living room and watched TV, trying not to be too obvious with her staring.
Not only did she get coffee, but Connor also brought a plate of sandwiches, each with the crusts cut off.
"Hank has never been the type to cut his crust off," Jean said.
"Oh, I know," Connor said. "But it's not like he cares either way. And I like to use the crust for other things."
"What other things could you possibly use it for?" Jean said.
She wasn't trying to be malicious, she told herself. No, she was genuinely bewildered.
"Well," Connor said. "With cinnamon and a bit of pudding it makes a nice desert. Healthier than the donuts and things Hank was eating before."
Jean took two quick bites out of the sandwiches to fill her mouth.
In this way she blocked the childish retort she was tempted to spit out.
Then she stood, relieved Connor had decided to take a seat.
Now she could tower over him.
"Where's my husband?" Jean said, calmly. Demurely. With the dignity and grace expected from women of her age and experience.
"He's at the grocery store," Connor said.
Before she could help it she was jabbing an accusatory finger in the young man's face. "You knew he was married?"
Connor tilted his head and frowned at her finger. She put her hand down.
"He never told me, but the information is public knowledge. You filed for a divorce. He did not sign. But you have not been in contact since."
He gestured for her to sit back down and she did not, so finally he stood. "It is true that Hank has not returned the calls or texts directed at him since his retirement."
Connor glared at her. "But not a single message had been sent from you."
Jean huffed. "Who the hell do you think you are? You look through his phone?"
Connor blinked. "I... well, not regularly, but-"
Then he seemed to realize something. "Who do I think I am?" he echoed. "Well, I'm... I'm Connor. The... the friend who has decided to keep Hank safe."
"Wow," Jean said. "I never thought Hank of all people would switch teams. At his age?"
"Teams?" Connor said.
Jean couldn't decide if he was just being cute or genuinely dense. Maybe the phrases were different for his generation.
"How old are you anyway?" Jean said. "Don't you know you could do better than a washed up alcoholic?"
Connor strode towards the entrance. "Hank has quit drinking." He glared at her. "I'll make sure to change the locks on the front door."
"I'm not leaving yet," Jean said. She sat back down on the couch. "I came to see Hank."
She took a sip of coffee and leaned back, putting her feet up on the coffee table.
He sighed. "Very well."
Sitting down beside her, they both watched TV in a tense silence.
Jean took another angry bite of the sandwich. "You eat already?" she said, when she'd finished chewing.
"Yes," Connor said.
She finished the first sandwich and ignored the second, quietly sipping her coffee.
Finally the front door slammed open. "The fuck-" then Hank spotted her. Their eyes met. "Jean."
"Hank."
His eyes were wide.
"What happened?" Hank said. "You okay Connor?"
Jean blinked and Connor glared at him. "I'm fine. Your wife wants to speak with you."
Then the young man strode towards Hank, took the plastic bags he was carrying, and purposefully stomped towards the kitchen.
A real housewife, Jean thought.
Hank almost tripped over Sumo, who was trying to greet him, on his way to the couch where Jean sat.
"What do you want for dinner?" Connor said.
"Uh, spaghetti." Hank sat down where Connor had been just a second ago and distractedly gave Sumo a pat.
Satisfied, the dog walked off and curled up in his bed.
He noticed the sandwich. "You full?"
She pushed the plate towards him. "Eat your heart out."
Hank took a bite and glanced back at Connor, who was busily puttering around in the kitchen.
"The sandwich is great!" Hank said. "Real tasty."
Connor didn't respond.
Hank sighed and turned back to Jean. "Whaddaya want?"
"I want you to answer your fucking phone, Hank."
"You never call."
"Jeffrey calls. He calls you, you don't answer, then he calls me. He thinks you killed yourself."
Hank laughed. "Take a picture. Hashtag still alive. Done."
She leaned towards him and lowered her voice. "There's got to be at least 20 years between you two!"
"What?" Hank glanced at Connor, then at Jean. "What's wrong with having a young roommate?"
Jean scoffed. "You think I'm stupid?"
"What are you saying?" Hank said.
Still in the kitchen, Connor dropped the pot he'd just filled with water.
Hank sprang to his feet.
"It's fine!" Connor said. "I'll get a mop."
Presumably he left the room to do just that.
Hank hesitated, standing frozen.
When Connor returned, mop and bucket in each hand, he simply said "Sit down, Hank."
Hank sat.
"Jean chuckled. "Whipped."
Hank facepalmed. "You think I'm gay?"
"If that's the word you want to use," Jean said. "I was thinking bisexual. Is that too generous?"
"Jesus Christ!" Hank whispered. "Listen, if I was it wouldn't matter. There's nothing wrong with... if someone decides... or is born... or is- ugh."
"What are you whispering for?" Jean whispered, amused.
Hank glanced toward the kitchen.
The boy is definitely gay, Jean thought.
"Whether someone is gay or bisexual or asexual or whatever they are," Hank continued, still whispering. "It doesn't matter. But I'm straight. Just sayin'."
"Fine, you're straight," Jean said. She was no longer amused. "Call Jeff for fuck's sake."
"Fuck off."
"He's worried!"
"You're telling me you got on a plane, came all the way back to Detroit, just cause Jeff was fucking worried?" Hank said. "I don't believe that for a second."
"You've been fired, Hank!"
Hank stood. "Yeah, so? I didn't kill myself over it." He walked towards the front door without checking to see if she would follow him.
She did.
"Don't shut me out," she said.
"I just want to talk outside, godammit," Hank said. "That kid has the ears of a bloodhound. Could probably hear my pathetic whispering..."
"Don't want me embarrassing you in front of your new boyfriend?"
He shoved at her shoulder in a way that was almost playful. "Shut up, damn." He rolled his eyes exaggeratedly towards the sky.
"The fuck is wrong with you?" He added, kind of muttering now. Sulking.
It reminded her of when they were younger.
"What's wrong with you," Jean murmured. "Are you seriously not... it looked like you were shacking up-"
"I'm not shaking up," Hank said. "He needed my help... and I needed his help."
"How long will you be helping each other, huh?" Jean said. "I can already see what good he's doing for you, but what are you doing for him?"
Hank looked heart broken. "Not enough," he said.
"Who is he, Hank?" Jean insisted. "Did you meet him on a case? Was he... a relative or-"
"It's got nothing to do with work," Hank snapped.
Jean wanted to cry.
"You should go," Hank said. "Tell Jeffrey I'm fine."
And just like that Hank went back inside their house.
His house now. Theirs.
Jean stood outside staring at the closed door and pictured that handsome young man setting the table.
Two bowls.
Cole had loved spaghetti, she thought bitterly. Suddenly pissed, Jean remembered an old song her mother would play when she was pissed at her father.
I dug my keys into the side of his pretty little souped up four wheel drive~
Impulsively, she dug a pocket knife out of her purse and strode towards Hank's car.
Hesitantly, she pointed the blade towards a wheel. It would be easy to push it in.
Maybe next time he'll think before he cheats~
But Hank didn't cheat, she thought. I asked for a divorce.
Folding the pocket knife up and putting it back where she'd found it, she hurried away, suddenly afraid that Connor's eyes were on her.
Or that even without seeing he somehow knew exactly what she'd almost done.
Overcome with embarrassment, Jean ducked into her car and drove away.