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She shines, simple as that. Even to a dog.
“Hey, Fred,” she coos. “You are so cute.”
She looks up at me, eyes dancing, and I gulp down air and clear my throat.
“He’s great. And he was really well-behaved at my house too. How long have you had him?” she asks.
“About four years. Can I get you anything? A drink? Water? Wine? Beer?”
Her eyebrows lift and she smirks. “You drink wine?”
I shrug. “Yeah, sometimes.”
“It’s weird that we’re adults now. You used to gag any time you tried it.”
“I’d still rather have just about anything else,” I admit, laughing.
“So, you keep the wine around for your friends?”
I can tell by her tone—an attempt at light but not quite pulling it off—that she’s wondering about the women in my life.
“Sutton and Wyatt are the wine drinkers in the family. Sometimes Grinny…I keep it around for the nights they come over.”
Her shoulders ease a little bit.
And I don’t really know how to feel about that.
The truth of the matter is that I haven’t spent time with women in my house. It took so long to finish the place, but I wouldn’t have wanted them here anyway.
The allure of going out with someone just passing through is that I don’t have to share my life with them. It’s not permanent, and I don’t get burned in the process.
After Sofie left, it was a couple of years before I was with someone else, and then it was like I went the opposite direction. I became someone I never thought I’d be, mindlessly fucking my way into forgetting her.
It didn’t work.
I couldn’t forget her. No matter how hard I tried.
And I didn’t like how empty it made me feel. Still don’t.
The last time I had sex was maybe four months ago. I was in Denver for a conference, had a few drinks at the bar at the end of the four-day conference, and slept with a woman named Christy. We’d met on day one and she was nice, cute…interested.
After a few drinks on that last night, she asked me to her room and I went, not looking to forget Sofie so much anymore as an attempt to relieve the never-ending restlessness I’ve had since she went away.
And some days, I’m tired of feeling like an old fucking man at the age of twenty-six.
“I’ll take a glass,” she says.
Now it’s my turn to lift my eyebrows.
“Never thought I’d see the day,” I tease.
“I know. More than liking the taste of it, I like how it relaxes me,” she says.
“White or red?”
“I like white in the summer.” She laughs. “See? Not a wine connoisseur by any means.”
I walk over to the beverage refrigerator and pull out a bottle of white, holding it up to see if she approves.
