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Okay, maybe that was a sore topic. Clearly, I’m failing at this, but I want to know more. Certainly no one was born this grumpy. There’s no baby that came straight from the womb with a permanent scowl on his face. No toddler running around refusing laughter.
Maybe he has post-traumatic stress from the war or maybe he was in love once and he lost her in some tragic accident. Maybe the love of his life left because of his psychological change, and it’s all compounded into a big, hairy, angry beast of a man who couldn’t manage a proper conversation to save his life.
Ashes in the dustpan, he turns around and dumps them into the trash.
My heart drops and I’m sure now there’s nothing he can do to redeem himself. This man is psychotic! A monster! The devil!
“What are you doing? How… why are you putting your dog in the trash?”
“What?” he grumbles.
“Your dog! You can’t put your dog in the trash!”
The stare is back. The real man glare. The one where he thinks I have two heads. “What are you talking about?”
I huff. “I just knocked over your dog's ashes, and you just swept him up and tossed him in the trash can!” I’m so upset my hands are shaking and tears won’t stop rolling.
He reaches out, his big hand on my shoulder.
Why is he comforting me? I don’t want a sicko like him comforting me.
His heavy brows raise. “That’s not my dog. I don’t have a dog. I’ve never had a dog.”
My entire body is vibrating. “Oh God! Who was it then?”
“It’s the ashes from my fireplace! I clean it out, then fill this can, and I dump it when it’s full.”
A tennis ball of thoughts volley through my head. “But there was a picture of your dog next to it. A little German Shepard.”
He looks away and sighs before turning back. “That’s not my dog. That’s my brother's dog. His wife seems to think everyone wants a picture of their ‘baby.’ I leave it there so they don’t cry when they come over.”
I stare toward the beast, unsure of what to think anymore. Do I believe his story? I mean, who keeps ashes from the fireplace on top of the woodstove? They go next to the woodstove… on the ground!
“You okay? That really shook you up.”
I snap a look of disgust toward him. “You’re so messed up.”
He narrows his gaze. “I’m messed up? You’re the one that thought I’d throw a dog in the trash.”
“You’re twisting it!” I drag in a deep breath and try to steady my emotions, but it’s not working. I’m overflowing and it won’t stop.
“Sit down.” His tone is low as he says, “I’ll get you some tea.”
I don’t want to sit. I want to stomp out of this house, drive home, and never come back, but I’m confused, so I sit at the wood framed table and try to relax my shoulders.
“I don’t know much about you,” he says, setting a hot mug next to me at the table, “and you don’t know much about me. Do you want to keep it that way?”
He’s staring down at me from a standing position, but he may as well be on top of a hill. He’s so big, so wide, so… wild looking.
Given the fact that I’ve wanted to know more about this mysterious man since I met him, I decide to indulge in the weird conversation that’s unfolding. It’s probably one I should’ve had right from the start, and I would have if given the opportunity, but I was so excited to finally start making some money that I glazed over nearly every red flag I saw. “No. I’d like to know more.”
He lowers his giant frame down onto the chair in front of me and relaxes, crossing his arms over his chest. “Where are you from?”
“Here in Rugged Mountain. Born and raised.” I already know he’s from Tennessee, so I’m not sure where to go next with the questioning without sounding like I’m prying, even though I am. “Your military flag. How long did you serve?”
“I did two tours. One in Iraq, the other in Afghanistan. Why do you need the money so bad that you’re putting up with me?”
So, he knows he’s an asshole. I guess that’s a step in the right direction.
