by Taylor Dean
Stony watches me in silence and doesn’t say a word. Finally, I place the food on the table and join him.
He studies the food and says, “Amazing.”
I’ll take what I can get when it comes to Stony. That one word makes my heart sing. I cut the pot pie and serve us each a piece. I ladle a small dollop of gravy on top of each of our pot pies. I scoop a healthy serving of salad on each of our plates as well.
Before I can take a bite, he slowly extends his hand toward mine, initiating physical contact between us. I feel myself stiffen and begin to panic at the physical connection. Will this be the moment when I close down? I’m the one who initiated contact earlier, but it had a different feel to it than this because I was in control. Will this be the moment when I realize I really don’t want to be close to him? Why can’t I accept contact when the man initiates it? Is it all about control? What does that say about me?
I take a deep breath and calm myself down.
We join hands and he slowly laces our fingers together. Something foreign happens to me. I feel strangely warm, almost overheated. Suddenly I’m aware of my blood pumping through my body, as if I can actually feel the blood rushing through my veins.
He gently squeezes my hand and I meet his gaze.
I like the feel of my small and delicate hand in his strong and masculine hand. This feeling is so unfamiliar to me—and yet I like it.
I have no desire for the contact to end and I don’t want to pull away. As a matter of fact, I want my hand to stay right there in his for the rest of the night.
This is huge for me.
I wanted to know what my response would be to his touch. Now I know. And it’s good.
“Love it. Everything.” His chest slowly rises and falls. “Thank you.”
I nod. It’s my turn to act speechless. “You’re welcome,” is all I manage.
“Sorry for my behavior,” he adds, his eyes on mine.
I nod again. Suddenly I don’t know how to speak. I love his eyes. They’re mesmerizing brown pools of liquid emotion. I wish he’d say what’s on his mind.
Then he says, “It’d be good . . . to get to know each other.”
I swallow loudly, then find my voice. “I’d like that.”
“No candlelight. Don’t like it.”
Perhaps it’s too romantic and makes him feel unfaithful to his not-girlfriend who he keeps a picture of on his nightstand while she’s in jail. But if that’s the case he wouldn’t be holding my hand and saying he wants to get to know me. Right? I feel so clueless and I don’t like the feeling. This is unfamiliar territory. “Okay.”
“Personal reasons. It’s not you.”
“Okay,” I say again, waiting for him to elaborate.
Then he adds, “My mom worried about me being alone out here and bought the emergency candles in case the electricity goes out. Didn’t have the heart to tell her that’s what the generator is for.”
It’s not exactly the details I was hoping for, but I love that he didn’t want to hurt his mother’s feelings.
He nods and I smile. He releases my hand and my eyes follow the retraction of his arm, longing for his touch once again.
What’s happening to me?
We begin to eat our food until I long for the silence to be broken. “I think if we’re going to get to know each other, we have to actually talk.”
“All right.”
I chuckle. “Well, it’s a start.”
A low rumble forms in his chest and sounds out in the room. I think it’s the closest thing to a laugh I’ve ever heard from him. His lips, however, remain firm and immoveable.
“What do you wanna know?” he asks.
“Everything about you.” I’m completely serious.
He stills for a moment, as if surprised. “Go ahead. Ask away.”
I decide to start with the basics. “Have you lived in this area all your life?”
“No, I lived in Austin for several years while at college. Then I stayed and started flipping houses. That was before I left for Afghanistan. I still own quite a few rentals. They bring in a nice income.”
Not too shabby. He’s thirty-one and financially set. “Why settle here of all places?”
“That’s a long story.”
I glance at my watch. “I seem to have a lot of time on my hands.”
He doesn’t laugh at my lame joke. “All right, just remember you asked for it. Have you heard of the Roby 42?”
“No.”
