Rough & Ready

by Pratt, Lulu

  But, alas, I’d promised myself that I wouldn’t try it with Carter, and if you can’t stay true to yourself, who can you stay true to?

  “I’m fine,” I called back at last. My voice a little strangled.

  “I just—”

  He wasn’t going anywhere. I’m sure he thought he was being a gentleman. If only he knew…

  I sprung out of the shower, threw my towel around my naked body, and went to the door. Pulling it open just a crack, I stuck my flushed face through to look at him.

  He was standing in the hall, hands on his hips, a worried expression contorting his features.

  “You all right?” he asked again.

  “Totally fine.”

  “What was it?” Carter pressed.

  “Uh I was just…” Oh man, why wasn’t I a more practiced liar? “I was just warming up my vocal cords,” I finished feebly.

  “You’re a singer?”

  Why had I made up such an easily disproven lie? This was amateur hour. I had to pivot.

  “Nope, trying to, uh, get the dust out of my throat. Y’know. From the road.”

  He nodded in understanding, though I could tell the excuse hadn’t gone over seamlessly because the crease between his eyes remained in place.

  “Well, okay then,” he said.

  “I didn’t hear you pulling up.” Or else I wouldn’t have been masturbating.

  “I’ve been home for a while,” he replied. “Didn’t you see my truck?”

  Argh! No, I’d been too busy scanning the ground for rocks on the way to the house. But I’d have been better off getting glass in my foot than letting Carter hearing me moan.

  “Must have missed it,” I said. It felt nice to finally tell him just a piece of truth.

  “Gotcha.” He slung his thumbs through his belt loops, and continued, “My son’s home now. You wanna put on clothes, then meet him?”

  I could picture it now, ‘Hey, kid, I’m this random stranger who totally wants to bang your dad and is living in your trailer and, right, is also jacking off in your shower! Wanna make macaroni necklaces?’

  Instead, I nodded vigorously. “Of course. I’ll run out to the trailer and be right back.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  I opened the door wider, and Carter took a step back. I thought I saw his eyes running the length of my body, but that was probably just wishful thinking.

  Making myself as small as possible, I squeezed past him, hoping that he couldn’t spot the crimson rising along my neck, a telltale red flag of the inappropriate thoughts I’d been having about him.

  I was so busy minimizing and cramming that I hadn’t thought to maintain the tightest hold on the towel. Its moist edges slipped from my fingertips, and in a single breath, it plummeted to the ground.

  Carter whirled around so fast that I wondered, through the mist of my panic, if averting your eyes from naked women was a special event at rodeos.

  “Oh my God,” I cried.

  “Err… don’t worry,” he replied. “I didn’t see anything.”

  Or if he had, he was just too polite to say so. In reality, I know that he must have caught at least the ridge of my hip or the dimple of my stomach. And, despite the humiliation searing through my veins, I wondered what he thought of it. Of me, rather. Where did I fall in Carter’s estimation?

  My hands covered my body — or what little of it I could — and I was afraid to bend down and fetch the towel, for fear of exposing myself further.

  “Um, could you,” I stuttered, words cementing in my throat. “Would you mind… my towel. It’s on the ground.”

  With a practiced air, he knelt, still turned away from me, and reached an arm behind himself, successfully procuring the towel and holding it outstretched in one hand. He never once looked at me. Could this man really be any kind of threat? Anyone with just a little creep in them would’ve turned around and drank in the view. Carter’s eyes had stayed glued to the wall.

  I took the towel from his hand, then knotted it around myself, this time making sure to hold on for dear life.

  “You can turn around,” I told him through shallow breaths.

  He did as instructed, pivoting back to face me. This time, I knew he stole a look at my towel-clad body, perhaps wondering what he’d missed by staring at the wall. In any case, it was over in a flash.

  “I’m sorry about that. I don’t usually drop towels in strangers’ homes.”

  “Don’t apologize,” he murmured, and I was forced to wonder just what he meant by that. They were my words, from when he’d picked us up in the desert, only now they were laden with more suggestion. If we kept stacking come-ons like verbal Jenga, this tower would topple over in no time.

