“The usual,” I say. “Nobody at home, better that way. My mom got knocked up with me when she was a teen, and my grandmother kicked her out. We lived in a rented trailer. She worked, but not enough to make ends meet. Then, she died when I hit about sixteen.”
Her lids lower. “And your father?”
“Pumped and dumped.” I flip the gas off and pour, steam rising. “Yours?”
“He mined coal until he busted out his back,” she says. “Then, he collected disability, and that was alright. But I think not being able to work just…really dragged him down.”
“How old were you?” I set the tea down.
“Seven when he finally went.” She touches the edge of the cup, skimming the tip of her finger in slow circles. “I don’t remember much.”
“Maybe that’s better.”
She gives me a weak smile. “Maybe it is.”
We sit in silence, the weight of everything bearing down. Finally, she takes a sip and blows on the steam.
“It’s good. Tastes like the fields,” she says. “What’s it like, being on the run?”
“I wasn’t running.”
“You were hiding like an outlaw.”
She’s smiling, and I can sense she’s not wanting to talk about her past anymore.
“Well, I always wanted to be a cowboy,” I say. “Got my wish. Did the whole ranch thing, worked with cattle on my friends’ ranches. Worked the land.”
She’s watching me thoughtfully. “Think you found yourself out there?”
“I think it found me,” I say, “right where I was at.”
“But you weren’t happy?”
“I was happy, just not completely.”
She looks down. “I’d settle for almost happy.”
“I think you can have the whole thing.”
“I hope so.” Her voice breaks.
Her shoulders slump. I’m not really a romantic guy, if I’m being honest. But she’s changing me, deep in my bones. I go to her, holding out my hand.
Her eyes are questioning, but she puts one hand in mine and lets me lift her to her feet. A gasp escapes her when I pull her close, her breasts pressing into my sternum.
“What are you doing?” she says softly.
“I don’t know,” I whisper back.
There’s music in the back of my brain. Clumsily, I start moving to it. Her lip trembles, then curves. She’s steering me, subtly, and suddenly, we’re dancing together, like we did back in Montana—turning, spinning, eating up the floor.
Outside, the rain beats a steady rhythm. Maybe that’s what we’re dancing to, the soft Kentucky rain. I can’t tell if it’s incredibly dark inthe shadows of the room and beyond the windows, or if she’s just burning as bright as the sun in my arms.
I’m worn out, embittered, but she makes me want to bring down my walls and be a better man. Maybe we stand a chance after all.
There’s no end to the music, so we dance until she falters, letting her hands drop. The rain has stopped. Her tea sits cold on the table.
“We should get back to bed,” she says.