“My dad was a cotton farmer, as most are around here. At one time, cotton farming was highly lucrative and brought Roby to life. On a good day, the town was hazy from all the cotton in the air. Then the price for cotton plummeted and a drought made for poor crops. Most farmers were working fourteen hours a day, six days a week, and barely making ends meet. Most were deep in debt. Many had mortgaged their land. Then one day one of the bookkeepers from a local cotton gin invited everyone to enter the lottery. It was the night before Thanksgiving and I guess everyone was in a good mood, because 42 of Roby’s finest each handed over a ten dollar bill. Then they all went home to their families and forgot about it. My father was one of those 42.”
I love listening to Stony speak. He maintains eye contact and speaks clearly and well. He should talk in full sentences more often. I suppose he does whenever he has something to say.
“The bookkeeper went into Sweetwater to buy the tickets. The owner of the store tossed in ten dollars and joined the group. That night they found out they’d won. 42 people from the struggling town of Roby, Texas were suddenly millionaires. My father was one of them. It was the best Thanksgiving that year. I remember my mom and dad dancing around the living room. They were so happy.”
“How old were you?”
“Around ten.”
“That’s incredible.”
“You’d think so.” He shakes his head in the negative. “Then reality set in. At first reporters descended on the town, wondering when we were all going to build mansions and buy ourselves fancy cars. After all, each winner would receive a little over a million bucks. I believe the reporters were sadly disappointed. Residents of Roby are not the flashy type. They’re hard working people who use their money in frugal ways. Then the fine print came into play. The lottery hands out the money in twenty annual installments. After taxes, that’s about $39,000 a year. It’s still a huge income boost, but not exactly amazing for farmers who are half a million in debt. The money didn’t bring the dying town of Roby back to life like everyone thought it would. Some sold out to lottery buy-out brokers. They gave up their annual payout for a lump sum of money far below what they would’ve received.
“My parents chose to get out of Roby while they could. My Dad wanted a better life for his family. He sold his farm at a significant loss, moved us to Sweetwater and bought a nice little home where my mother still lives to this day. He worked as a janitor for the local high school until the day he passed, several years ago. He often spoke about how much he missed working the land. He was a third generation farmer and always felt like he gave up his birthright. This land we’re on right now, it’s a part of the land my dad used to own. I wanted to get back a piece of his birthright. I made him a happy man the day I told him I’d bought it. That’s why I love living here. I feel like I’m home, where I’m meant to be. So, that’s Roby’s claim to fame, our little town’s moment in the spotlight.”
“That’s fascinating. I’d never heard of the Roby 42 until now. I can certainly understand your desire to live here.”
“Some of the best people you’ll ever meet live around here. They’d give you the shirt off their backs if you needed it.”
Where were they when I needed help? Regardless, I feel guilty for dubbing this area the serial killer mecca of the world.
He nods at me and I know he’s done with what he had to say. “Tell me about you.”
“I don’t have an interesting story to tell. I had a happy childhood, my parents are still happily married to each other,
and I’ve never had anyone close to me die. I mean, my grandparents have passed, but they died at eighty-something years old after living happy and full lives. I’ve never faced tragedy in my life. Sometimes it makes me wonder what I’m really made of. How strong of a person am I really? I almost hate to admit it, but I’ve had a happy life.” I suppose Finn leaving me stranded counts as tragic. Now that I’ve survived it, I’m downplaying the dire situation I’d been in.
“Don’t feel guilty for it. Be thankful.”
“I am. Knock on wood. Sometimes I wonder if I’m overdue and bad things will hit me all at once.”
“Doesn’t work that way.”
“Thank goodness.”
“Relationship status?”
My eyes widen a little at his query. It seems obvious to me why he would ask such a question. How is it that everything feels so apparent and yet so uncertain?
“Free, with a recent bad break up.”
“Do you miss him?”
“No,” I say adamantly. “We weren’t serious.”
“Ever been engaged?” he asks.
