Page 55 of On Dry Land

“Demon,” I reply. Fitting for the little black monstrosity who puked up a pile of food this morning, unraveled yet another roll of toilet paper, and thinks I’m a scratching post. Spencer holds her up so their faces are next to one another.

“But a cute demon,” he says, pouting his lips and widening his eyes.

“Yes,” I allow, thinking, as I do, that the kitten isn’t nearly as cute as him.

I continue making coffee, listening as Spencer puts her down and steps up behind me. He’s not quite tall enough to see over my shoulder, so he just rests his cheek there instead, hands cupping my hips. He has started doing things like this the past couple of days, sharing new bits of affection after he spent the night here a few days ago. I can’t say I mind it, although it’s certainly strange.

If Dylan had embraced me like this, I’d have resigned myself to the eventuality that soon we’d be in the bedroom and I’d be fucking him. Tenderness wasn’t casual; it was pointed. I never allowed affection of this sort to manifest with Shiloh, and Ryan knows better than to even try. Spencer, though…

I frown down at the coffee, watching it drip into the mug, feeling the warmth of Spencer’s chest against my back. I should push him away. Sex I can blame on a biological imperative. Even my attraction to him could be argued away. So what if I like the color of his eyes? I can find someone else. Brown eyes are as common as dirt.

Step away, I urge myself, trying to force my hands to remove his. This is dangerous.

Instead, I lean back. I give a little bit of my weight to Spencer, who responds in kind, wrapping his arms fully around me and splaying a hand on my stomach. I close my eyes. If I’m not going to get rid of him, then I need to enjoy this while it’s here. There will come a day he isn’t, and memories, stale and brittle as they are, are better than nothing at all.

“Coffee is ready,” I tell Spencer, hoping he’ll let go and save me from myself.

“Okay,” he says and continues holding on.

“What are you doing today?” he asks after a couple of minutes of what should be an awkward silence but only feels like comfort to me.

“I hired a removal company. They’ll be here this afternoon for some of my furniture.”

Spencer gasps theatrically, and I can’t help but roll my eyes. Finally, he slides his arms away, and I take a breath that should be relief but only hurts my chest. Turning, I hand him his mug of coffee.

“You’re getting rid of the couch?” he asks. We both look over at it. Demon is lying in one of the grooves between the cushions, licking her butt.

“Yes,” I admit. The house has begun feeling…off, to me. It’s never been a home, but it also hadn’t felt like a cage the way it does now. Although the previous owners aren’t dead, it feels almost as though I’m living in their tomb anyway.

“Huh.” Spencer looks around the room, contemplating the wall of glass and the sun glinting off the floors. I realize I’m going to have to replace more than just the furniture to ever make this feel less like a fun house at a carnival.

“Perhaps I’ll demolish the whole thing,” I muse, liking the idea more the moment I give it voice.

“You could live in the guesthouse,” Spencer agrees, smiling at me. I think about that tiny house, decorated in dark, muted colors, the furniture soft and the lighting intimate. I haven’t been in there since the day I gave Spencer a key.

“Perhaps,” I agree, while privately feeling as though it’s not my guest cottage at all. It’s his. Clearing my throat, I take a sip of coffee and watch Demon yawn, stretching all her limbs out in front of herself before collapsing and falling immediately asleep. “I wish I could do the demolishing.”

Spencer laughs. “What do you mean? Like, buy a bulldozer and go to town?”

“Mm.” That would be satisfying, sure, but not quite hands-on enough. I take another sip of coffee. There’s so much glass in this house. “Or a sledgehammer.”

Spencer’s pretty eyes light up, bright in the early morning sun. It spills over him like gold, shining in his hair and framing him like a work of art. Perhaps the glass isn’t all bad.

“Well, if you’re going to demolish the whole thing anyway…why not?”

Why not seems to be the current theme of my life. Why not leave traps out all winter? Why not invite an unhoused man to live on my property? Why not invite him into the pool, and the house, and my damn bed? And now, why not go shopping at the hardware store for a pair of sledgehammers for the express purpose of destroying my own home? Why the fuck not?

“I’m not sure I can swing this very well,” Spencer says, hefting a sledgehammer and testing its weight. I lean against the cart, watching him. It does look a little big in his hands, but then, he’s not a particularly large individual. I look around, contemplating other options.

“Perhaps a crowbar?” I ask him. He brightens.

“Yeah. You can take this”—he rests the sledgehammer in the cart—“since you’ve got actual shoulder muscles. I’ll get something smaller.”

Dutifully, I push the cart and follow him down the aisle in search of a crowbar. In addition to the tools of destruction, we pick up safety glasses and gloves. Because we’re here, I grab a few bits I need for the boat as well, keeping an eye out for things Spencer might need but won’t ask for.

“Anything else?” he asks, peering into our cart.

“We can always come back.”