I nod. He takes a pack of cigarettes from the bedside table and disappears downstairs. Maybe he means for me to stay in the bed, but I don’t want to. I get up and open the dresser, taking out a white t-shirt. Then, I pad barefoot downstairs in it.
He’s in the kitchen, opening cupboards, taking down a percolator. I creep into the kitchen, studying everything. The house has evidence of being lived in, but it’s still sparse, like he’s expecting to leave at any minute.
A muscle in his bicep flickers as he turns on the gas stove. It ticks, then ignites. I sink onto the wooden chair.
He turns, leaning on the counter. I get the sudden urge to ask him if he’s like this with other women. Does he clean them up like a gentleman and make them coffee when he’s done fucking them all night too?
Or could it be just me?
Instead, I say, “Want to show me around your ranch after coffee? You’ve got a nice place.”
He shrugs. “Sure. After.”
“After?”
He clears his throat. “Round two.”
Heat creeps up my neck. “I think that would be round eight. You weren’t lying when you said you had a couple rounds in you, Shotgun.”
He smiles but doesn’t answer. That gets me thinking about his age again. In the old photo I was given, he looked like an older teen. Fresh faced, boyish. There was a light in his eyes that isn’t there anymore. Now, the peripheries of his eyes are subtly haunted.
“Why don’t you like me being on top?” I blurt out, not meaning to.
That’s been on my mind since he said it. Last night, he was careful to keep me underneath him. Maybe it’s a fragile masculinity thing, like he feels he’s somehow not in control if he’s not physically on top. That doesn’t seem right, but I don’t know him well.
“I get claustrophobia,” he says.
That makes sense, and it sounds like he believes it. The coffee is bubbling by his elbow. He flicks it off and takes down two beige cups and fills them. I rise and cross to him, accepting one.
“You got any milk?” I ask.
“Like cream?”
“No, whole milk only. No sweetener.”
He opens the fridge, scanning it. “You’re very specific.”
“I know what I like.”
He shuts the fridge. “Unfortunately not. I usually drink it bitter.”
“That tracks,” I say, taking my cup and sinking down at the table.
He walks past me and out into the hall. “Come on, let’s sit on the porch.”
That trips me up. Before Leland, I used to drink my coffee on the porch every morning when it was warm enough. It was my ritual. A little whole milk, my bare feet in the sun, watching the wrens squabble in the garden.
Then, I married Leland, and we had breakfast in the dining room with the shades still drawn.
He holds the door, and I step out, inhaling sharply. His house sits on a hill, surrounded by flat plains and distant mountains. One is much taller than the others, with a darker aura. The grass is already dry for the summer, and it moves in a dusty wave as the hot breezehits it. Everything smells sweet, even the faint scent of cattle and horses coming from the stained wood barn maybe a quarter mile away.
This place is beautiful. It’s different from home, but there’s the same sense of peace here.
He sinks down on the bench, naked back to the wall. I stand at the edge of the steps, enjoying the sun’s warmth.
“All this is yours?” I say. “You always lived out here?”
“All mine, but no, I haven’t lived here all my life.” He frowns slightly. “You ready to finally tell me where you’re from?”