While his question is casual, I notice that he seems a little tense as he awaits my answer. “No.” What do I say on this subject? “Dating’s not really my thing. I’ve never found that special someone.” I shrug. I’m not sure I want to reveal my demons. “Dinner and a movie fills me with dread and could potentially lead to a panic attack. When a man says Would you like to? I pass out.” Says the girl who just kissed his bare shoulder. I cringe a little on the inside.
“Hmmmmm.”
I wonder what he’s thinking about my revelation. A simple hmmmmmm tells me nothing. I think he sees through my attempt at humor and knows it’s a sensitive subject.
“Find that hard to believe.”
“Believe me. I’m like a dusty porcelain trinket on a shelf.”
“Or an untouched rose on a cliff.”
I gasp, left speechless by that remark. I cover how flustered I feel by resorting to humor.
“Being that I’m twenty-seven and unmarried . . .”
“Practically a spinster,” he adds.
I laugh and continue, “. . . everyone takes it upon themselves to shower me with unsolicited advice. You just have to put yourself out there, you just haven’t found the man you connect with yet, or my favorite, you just need to open yourself up to love. What does that even mean?”
“No clue.”
“What about you? Were you and mystery lady engaged?” In my head, I’ve nicknamed my competition jailbird, which is highly insensitive of me. You know what they say, all’s fair in love and war.
“Mystery lady?”
“The lady in the picture in your bedroom.”
“We were, but not anymore.”
“Are you waiting for her?”
He hesitates for much too long before answering. “Got some history between us, but we’ve made no promises to each other.”
I nod. I wish he’d tell me more. Is it my imagination or did we just establish that we are both free? If he’s free, then why the weird reaction to a candlelight dinner? I don’t get it. I mean, I understand if he has an aversion to fire, but I can’t imagine candlelight causing such a harsh reaction.
Something within my chest stirs and I know I’m in trouble. Big trouble. I like this enigmatic man. I’m feeling things I’ve never felt before and, frankly, I don’t want it to end. I know I’m jumping in too fast, but I’ve waited a long time to feel this way and I refuse to let this opportunity pass me by.
He leans back and says, “Best dinner I’ve had in a long time.”
I would have to agree. Of course, it’s not so much the meal as the company.
CHAPTER
Eleven
STONY’S WORDS, JUST above a whisper, wander into my dreams once again, as if I’m somehow hearing his thoughts telepathically from across the motorhome.
“. . . you know what I mean?” He sighs loudly. “This is crazy. I know it is. I gotta say this, can’t sleep if I don’t. About tonight . . . thought you’d be in the kitchen. Didn’t expect you to be in the hallway. Thought I’d escape to my room and not be seen. The thing is, I didn’t want you to see me. Not like that. Maybe not ever. Thought you’d think I was . . . some kind of . . . freak. Thought you’d turn away from me and feel sick. Thought you’d be disgusted. I mean, c’mon, I know no one will ever find me attractive. Listen, I’m not an insecure man, but I’m not stupid either. It’s not about pity. It’s about fact. Goes without saying.
“The thing is . . . I watched your face . . . I saw your emotions, plain as day. I saw shock. It was there, no denying it. But then . . . I saw things I didn’t expect. Interest . . . compassion . . . love . . . and desire. Yes, desire. I saw it in your eyes. Gotta say, it took me back and surprised me. Then when you touched me . . . I wondered if you could actually . . . feel something for me. When you kissed me . . . when you let your lips touch the worst part of me . . . I could hardly think straight. I wanted to . . . I wanted to take you in my arms and kiss you, right then and there. No holds barred. I wanted to kiss you like I’ve never kissed anyone in my life.
“That’s why I escaped to my room. I was about to . . . ruin everything between us. It was . . . too soon. Just . . . too soon. Please know . . . I wasn’t angry . . . or shocked or upset. That one kiss said . . . well, it said everything. You made me feel . . . wanted. Desired. It means . . . it means the world to me. Please know . . . I’m glad you’re here. I want you here. Thank you, Spencer. That’s all I wanted to say. Just . . . thank you.”