  “I should go change.”

  He nodded. “And I’ll get dinner started. You’ll like my kid, Henry. He’s great.”

  A grin spread across my lips. “If he’s anything like you, I’m sure I will.”

  Carter restrained a laugh, and headed off, presumably to the kitchen.

  Oh Phoebe, I thought with reproach. Whatever have you gotten yourself into?

  CHAPTER 8

  Carter

  BRAISING STEAK is no easy feat when your eyes ain’t on the meat, but on the memory of some other succulent flesh you just saw.

  I’d tried not to look, honest to God I had, but the towel had dropped too fast, and despite my fine upbringing, I’d caught a glimpse of Phoebe’s body. And phew, was something to write home about.

  Don’t think about it, I told myself for the millionth time since I’d entered the kitchen. No point dwelling on what you ought not to have seen.

  That was true. It wasn’t my image to pine over. Besides, the more I fixated on the rising swell of her ass, the more I allowed myself to think that the two of us could be something, and that wasn’t acceptable.

  “Henry!” I called, desperate to escape my swirling thoughts. “Come in here, you’re gonna help me cook these veggies.”

  He came bounding in with his usual high-octane energy, all blond hair and tiny limbs. He smiled up at me with what looked like every ounce of love in the universe coiled into a single gesture. It was familiar. That was how his mother once looked at me. Didn’t help matters that he was her spitting image — Henry didn’t get any of my Jewish or Latino looks. He was all English and Scottish, with zero spice. I tried not to let the reminder of his mother bother me, and instead channeled my energy into teaching him how to make good tamales and latkes.

  “What am I making, Daddy?” he asked with glee.

  “You’re gonna peel these carrots,” I told him, bending down and giving him a bag of carrots, a bowl and a peeler. Before you fret, Henry had been peeling carrots for months and knows to push away from his hand and he enjoys helping.

  “Okay.”

  He trotted over to the small kitchen table and began to peel with vigor. I don’t think he was at the age where he could figure out that these were chores, not fun activities. Maybe that’s just who he was — a happy kid with a sunny disposition. He didn’t get that from his father, either. Or perhaps he had, but if so, I couldn’t remember that man, because I wasn’t him anymore.

  Soon, my thoughts were back to Henry’s lesson plans. I was always dreaming up new ways to keep his mind and body engaged and learning. The only sound in the kitchen was the sizzle of meat and the scratch of the peeler.

  I was just thinking about hand-printing Henry a special coloring book with sketches I’d drawn up of Rough and Ready when Phoebe entered. Her hair was still a little damp, but the flush had gone from her cheeks, all traces of our encounter dissipated — physically, at least. She was dressed simply — a white T-shirt, relaxed jeans and sandals. She looked like the well-read Girl Next Door.

  “Phoebe, you’re here,” I commented, like an idiot. Obviously she’s here, you big galumph.

  “I am,” she laughed. Turning to Henry, “And who’s this?”

  “This is Henry,” I said, stepping back from the meat to intro
duce the two. “Henry, say hi to Phoebe. She’ll be living with us for a few days.”

  Phoebe knelt down to Henry’s height. “Hey, Henry, how ya doing?”

  He smiled, and his fluffy cheeks dimpled. “I’m peelin’ car-ots.”

  She pretended to inspect the carrots, then declared, “You’re doing a wonderful job! How’d you get so good at carrot peeling?”

  “I peel carrots all the time.”

  “Maybe when I’m your age, I’ll be that good at peeling,” she joked.

  Henry puffed out his chest, proud of the praise. I wondered if Phoebe could see the light that I felt practically emanating from my heart, wondered if the glow was illuminating our small kitchen. She’s so good with him, I thought.

  But I couldn’t let Henry get attached. She was here for four days, not a lifetime. To let my kid, after everything that had happened, believe that he might once again have a mother… it would be a unique brand of cruelty. Phoebe was leaning down, smiling and laughing with Henry, and, though it was adorable, I worried that it’d just be getting his hopes up.

