"That's fine. That's — good. Fine."
I don't know what I've done with my face. I'm concentrating on not looking at anything specific, which turns out to be very difficult when there's a person in front of you barely covered by a tiny towel, because the alternatives are the floor or the ceiling and both of those are conspicuous choices. I settle for a point on the wall behind her left shoulder.
"Let me — hang on. Let me get you something clean to put on. Stay there. I mean, I'll be right back."
I turn and walk to my bedroom, close the door behind me, and stand for a second with my hand on the doorknob.
Right. My bedroom is a mess but there's a pile of clean laundry on the chair that I've been meaning to put away for four days. I go to the chest of drawers and open the top drawer and stare at it. Underwear. Is it weird to give her underwear? Probably. I close it. Second drawer. T-shirts. I pull out a plain gray one, then grab a pair of shorts and socks from the chair.
Opening my bedroom door, I see the landing is empty. Sloane has gone back into the bathroom, which is sensible.
"Sloane. I'll leave these out here," I yell, putting the garments on the floor.
"Thank you."
I rush back down into the kitchen, open the fridge and pull out another beer. Leaning against the edge of the counter, I take a long drink.
Okay.
I think about Cassidy the dentist for no reason at all. And I think about every other woman I've gone on a date with in the last two years — the one from the lumber yard who didn't like my jokes, the one who asked if I'd considered getting a proper job, the teacher from Tulare, the nurse from Bakersfield. None of them provoked anything more than the polite, tired consideration of whether I could be bothered to arrange a second date. And none of them, to be absolutely clear, have ever knocked the air out of my lungs. Sloane did, just by coming out of my bathroom in a small towel.
I take another drink.
This is ridiculous. She's here because a judge sent her here. She's here because she drove through my fence drunk and damn near killed my pigs and I'm standing in my kitchen feeling — whatever it is I'm feeling — and it's not appropriate and not helpful.
I take another sip and hear the bathroom door open. Footsteps on the stairs.
"Thank you so much for the clothes," she says with a contented sigh. "That shower was almost worth getting pooped on. Well, not quite but you know what I mean."
I let out a nervous chuckle. "No problem."
Sloane smiles. "I don't smell anymore, do I?"
"No. You smell nice. Like shampoo," I quickly add.
"Your shampoo is great."
"It's from the supermarket in Cawley. Four dollars."
"Huh." Sloane frowns. "I was using something that was twenty times more expensive and it wasn't even better."
Still a little flustered, I open the fridge for no reason at all. I don't want anything from it but closing it again with nothing in my hand will look strange. "Another beer?" I ask.
"Please."
I pull one out and hand it to her. She takes it and leans against the counter next to me, and we both look out of the window at the yard. The light's going. The sky over the back paddock is pink at the edges and blue in the middle and the emus are two silhouettes against the fence.
"Are they okay?" she asks.
"Yeah. I think they'll settle."
"That's good."
I'm making a list in my head of all the reasons I need to get her out of this house in the next twenty minutes and into a motel room on the other side of town where she belongs.
"Your bus went an hour ago," I say. "I'll drive you back to the Ritz."
"The Ritz," she repeats with a humorous grin. "I can't wait to get back. The acoustics are unbeatable. When the compressor kicks in it almost drowns out the permanently fighting couple in room five."
