Something of a Kind - By Miranda Wheeler Page 0,1

the surface. She had a feeling the trauma of a sudden move was to blame.

As Greg shifted the truck into park, she half expected him to toss his balding head over his shoulder and go in reverse to once again right a wrong turn. Instead he twisted the keys from the ignition and climbed out, confirming they arrived. She scrutinized his stiff gate as he approached the house, his presence triggering an automated porch light.

With a quick retrieval of her belongings from the backseat, she was eager to flee the odor of ‘new car’ leather. Even Greg’s overwhelmingcologne hadn’t penetrated the scent, and it seemed to worsen in the heat. She loathed the stainlessness. The purity was artificial, screaming of life’s absence.

The home mimicked a series of others on the road, though the yards parting each offered seclusion. Despite its lack of uniqueness, the design seemed directed towards a single homeowner, adding to the memo that she was unwanted, unwelcome, and unasked for.

Another lifeless, monochrome, cul-de-sac type for a Stepford bachelor.

Her only relief came as he unlocked the deadbolt, offering an escape from hovering insects and the night’s setting chill. The smells of cleaner intensified the sense of inhabitability. Greg’s constant fidgeting fueled unease as she moved inside.

The house harbored bright, assailing lights, with a layout reminiscent to a studio. Aly was accustomed to hallways and soft lighting. Walking through the front door and entering the kitchen, stairwell, and living room simultaneously seemed more disorienting than simplified.

Her expectations were modest. Based on a glimpse the week before, there had been little basis to work with. She hadn’t wanted to get her hopes up. She left the imagination untouched.

She could recall flicking through photographs of the home. The four images, attached to a wordless text message, were viewed beneath the desk during AP Bio-Chem. The limited insight had made the place seem tolerable enough. Heaven forbid anything as interesting have happened in Honors Trig.

I should have known I would do this.

Therewas no satisfying her. This house was not her mother’s home. It would never be enough.

Cardboard boxes dominated the open floor. Organized in columns, the zones of exposed hardwood were reduced to meager aisles. In spite of the spacious layout, she felt like further exploration of the home would require coordination, if not an entire GPS. After a commute three-thousand miles, the exertion was unfathomable.

Greg stared from the corner of the room. Aly knew he was looking for a sign of approval or appreciation. She felt a pang in knowing she had nothing to offer him.

I never have.

His hands had trembled against the steering wheel since he shifted the SUV into drive at the satellite airport. Immediately she knew the four-hour road trip would be suffered in silence.

Aly hadn’t realized Juneau was so far from Ashland. She envisioned Albany International as point A in a two-stop scenario. The lines were distorted after the third or fourth private plane. It was becoming clear how little she knew about Alaska.

Aly had lived in Kingsley, New York, with her mother since infancy. Gregory had faded from the family portrait before her birth. They barely spoke most years. Aly certainly never imagined living with him.

Behind her, the open door was a tease. Vanessa was gone. There was no going back.

Her sigh shattered the silence. She wove a path towards the winding staircase, avoiding the precarious towers and scattered textbooks.

“Alyson?” Greg asked, irritation seeping from his voice. It was rough and hesitant, adead giveaway that he hadn’t spoken in hours. “You alright?”

She paused. His last syllable hung in the air.

I wouldn’t know.

“I’m tired,” she whispered, as though fatigue numbed her lips. For good measure, she shifted an armful of luggage, unwilling to exchange pleasantries. Aly knew she sounded unconvincing. She wanted to disappear – to pretend she didn’t exist – but Greg sought praise.

Why can’t he see that I’m so unhappy?

Rough hands audibly scratched his salt-and-pepper stubble, grating her nerves. Eyes flashing, he nudged square frames over the bridge of his nose with a curt nod. She attempted to persuade herself the emotion was benevolent and disappeared onto the upper floor.

“It’s minimal.” Greg had explained, picking apart a soggy bagel. “A real’skinny hallway. Inset window on the right, two rooms on the left. Way down at the end, the wall’s all brick. It’s a chimney extension from the living room or something.”

“What are you doing with the paint?” Lauren asked, her elbows propped against the island countertop.

“Upstairs?” He clarified around a mouthful of coffee and margarine.

“That’s