  “Is Jo-Beth joining us?” I asked, breaking the tension that I was sure no one but me was feeling.

  “Nope, she just said needed to rest.”

  “Understandable. You two ladies have had a trying day indeed.”

  Phoebe scrunched her fingers in her hair, whirling the damp strands around. “Can I help with dinner?”

  “Of course not, you’re my guest. Besides, I’m the only one I trust to manage a real steak.”

  She giggled, and accepted her fate of leaning against the wall and watching. “I feel useless.”

  “Hey, you’re useful — I love an audience.”

  Henry was utterly focused on the carrots — each one took him several minutes of methodical careful peeling — so I turned to Phoebe.

  “How’d you get so good with kids?” I asked in that ‘adult’ tone which mysteriously rendered the words inaudible to any children in the room.

  She shrugged. “I took child psychology in school.”

  “Oh, interesting.”

  “And my mom’s an elementary school teacher.”

  “Really?”

  I was impressed. In my book, teaching was just about the finest profession out there. I was always the first one to sign petitions calling for raises in their salaries.

  “Yeah, she teaches kindergarten. The kids are adorable. Like even when they’re being frustrating, you know that they’re wonderful. The fact that you get to be part of their journey… it’s awesome.”

  “You sound pretty passionate about it,” I observed.

  “My mom raised me to appreciate the job. And of course, someday, I want kids of my own.”

  My mouth fell open a little. Why was she saying all the right things? It burned to know that I had someone so lovely standing in my kitchen, watching me cook, chatting with my son and knowing that I couldn’t pursue her. If only I could start over again, and this time, get everything right. I’d go back ten years, since before I ever met — but never mind about that. That woman doesn’t deserve to be named.

  “And your studies?” I asked, clearing my throat, hoping to redirect to safer territory.

  Phoebe leaned over my skillet, sniffed, and nodded with satisfaction before replying, “This smells great. I study psychology.”

  “Interesting.”

  Her mouth crooked up a little. “Really? People usually tell me it’s a waste of a degree.”

  I shook my head vehemently and said, “Don’t let anyone ever say that about what you love. Nothing’s a waste if it makes you happy.”

  “What if it’s something that makes me happy in the short term, but could cause me pain in the long run?”

  Her words rang with an alternate meaning, one I tried to ignore by taking some maple syrup out of the fridge and beginning to mix up a glaze.

  “I suppose,” I said, my words cautious, “that you gotta think big picture. Put your needs before your desires.”

  “But what if I need to do this?” she whispered.

  My eyes glanced up from the bowl and caught hers. Phoebe’s gaze was hungry, and not just for the meat. She wouldn’t say more, not while Henry was in the kitchen, I was sure of that much. Nevertheless, I wished she would. If only I could decide to throw consequences to the wind… but no, I was too old for that. A father. I knew better. Even if the woman standing before me was so beautiful I thought I might melt.

  Changing course, I asked, “What do you want to do after college?”

  Her intensity softened, and she adopted the tone you’d use to wave off a boring relative at Thanksgiving.

  “I’m twenty-one, do I have to think that far ahead?”

  Twenty-one. God, that was young. I tried to remember feeling the possibilities of the world stacked before me, but no images came to mind.

  Seeing my tepid silence, she forced a laugh and continued, “I’m kidding. I’m gonna work with my dad. He’s an advertising exec in New York. He commutes there every day, which is a real bi—” She looked at Henry, and self-corrected, “a real bummer. But it’s not a bad life.”

  I whistled through my teeth. “You’d live in New York? Now that’s a big town.”

  “You know what they say — the ol’ Giant Pear.”

  I snorted. I knew I was getting interrogative, but I had so many questions for her. She was just so… so interesting. So full of future.

  “You must like your dad, if you’d go work with him. Not all families can do that.”

  “Yeah, I am. Close with him, that is. And my mom, and my siblings. We’re tight.” She stared off into the distance, a happy expression crossing her face.

