by Emilia Finn
Stepping to the ground, breathing out a sigh of relief when both feet are touching the moist forest floor, I hold out one hand, because Twain will always come to me, he’ll nose my palm to let me know he’s near. And with the other, I take out my phone and flip the flashlight on.
“I got five thousand words, Twain. That’s a lot, considering I wasn’t sure I had any in me today.”
Awesome work, sis. Woof woof.
Okay, so he doesn’t actually speak, but if he could, I imagine he might say something like that. Though it would be in a dignified way, like how Alfred is Batman’s stoic butler. I think of Twain in that way; an old soul, quiet and stately. But maybe he says ‘sis’ when he’s particularly enthusiastic.
“Are you hungry, Twain?” I head through the forest with my light to guide us, Twain’s shoulder brushing my leg as we walk, and press a hand to my stomach. “I’m starving. Did I eat lunch today?” I frown. “I can’t remember.”
Just like on the way out here, it takes only minutes for us to move through the trees and emerge near my uncle’s fence. Instead of crawling through the gap, I head around to the front of the estate, flash my security card at the scanner, and walk through like the world was waiting for me to arrive.
If I have Alfred the butler for a dog, then it makes sense that I need a grand entrance.
The estate is lit up – every house has lights blazing – so it makes it impossible for me not to notice Miles sitting on his front step. His elbows on his knees, his hands clasped together. His shoulders hunched in. But his eyes… they stare so hard that I feel the heat.
My stomach jumps, and my heart skips, but I’m no coward. So instead of trotting straight past him like I kind of want to, I merge to the left and step onto his grass while Twain gallops ahead and straight through the front door that stands slightly ajar.
He’s going to visit with Lyss, and I’m to stay out here and fend for myself.
“Hey.” I stop on the pathway, leaving about eight feet of distance between us so I’m not tempted to get closer. “You okay? You look like something bad happened.” My eyes shoot back to the front door. To Twain’s behavior. “Lyss–”
“She’s okay.” He lets his eyes drop to my feet. “She’s inside reading.” He scoffs. Lifts his head. “It’s a book about pigs that drive fast cars.”
I laugh in silent, belly bouncing chortles. “Uncle Alex. He’s the police chief. And his best friend and deputy, Uncle Oz. Neither of them are actually my uncles, but…” I shrug. “It was easier to use those titles. Oz is actually Ben’s stepdad. He married Ben’s mom a few years back, procreated, and scarred Ben for life.”
He nods. Rolls his lips and inadvertently draws my eyes to them.
“Miles?” I take a single step forward. “Are you okay? You’re making me worry a little.”
He nods over my shoulder. To the forest. “I was worried about you. I saw you disappear hours ago. It got dark, and everyone already ate. But you hadn’t come back yet.”
“Oh…” I look over my shoulder, though I can’t see my treehouse in the dark. Then I look back to Miles. “Sorry. You should’ve just said something to my family. They would’ve told you it’s normal. I go out there to work, get caught up in my world. Time ceases to exist.” I laugh when it hits me. “They start cooking, and eventually the smells break my concentration. It’s like the bat signal for me to come home.”
“You were working?” Still, he rolls his lips. “Writing?”
I nod. “I go out every day to write.”
“In the forest?”
Again, I nod. “I have something set up out there. I’ve been doing it forever. Probably another reason I haven’t moved out of home, now that I think about it.”
He lifts a brow, as though to ask me to elaborate.
“If I left home, I’d end up somewhere else in town. Not far, but not a couple minutes’ walk, either. I like being here, so I never made a move to leave.” I shrug. “Anyway, I’m safe. Sorry you worried. Twain?” I clap my hands once. “Let’s go, bud.”
“Did you write anything fun today?”
My eyes snap back to Miles. To his shoulders as they widen a little. He’s not as bowed, not as weighed down. “Um…”
“Funny?” he prompts. “Kissy?”
I smile. “Uh… I guess. No kisses yet, but we discussed war. We held hands and walked through the woods in search of a bad man.”
“When will they kiss?”