IN THE MORNING, I wake up with Stony’s words burned into my memory. It felt so real or maybe I just want it to be real. Either way I’m honestly not sure if I’m dreaming or not. It was as if he was whispering his thoughts into my ear and it makes me feel oddly close to him. I push the Wall of Jericho aside, climb out of bed, and make a beeline for the bathroom. I make myself presentable and find Stony at the table eating a bowl of cereal.
“Hey,” he says.
His indifference disappoints me. I need more.
He stills. “You okay?”
“Yeah. I wasn’t sure if you were still inside or if you’d already gone out to work on the house.” Not really. Really, I wanted to rush out, hug him tight, and thank him for the things he said last night.
“Still here.”
I stand there looking at him waiting for what, I don’t know. I start to speak then stop. I’m not sure what to say.
“Spencer?”
“Sorry. I woke up in a weird mood.”
“No problem.” He resumes eating his cereal. I watch him for several more moments.
Finally he looks up and says, “What?”
His tone is not unkind, but he’s wondering why I’m standing there staring at him. This can’t be the same man that said amazingly beautiful things to me last night. No way.
I’m dreaming, making things up in my mind. I’m imagining all the things I wish he’d say to me and hoping they’re real.
They’re not. I’m embarrassed for thinking so.
I cover my confusion by saying, “Cold cereal isn’t enough. Why don’t I make something more substantial?”
“Won’t argue.”
I quickly check my feelings. I have no right to chastise him and tell him to speak in full sentences. He’s not a child, he’s a grown man who can speak any way he wants to. If he doesn’t have anything to say, then so be it.
But his silence is killing me. It absorbs the room and is so loud I can hardly hear myself think. I know he does have things to say, he just doesn’t say them. I feel like his words are floating in the air around us, just waiting to be captured and spoken aloud. For the first time in my life I understand the saying, “Silence is deafening.” I swear his eyes speak to me. They tell me everything his imagined words say to me. I don’t know how to get him to open up.
He stands to place his bowl in the sink and I notice he’s wearing his usual long sleeved shirt, but he’s also wearing jogging
pants. It’s then I see that his shirt is still blotchy from sweat.
He tells me, “It was decent enough out to catch a morning run. I’ll shower before breakfast.”
I hate that he goes out jogging on a warm summer morning covered from head to toe. The running blade that peeks out from his sweats looks sleek and high tech. It shouldn’t be covered up, it should be proudly displayed. He’s a beautiful man and I wish I could tell him so one more time. I want to blurt it out, shout it from the rooftops. He needs to hear it every single day.
Instead, I say nothing and mull it over while I make homemade biscuits, sausage patties, country gravy, and fried eggs.
During breakfast, Stony eats heartily. I measure my words carefully and say, “I didn’t know you went out jogging in the mornings. No wonder you look so good.”
He goes completely still and his eyes fly to mine. I’ve surprised him, which was my intention. I hope the compliment hit its mark. I deliberately made it casual. If I’m too effusive, it will come off as fake.
The ensuing silence is a little uncomfortable. Until he says, “Now I’m ready to work.” He pats his flat stomach. “Thank you, Spencer.”
When he leaves the motorhome, I clean up and think about what to make him for lunch. I’ll earn my keep again today by keeping him well fed. Besides, I have nothing else to do. Stony admittedly doesn’t cook much and with me using up his limited supplies, my options are dwindling. However, for someone who doesn’t cook, I’d consider his kitchen well stocked. I’d say his mother is probably responsible for that. Many of the things I’ve opened have never been used before and I had to remove the safety seals.
As I work I dwell on my dreams. While I lay heavy with sleep, my heart is telling me what it wants and the desires of my soul are making themselves manifest. I never realized how much I wanted to find love. It has always seemed like an elusive feeling that was never within my grasp.
I shake off my thoughts, flip on the radio, and give Stony’s already clean motorhome a good cleaning. At least I won’t leave a mess behind after I leave.
I will be leaving soon and this strange interlude will be over. It’s best that I come to terms with that fact.