Welcome Home - Kent and Ferro Version

Kent Zarneki was going to die.

He realized this the moment he stepped off the jet and onto the tarmac, which burned so hot under the Atlanta summer sun that Kent could swear he’d seen a sweat drop sizzle into smoke as it hit the ground.

Yes, Kent Zarneki was definitely going to die from either heat exhaustion or seventh-degree sunburn. And it was all Ferro’s fault.

The murderer in question stood a few meters away, dark shades over his eyes and a chauffer’s cap perched on his shaved head. Ferro held up a large sign with Kent’s name printed on it, waving it in the air enthusiastically.

“Mr. Zarneki!” he called out in a sing-song voice. “Your ride is this way, Mr. Zarneki!”

Kent swatted at Ferro’s sign as soon as he was close enough. “Put that down,” he ordered.

“As you wish, sir,” Ferro chirped. “Allow me to escort you to your limousine.”

Kent groaned. The downside of Ferro picking him up at the airport? His friend would be the one driving them both back to Ferro’s house, where Kent had been invited (forcibly) to stay with Ferro for the summer.

“It’ll better than letting your dad drag you from press interview to interview,” Ferro had said pragmatically. “You know he’s going to want you on Good Morning, Chicago now that you’ve completed your first year at Aeon.”

So, Kent had agreed to visit Ferro in Georgia. In the summer. When the humidity was so thick it could be scooped with a spoon. He’d never liked how hot it had got in Chicago during the summer, but this damp boiling was almost more than he could bear.

“You look like someone peed in your cereal,” Ferro said as he grabbed the smaller of Kent’s bags. “Atlanta’s great, I swear.”

Kent arched a skeptical brow. Already, he could feel his skin prickling in anticipation of a million mosquito bites. The air was so sticky here; Chicago got hot, but at least a breeze could usually be relied on to make the heat tolerable.

“My mom’s been cooking up a storm, ever since she heard that you agreed to come down,” Ferro said. “She’s happy to have another meat eater in the house.” He made a face, pulling a pair of car keys from his shorts.

“I’m fine eating vegan,” Kent said.

A car nearby beeped. No, not a car—a pickup truck. Kent tried not let his appalment show as Ferro tossed his bag into the back of a dilapidated GMC Canyon with a rusted exhaust pipe and a bumper sticker featuring a nude woman whose rump was censored by a ripe Georgian peach.

“You are such a car snob.” Ferro laughed at Kent’s obvious distaste. “I borrowed the truck from my uncle.” He waited for Kent to put his bag in the cargo bed. “And you may be fine eating vegan, but my mom’s been longing for someone to “correctly” appreciate her new barbeque sauce recipe. She claims that my tofu doesn’t do it justice.”

Kent didn’t say anything as they climbed into the truck. Best to preserve his energy, because this sun was going to kill him. He winced as Ferro started the car, and the truck jolted backwards from its parking spot with a banshee screech.

If the sun didn’t kill him, Ferro’s driving would.

* * * *

By the time the truck shuddered to a halt in a driveway, Kent’s already pale hands were even paler from their hour-long death grip on his seat, and he’d internally resolved never to let Ferro drive his Mustang. Ferro jumped from the truck, humming, and Kent took a moment to steady his breathing and take in the house before them. It was ranch-style, with a natural stone façade and a garden that stretched around into the backyard.

The garden was a rainbow of vibrancy, a far cry from the deliberately-chosen pale pink and yellow flowers that adorned his own father’s yard and were maintained by a surly gardener. Whoever took care of this garden loved doing so, and had added a little colorful chaos to its design. The entire scene was so warm and inviting that it put Kent on edge as he followed Ferro into the house.

“Mama!” Ferro hollered up the stairs. “We’re back from the airport.”

A woman came down the stairs. She was curvy where Ferro was slender, and her russet brown skin was significantly lighter than Ferro’s. Nevertheless, the family resemblance between the two was obvious, there in her heavy-lidded glance that immediately made Kent feel uncomfortably exposed. Ferro looked at him in that same way—it was a look that saw too damn much.

“I brought szarlotka,” he said abruptly. “In my bag.” Anything to change the subject and make her stop looking at him like he was a shelter puppy in need of a home. Just what had Ferro told his mother about the reason for Kent’s visit?

Virginia Parker’s eyebrows arched so high that they almost disappeared beneath her bright red-and-gold headwrap. “Polish apple pie,” she said.

Kent was surprised that she knew of it. Then again, Ferro had told him that his mom had lived abroad in Prague for several years. Maybe she’d visited Poland?

Ferro groaned. “Is this something that I won’t be able to eat again?” he asked. “Because Polish apple pie sounds delicious.”

“This one is made with almond milk and coconut butter.” Kent pulled at his long shirtsleeve, instinctively hiding the band aid on his wrist. It had taken him several tries to amend his busia’s recipe so that Ferro would be able to eat it, and Kent was by no means a practiced baker.

Virginia’s eyes followed the motion of his hand, and her eyes warmed as if she somehow was able to guess at Kent’s bloody struggle with the food processor (why were those things so impossible to assemble, anyway?).

“Then we’ll have it after supper,” she announced. “Ferro, go show Kent to his room. And Kent?”

Kent glanced at her, praying that his cheeks weren’t as bright red as they felt. “Yes ma’am?”

“Welcome home,” said Virginia.