“Oh, umm…” I think it through. I really do. But come up empty. “I’m not sure. I don’t see it yet, so I can’t plot it.”
“But you said your book was a kissing book.”
“I did say that. I just haven’t written the kissing yet.”
“So how do you know it’ll be a kissing book?”
I frown. “You’re demanding tonight.” And yet, his interest intrigues me. “While my story talks of bravery and war and friendship and all of that fun stuff, at its deepest level, it’s about love. It’s a story of unlikely heroes, and unlikely love. But they do,” I press. “They love each other, I’m sure of it. So we keep walking the forest until the kiss happens.”
I shrug. “It’s a process. I’m not sure I could explain it even if I tried. They just tell me they’re in love, so I have to help them find their way from point A to point B. Usually, there will be scrapes. Fights. Someone will hurt the other, or maybe our bad guy will come in and hurt them both.”
“You don’t know?” His brows pull closer. “It’s your story, but you say maybe this, or maybe that will happen. You don’t know?”
I shake my head. “I know their names, I know their basic life story up to this point. And then I’m just the person that documents what they tell me.”
“The voices in your head again?”
I laugh. “I know it sounds crazy. It’s just my imagination, but it doesn’t unlock the whole story at once. I have to work through the layers, one step at a time. I learn things at the same time they learn things, and because I’ve learned something new about them, the path I thought the story would take shifts a little. Not a lot, but enough for things to change.” I smile. “Enough for the next layer of the story to be unlocked. That’s how it goes for me.” I shrug. “I unlock a new bit each day.”
“So you don’t know what you’ll write tomorrow?”
I consider his question. Wrinkle my nose. “Not really. I have a general idea. Like, tomorrow they’ll finally come across their enemy. They’ve been on a mission, you see, they’re crossing lands in search of these people that hurt Tully’s family. They’re taking an army, a war with them. But during this walk, they’re discovering things about themselves. They’re friends first, best friends, but then maybe something else. I’ve been learning about them the last couple days, but tomorrow, we’ll come across the enemy. I won’t know the next steps until I’m typing.”
“That’s…” He clears his throat. Then smiles. “Weird, I guess. But nobody said art was logical.”
“Exactly.” I bounce a little in place. Pleased that he gets me. “Exactly right. If I wanted straight lines and logic, then I’d have become an accountant like my mom was. This doesn’t have to be logical, since most humans aren’t. They make mistakes, they’re not infallible. Sometimes we take the wrong path, make the wrong choice. We screw up. If I was working with numbers, I’d backtrack and fix the mistake, but since I’m working with people, fictional people, anyway, I help them forge their path. They apologize for their mistakes, or they save the day. Whatever needs to happen. And usually, we end up with the happy ending.”
“I’m sorry for snapping at you last week.” His voice turns gravelly. Grieved. “It had nothing to do with you, and everything to do with me. I’m sorry for that.”
I smile and close the seven feet that stand between us so I can lay my hand on his shoulder. His eyes come up to mine. Dark, shadowed. Sad.
“You don’t have to follow the plot because I just told you about mine. One is fictional, it includes magic
and fire and a war. But this,” I squeeze his shoulder, “it’s real. And you’re entitled to your feelings. I’m sorry Karla hurt you guys. Truly, I am. She did damage that’ll never truly go away. She put a dent in a good man. That’s not fair to you, or Lyss. Or…” I pause. “Well, me. It’s crazy that this chick I don’t even know has messed with my life. But there’s not a lot we can do about it now, is there?” I take a step back. Release his shoulder. “Okay if I go say goodnight to Lyss?” I nod toward the door. “Twain’s in there, so I have to get him out. Though, I guess if she wanted to keep him for the night, that would be okay. But he’s hungry, so I’ll need to feed him first.”
“I want more kids someday,” he chokes out. His head drops until his eyes are hidden from mine. “I do. I just… you were right. I have leftover trauma that I haven’t dealt with. And it’s crazy that I’m telling you about that – about kids – when we’re not even… ya know… a thing. We’re skipping all over the place. I haven’t even asked you out to dinner or any damn thing, but kids came up, and last week’s reaction was pure knee-jerk. It was dumb, and telling you right now that I want kids is dumb too, because we’re not together.”
