“You,” I tell him quietly. Another satisfying bit of pink colors his cheeks, and he shakes his head at me. Maybe romance isn’t as incomprehensible as I always thought it would be.
I’m not even pouring honey in his ear either. He really does smell good. Like the mix of lavender and wildflowers that grow along the back of my property—fragrant and earthy. I want to put my nose against his neck and breathe him in. He clears his throat, apparently flustered by the compliment. I can’t imagine he’s new to receiving them, the way I am to providing them.Perhaps we’re both out of practice with romance.
“Well, that’s…thank you. I wasn’t sure. I don’t usually wear…I put on perfume,” he tells me, the pink darkening into something deeper. I smile, and his expression relaxes enough for him to return it. “Uhm, but yeah, dinner’s in the oven, so it’ll be a little bit. We should check on the chickens, right?”
“Chimkins,” I correct, happy when this makes him laugh.
“I am never going to live that down,” he says, grimacing and wiping his palms on his thighs as he approaches. I shake my head, because no, he probably won’t.
I take him out back to help with the evening chores, making sure the flock is okay and staying warm. He says hello to them all, stroking feathers and cooing softly the way people do to small children and puppies. When we get upstairs to the guest bedroom bath, he sits down on the floor, resting an elbow on the lip of the tub so he can dangle his fingers in. The chicks—Zeke, Danger, and Seaweed—kick up a fuss, making a racket as they test whether or not he’s edible.
“You know,” Oliver says, smiling down at the little balls of fluff, “I think baby chickens might be the cutest of all animal babies. Seriously. And I say that as a person who has always wanted a puppy or a kitten. Or a baby raccoon.”
I snort, shaking my head when he glances up at me. He definitely does not want a pet raccoon.
“When can they go meet the other chickens? I assume they can’t live here forever. Indoor chickens—can you imagine?” He chuckles, rising from the floor and brushing off the seat of his pants. “Have you rescued babies like this before? You’re going tohave to expand the coop if you get any more. A whole chicken army. I would be in egg heaven.”
He nudges me with his elbow as we leave the bathroom, the smell of flowers wafting off him like a pheromone. When I put a hand on the middle of his back, just above the waist of his jeans, he leans a little closer. I can’t help but feel a little proud of myself. It turns out I am a natural at dating.
Or, perhaps more likely, Oliver is just easy to please, and I’m getting lucky, finding all the correct buttons to press. I try not to think about how this is probably just the simple part—eating dinner and enjoying a peaceful evening, casual touches and a safe kiss on the cheek. The hard part will come later when he wants—needs—more.
Which, I realize as we walk back into the kitchen and Oliver washes his hands, is something of a new phenomenon for me. Not just the thought of having sex and it actually being available to me, but the desire to do so. For so much of my life, intimacy has been relegated to family—a neat little box in my mind where I hold the kisses my niece likes to give, and the hugs from my parents, the slightly biting remarks from my sister the way only a sibling could pick at you. There has never been space for a partner because I never thought it would be necessary. Why dream of something that’s impossible? If I gave in to fantasies, I’d be wishing for a life free of a stutter and only making the life I do have harder for myself.
But now, an impossibility is standing in my kitchen, bent over at my stove while he talks to himself about how much longer is needed on the spaetzle and trying to remember theGerman words he learned on his vacation. Impossible sounds like birdsong and smells like jasmine. It’s no longer hovering in the periphery but here, real and inviting and possibly wearing something made of lace.
A few nights ago, I pulled up a private browser and lay in bed, scrolling through pages of gay porn. I didn’t make it far before I shut it down, realizing two things simultaneously—one, that porn isn’t for me, and two, that trying to learn what Oliver likes from anyone but Oliver himself is a waste of time. Now, I’m wondering if it’s something I should just trust in biology for or if it’s something I need to ask for directions on. In a perfect world, Oliver would simply tell me what to do, and I’d never have to guess.
“Ta-da!” Oliver says, pulling the pan out of the oven with a flourish. His lips twitch, dimples trying to show themselves, as he attempts to hold back a smile. The spaetzle doesn’t look particularly pretty, and he knows it.
“Smells good,” I compliment, while hoping he remembers my comment earlier about him smelling better.
“It’ll taste good, too, I promise. If there is one thing I can do, it’s cook a mean spaetzle. Eat in here?” He looks at me. “No, the living room, you’re right. The dining room is so formal. Hard to accidentally-on-purpose touch you if you’re across the table and not next to me on the couch. Although there is something to be said for footsie. It is a little gross to touch people with your toes, though. I suppose it’s not so bad if you have shoes on, but then you’ve got to worry about what you’ve stepped in. Imagine smearing goose poop all over your date.”
Snorting, I reach for one of the cabinets and pull down two plates. Television shows are full of horrible dates, as though things like that happen on a regular basis. It’s hard to imagine any date with Oliver being terrible, no matter what he had stuck to the bottom of his shoes.
I carry the plates into the living room, smiling when he stops to sniff one of the candles. I’ll have to remember to thank my sister for those. When I sit down and catch his eye, Oliver smiles.
“Romantic,” he notes. I shrug. Yes. Yes, it is.
The spaetzle is, as all things Oliver touches are, delicious. My eyes practically roll into the back of my head when I take the first bite, earning myself another pretty blush and a pleased look from Oliver. We hardly talk until I’m coming back from the kitchen with a plate full of seconds, Oliver reclined on the couch with his feet stretched toward the fire. His hands are resting on his belly, and the firelight shines off his light hair. The room is dark, and although it’s not snowing outside, I can’t help but think about all the ways this night is similar to those we shared during the storm. I also can’t help but give in to the small burn of hope that maybe he’ll still be around to enjoy the snow with me next year.
“What are you doing tomorrow?” he asks when I reclaim my spot next to him. Turning so I can enjoy the play of warm light over his cheekbones as I eat, I give the little shrug-nod combo that meansnothing. “Want to help me do the blinds? I’ve got some jerry-rigged ones up in the bedroom, but none of the other windows are covered. I saw an episode ofDatelinetheother day about a stalker where this man was standing outside this poor woman’s house in the dark, watching. But because she was backlit by the light from the room, he could see her perfectly, and she couldn’t see him at all. Terrifying.”
I raise my eyebrows at him. He grins, chuckling softly.
“No, I don’t have a stalker. But I don’t want the deer watching me either.”
“I’ll help.”
Of course I will. I’d have helped with everything if he’d asked me from the beginning. I wish I’d realized sooner what he was doing over there on his own. And, now that I think about it, I’m not the only one who is capable of assisting either.
“My dad can help with things, too.”
Oliver tilts his head, cocking it just slightly where it’s resting on the back of the couch. I shrug, not feeling up to giving him the entire list of skills my dad and I have between us, but trusting it’s also not necessary. Sometimes I wonder if Oliver can read my mind with how well he picks up on the things I don’t say out loud.
“Really?” he asks. “That would be kind of nice, actually. Might help get some things done quicker. Once spring finally gets here, I’m going to have to go up and check out the roof. Yesterday, I noticed a damp spot on the floor. I think I might have a leak.”
I close my eyes for a brief moment. That fucking house.
