The door is closing on those last two words, so my only hope for not dissolving into a pool of hot mortification is that maybe he didn’t hear them.
The sky is clear tonight, but I don’t go out onto the roof at all.
15
A few weeks later,on a Tuesday evening, I’m finishing up in my bedroom with a customer named Billy.
He’s a farmer on a communal homestead about an hour away. He’s around my age with curly brown hair and a dimple on his chin.
He’s been sitting in my section of the Pub every Tuesday for a month, and I’ve taken him upstairs at closing each time. I’m pretty sure he’s catching feelings.
I might have to do something about it.
When he fucks me, he’s gentle and careful, and there’s something swoony in his gaze as he gazes at me in and out of bed. It’s not the first time I’ve had a guy fall for me, but it’s making me more uncomfortable than it used to.
I wish he would wise up.
I wish he would stop coming.
Billy is a sweet guy, and he doesn’t deserve to get his heart broken.
By me.
“Thanks for tonight,” he says as he yanks up his jeans and fastens the zipper and button. “I sure had a good time.”
“I’m glad to hear that.” I’ve put my dress back on but not my boots. In the past, for a good customer, I might have stayed naked until he left, but I don’t like to do that now with anyone but Cade.
It’s a hard, twisty tangle of feelings—like I’m cheating on Cade even though I’m not.
I have no other choice here.
I’ll never have another choice unless the world changes. Or Cade does.
So far he won’t budge about keeping me safe, so there’s no possibility of a real relationship between us. And he’s never mentioned the fact that last month I slipped and said,Love you.
He must not have heard, which was initially a huge relief. But now I sometimes wish he had heard. It feels like something’s forever left unfinished, words hanging in the air unheard, and it nags at me constantly.
So I walk the line as best as I can and try not to daydream of life being different.
“I got something for you,” Billy says, reaching into the old canvas bag he brought with him.
He pulls out something loaf-shaped and wrapped in a worn cloth.
I gasp. “What is it?”
“My grandma baked it. Apple cake.” He offers it toward me with shy hesitance. “It’s real tasty.”
I accept it with care and raise it to my nose to breathe in the scent. “Yum. It smells so good. Thank you. This is way too generous.”
“Wanted to do something nice for you.” He’s dropped his eyes, but he flicks them up a few times toward my face. He clears his throat.
I’m suddenly scared he’s going to ask for something I can’t give him.
Instead, he says, “Walk me downstairs?”
It’s not my typical practice, and under normal circumstances I’d refuse. But I’m so relieved he didn’t ask me to be his woman or his wife that I nod and pull on my boots quickly.
We walk downstairs and into the barroom.