“It’s not dumb,” I cut in quietly. “Saying you want kids someday doesn’t mean you’re going to make them today. It doesn’t mean anything except that in some faraway, hypothetical land, if you were to ask me to dinner, I wouldn’t be wasting my time if I accepted.” I grin. “I loathe wasting time. We have so little of it to spend on the good things. Wasting is just… dumb.”
“My life is a mess, Brooke. I have a daughter—”
“She’s adorable, by the way.”
He stops at my interruption. Swallows his words. Chuckles. “Yes, she is. The fact you can say that and mean it means if you were to accept a dinner invitation, we wouldn’t be wasting our time.”
He pulls his bottom lip between his teeth. Rolls it back and forth for a minute. “I’ve literally never dated in my life.”
“Never?”
He shakes his head. “Never. I was with Karla when I was too young to know what sex could lead to. High school. We started holding hands, which, in school, means we were totally together.” Finally, he smirks. “It was all so simple back then. Complicated for our teen brains, but simple by real world standards. Because we were both young and stupid, we never dated – as in, the kind of date where I ask her out, pick her up, buy her a meal. We were just together. Eventually, we figured we were old enough to partake in adult activities.”
He smiles when my chest bounces with muted laughter.
“Play grownup games,” he murmurs. “Be ready to accept grownup consequences. Fast forward to Lyss arriving, Karla splitting, my mother-in-law being a fucking troll…” He pauses and peeks over his shoulder to make sure Lyss isn’t listening. “Then I was too damn busy, too tired, too broke to date. A couple years of that, hard work, busting my ass, I happened to see this thing on the news about a tournament starting. No prestige needed, no fancy name. Just five hundred bucks buy-in, and if you send an email asking for help, they’d comp your fees and let you in anyway.”
“And here you are.”
He nods. “Here we are. I haven’t had time for dating, Brooke. But here I am, my life is still a fucking mess, and I wanna ask you out on a date.”
“Have you been with other women since Lyss’ mom?”
My question surprises him. Cuts him off at the knees. “Uh… not sure that’s an appropriate question to ask a man you hardly know.”
Laughing, I give up on standing, and instead move onto the step, sit down beside him so we touch from shoulder to hip to feet. “I don’t consider any question inappropriate, really. I wanna know, so I’m going to ask. Whether you answer or not is up to you.”
“Have you been with men?” His face remains turned toward the house across the street, but his eyes peek at me. “Have you ever dated?”
“Yes. Yes, I’ve dated. Lots of dudes wanna date the legend’s daughter. But they usually end up being the kind that buy noisy cars in hopes the sound will distract a woman from their ugly personality and tiny penis.”
“Tiny…” He coughs. “Okay.”
“And yes, I’ve been with a man. Men. I’m healthy, smart, vocal, not super outgoing, but not shy either. Some men want to spend time with me, and if they’re not total pricks, I let them. No one has ever gotten a second date. No one has been intriguing enough for me to call back or bring home to meet my family.”
“Okay.” He bustles in place, almost like he’s shaking something unpleasant off. “We don’t have to talk about that anymore.”
“About what? Me?”
“Yup.”
“Me having sex?”
“Yeah, quit it.”
I snicker under my breath, and because I’m feeling brave, wrap my arms around his and rest my cheek against the ball of his shoulder. “It’s sweet that it bothers you. That means something.”
“It means I don’t wanna see, hear, or think about you with other men. Can you fuckin’ drop it?”
“So you don’t wanna know the positions I’m fluent in? I do yoga too, so…”
“Brooklyn! No.”
He’s so easy to goad. So easy to torment as my laughter annoys him. “Have you been with other women in the last six years, Miles?”
“Yes.” He sniffs. Exhales. “Some women seem to enjoy complicated men that are emotionally unavailable. A night here, a night there. Literally.” He chuckles, but the sound holds no humor. “One night here, one night there.” He meets my eyes and looks almost haunted – comically so. “I’ve had sex twice in six years. I’m not sure I know how to do it anymore.”