  “Siblings?”

  “A little sister and little brother.”

  “So you’ve always been the adult in the family, huh?”

  She waggled her brows and grinned. “Guess I’m not the only psych student around here.”

  “Oh, hardly, I’m just perceptive, that’s all.” I paused, then taking a bit of a risk, continued, “You did strike me as being… mature.”

  “I am. Very.”

  Her hands were glued to the tops of her thighs, rubbing them in circles, as if she were trying to dry them off. It made me wonder what it would be like to touch her, that bare, translucent skin that I’d seen earlier. Would it be downy? Silky? I imagined endless sensations at my fingertips.

  “We’ve lived different lives, you and I.”

  She jerked her head to Henry. “Yeah, I figured. But it’s still about the same stuff, right? Being with family, the ones you love?”

  With a satisfied thunk, I dropped the hunk of meat onto a serving platter, and stuck a carving knife onto the plate.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Speaking of the ones you love,” she said, trying to make her words light and airy. “Can I ask where’s Henry’s mom?”

  Dammit, we’d been having such a good time.

  “She’s not in the picture,” I replied.

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Long story.”

  She tilted her head down. “I like long stories. Those are the best kind.”

  Why’d she have to push? Why’d she have to study me? I wasn’t a textbook to be cracked open and pored over. I resented the intrusion. This is what happens, my mind told me with a tinge of bitter exhaustion. What happens when you let people in. They want to know things about you.

  Well, then, that was my error. I should’ve been putting up bigger walls, building more fences. I’d let my guard down for a moment, because Phoebe was so pretty, so wise. Fool me once…

  “Carter?” she said. “You can tell me anything.”

  “No. I really can’t.”

  CHAPTER 9

  Phoebe

  OKAY, SO that hadn’t gone exactly the way I was hoping.

  I’d known that Carter was closed, reserved, et cetera. I just didn’t realize what lengths he would go to protecting that quiet part of himself, the side he didn’t want people see
ing.

  He was already setting the table in the other room — I could hear the clatter of every knife dropping into place. A stormy mood, indeed. Henry had left to help him. I was, as ever, alone.

  “Carter,” I called out, aiming to make some kind of peace. “The stove is still on, should I turn it off?”

  In one second flat, he was back, turning off the stove with one hand and grabbing a towel with the other.

  He stepped back, panting. The stovetop flames had disappeared. The kitchen was silent.

  Dabbing his brow with the towel, he said, “You could’ve just turned it off.”

  “Uh, yeah. Sorry. Thought maybe you were gonna, I dunno, cook something else.”

  Carter looked a special breed of pissed, but all he replied was, “Henry could’ve gotten hurt.”

  “Henry’s in the other room. And it’s just a stove. Relax.”

  He turned on a heel, and walked back from whence he came. “Relax,” he muttered with a laugh under his breath, a sound not meant for my ears. “Sure thing.”

  Okay, that was weird, right? Jo-Beth wasn’t around, so I had nobody to run it by, but I was pretty sure that constituted full-blown weird. I recognized the defensive behaviors that came up when I tried to talk about Henry’s mom — deflecting, shutting down, the usual. Didn’t make it any less unusual, but still basically normal stuff.

  Maybe he had a messy divorce, or she’d died, or some other Dickensian thing. Worse yet, maybe they were still technically married or taking a break. Could that be why he was so reluctant to be around me, as if I were both enticing and revolting? Getting involved with a married man sounded like a fun way to ruin my life.

  Focus, Phoebe, my mind reminded me. And she — I — was right because the only thing stranger than his reaction to my questions had been the whole stove thing. I mean, stoves are stoves. That reaction was not proportionate to the problem.

  I scolded myself. Maybe he was just a safety freak. That wasn’t my business. Could be a phobia about fire. Who’s to say?

  “Dinner!” Carter announced gruffly from the other room.

  There was no time to ponder his reactions anymore, because that steak smelled too delicious to delay.