"I know. He came to say goodbye." I hesitate. "So… here we are."
"Yeah." Sloane leans against the doorpost. "You look nice." She smiles. "And it smells delicious. Can I help?"
"No, I've got it." I turn off the heat under the pine nuts before they catch. "Go shower. There's a big towel for you on the rail." I wink. "I've already had a shower, so I'll behave."
"Hm." She holds my eyes. "I was hoping you wouldn't."
Sloane doesn't move right away. She stays in the doorway with her arms crossed, watching me, and I'm aware of every second she's there. I could cross the distance between us and kiss her. We've already made out twice so what's stopping me and why am I overthinking everything?
"What?" I ask, noting she still hasn't taken her eyes off me.
"Nothing." She tilts her head, her lips pulling into a flirtatious smile. "Just enjoying the view. You're cute when you're nervous." Then she pushes off the doorframe and goes. I hear her on the stairs, and then the pipes knock as the water comes on.
I carry the plates and cutlery out to the porch while she's up there. The worst of the heat has lifted and there’s a pleasant breeze. My kitchen is a mess, so this will have to do. I take the laundry down off the rail, shove the work boots under the bench, and lay two places. The one bedsheet I leave hanging, pegged atthe far end, so it screens the table from the drive but leaves the view of the paddock open. After Ruthie's Buick rolled up mid-kiss last night, I'm not taking any chances. Back in the kitchen, I put the pasta in the pan with boiling water, grab the wine, a jug of ice water, and the little jar of sweet peas from the table for decoration.
The screen door opens behind me, and I turn around.
Sloane's barefoot in a sundress — short, pale yellow, thin straps — with her hair down and dry and nothing on her face. Just clean skin gone golden from weeks of sun.
I forget, briefly, what I was doing.
"Better?" she says.
"You look beautiful." My voice comes out level, which is a small miracle.
"Thank you." She smiles shyly, comes to the table and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. She looks at the two places, the wine, the flowers. "So," she says, not quite meeting my eye. "Is this — Is this a date?" The boldness from the kitchen has vanished and she's twisting the hem of her dress.
I'm no better than she is, because I feel my face go red and have to laugh at the pair of us. "Yeah." I pull out her chair. "It's a date."
"Then this is officially my first date with a woman."
"Is it strange?" I ask, my hands lingering on the back of her chair.
"A little." She tips her head back to look up at me. "Mostly I just can't believe it took me twenty-eight years to get here."
"No pressure on me, then," I joke, easing her chair in. "Decades of buildup and all I've got is pasta behind a bedsheet."
Sloane smiles. "Honestly? It beats every fancy restaurant I've been dragged to. You cooked for me. That's so sweet."
"I'm no chef," I say, heading inside. "I can make about ten things."
"That's ten more than me," she calls after me.
Her laugh carries through the screen door while I drain the pasta and stir the pesto through it. I plate everything up, scatter the pine nuts over the top of the pasta, grind some pepper on, and carry it out along with the salad.
Sloane pours the wine while I plate a generous portion for her.
"I'm actually really hungry. I haven't been able to eat for days," she says, her hand going to her stomach. "It's like there's something turning over in there and it won't stop."
I know the feeling. The same restlessness has been living under my ribs too. "You say that like you've never felt butterflies before," I say sitting across from her.
"I haven't." She holds my gaze, and her bare foot slides against my shin under the table. "Not once."
47
SLOANE
The wind is picking up now that the sun's dropping, and it lifts the corner of the sheet and presses it against my shoulder.