“Seems you don’t know how to ask a woman out to dinner either.” I think about yoga sex with the man that interests the hell out of me. “Just thought you might need a prompt.”
“I didn’t finish telling you about how messy my life is. My daughter is high-maintenance. And I don’t mean that in the cute-dad-talking-about-his-diva-daughter way.”
“You mean like how my dad speaks about me?”
He exhales a soft laugh. “Yeah. Lyss isn’t like that. She’s legitimately high-maintenance. She needs constant supervision. She needs structure, and love, and fuck knows, I’m not going to start dating now just because I found a beautiful girl, and leave Lyss with sitters, strangers, just so I can get laid. I’m not pushing her aside for a woman. I’ll die before I ever make her feel like second-string. So any woman that wants to spend time with me has to understand that.”
He shakes his head. “Typical relationships mean a man puts his woman first, and a woman puts her man first. But in my world, Lyss comes first. And work comes second, because without work, I can’t support my daughter. There aren’t many women who would be willing to fall so low on my list of priorities. And I get that. I get it’s not fair.” He waves a hand in a shooing motion. “So if you wanna go, you can go.”
“Wow…” I sit taller. Stiffer. And work hard to bite my smile away. “I mention yoga sex, and you’re sending me away.”
“It’s not a fuckin’ joke, Brooke.” His eyes whip to me. “It’s not—”
He pauses. Scowls. “You’re smiling. Stop smiling!”
I laugh. “You’re rambling, talking yourself out of this. And you still haven’t asked me out. Jesus, man. How many hints does a girl have to drop? I’ve spent time with you. With you both. You put Lyss first, you did what you had to, and I still felt like I was getting the attention that I needed. You’re with me now, talking, and Lyss is safe. You can juggle, Miles Walker. And no one ever said our date meant sitters for Lyss. So melodramatic.” I roll my eyes for extra offense.
“You… she… I…” he stutters. “You still want in on this circus? Are you insane?”
I shrug. “To be determined, I suppose. I do hear voices, after all. By the way, there’s this place in town that does really great fried chicken. And since it’s not super cold yet, the lake is pretty in the late afternoons. Lyss can chape
rone, all three of us get to eat – the place that does the chicken, Franky’s, I already asked the cooks, and they’ll make the crumb special for her. Completely allergen-free, and they’ll shallow fry it in a fresh pan, with fresh oil. Completely safe for her, and delicious by the way, so we don’t have to serve her something separate and turn it into a big deal. The lake has always been family-friendly, it’s safe, there are no hidden cliffs or weird places she can sneak to when we turn our backs. Afterwards, we could wander to Main Street. Oh gosh,” I add with a flair for the dramatic, “maybe we could hold hands, then we’ll finish the night with sorbet. If I’m really lucky, you’ll tip me for such a spectacular night with a kiss at the door.” I pause with a grin.
“You make it sound so easy,” he groans. “So fucking simple.”
“It’s just a kiss,” I murmur. “I know for a fact you’re good at it. You do that thing with your teeth.” I fake a shiver. “Lord have mercy, the way you bite…”
He’s not impressed. Instead, he turns to me with a lifted brow. “You done?”
“I sure hope not. It was a good kiss.”
Before he can answer, accept, or reject what I’m certain – in his head – is an outlandish request, the estate gates power up and slowly open inward.
Bry’s car, for I know the sound the eight-cylinder engine makes, rolls though the space, slowly, so very slowly, since he knows there are always children here, and passes us by at about one mile per hour. He rolls in, and makes it almost impossible to speak, because his engine is so loud.
Some boys like to buy loud cars. Some like to buy fast cars. Bryan Kincaid followed family tradition and got one that does both. By family tradition, I don’t mean because my dad bought anything of the sort, but because Bryan Kincaid the First was a hotdog when it came to cars.
The gates close a moment after he passes, seal up, and lock out the rest of the world as Bry meanders forward on shiny white-wall tires that are wider and far more expensive than anything on my car.