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She exhaled sharply before gulping from her glass. “You know, you meet shitty people of all different species every single week, and look at how many of them are partnered. How many of them are married. And yeah, maybe their marriage is just as shitty as they are, but that’s not the point. Why is that shitty person good enough to be loved, and I’m not? Why don’t I deserve to be happy right now?Thisversion of me, the person I am today. Why isn’t she just as deserving of love as anybody else?”
Her voice wavered over the backyard, and in its echo, nothing remained but the sound of birds chirping in the azaleas. Rourke didn’t know what to say other than wish he’d never said anything in the first place.
“. . . Are all very good questions my therapist asked me,” she laughed shakily after a moment. “You don’t have to walk around looking for love, you giant asshole, but you shouldn’t close yourself off to beinghappy. And maybe being coupled won’t make you happy; I don’t know, I’m not your mom. But you can’t make me believe you go out on all these dates with all these different women, and you haven’t clicked with a single one of them. I know that’s not possible because you’re too good of a guy.” She paused, smiling softly. “You’re just like him, you know. You and Khash. The two of you rub each other the wrong way so much because you’re practically the same person.”
“Irubhimthe wrong way?!” The insult made his hackles rise, and he snorted again in outrage.
“You do,” she went on gleefully. “Cut the crap; I know you spend half the time gritting your teeth when you come over. I think what he doesn’t like about you is what he doesn’t like about himself, and you’re exactly the same. Two idiots looking in a mirror, fussed over the other’s existence.”
He sputtered as she laughed. “That’s the biggest line of bullshit I’ve ever heard, and I’m something of an expert in the field of bull shit.”
Lurielle continued to laugh, and although it was at his expense, he had never been more relieved to hear the sound.
“You know what that means, right? Somewhere out there in the universe is a version of me and a version of you, and they’re together, with some grumpy, closed-off orc next door. And Other Me wouldn’t be with a dick.”
“I don’t walk around closed off,” he argued, scowling.
“Well, you don’t walk around like you’re someone looking for love either.”
He snorted again. “Is that what it takes? I need to go looking for love? Isn’t that the point of all these dates?”
“Yeah, but you’re doing something or saying something to undersell yourself. You’re making sure they don’t call you back. You’re handsome, you’re successful . . . you could have women lined up around the block, all knocking at your door if you wanted to. But . . . you’re closed off to happiness,” she said in the manner of someone repeating a mantra, something else she’d probably picked up in therapy. “So, of course you’re never going to meet someone. I mean, you’re an asshole, don’t get me wrong. But you’re a catch. You’re not open to it, and that’s why it hasn’t happened.”
“Work keeps me so busy that —”
“Yeah, I know all about your work. I know how important it is to you. And I get it; you built your company yourself. And if that’s the only thing youwantto be important to you, it’s your life. But acknowledge that you’re choosing that.”
“I don’t have time to —”
“We make time for things that are important,” she snapped, blue eyes flashing. “If meeting someone is important to you, you would make time. But it’s not, so you’re not. Again, there’s nothing wrong with that. But own it.”
He said nothing, slumping lower in the undersized chair. It was a wonder that Khash’s big ass hadn’t gotten stuck yet, necessitating a trip to the emergency room, where they would have to use the jaws of life to pry the latticework wrought iron from his bulging cheeks. He shifted. Sighed. Shifted again.Godsdammit.
Hewantedto have someone to take to street fairs, to stroll around and sample each other’s food picks, someone with whom he could share the giant bubble waffle triple-decker sundae from the ice cream parlor. The vague shape of the mystery over what he wanted, what he couldn’t articulate to anyone on the dating app, seemed to coalesce before him, hanging like a silvery cloud over Lurielle’s dark yard.
“I don’t want someone that wants to jump into a fast relationship,” he said slowly. “So many of these matches, they all need to know exactly what I’m looking for, like they have to assess whether or not I’m worthy of a third date before our drinks come out on the first. And I appreciate that they know what they want! But that’s not whatIwant. I - I want to take my time getting to know someone. I did a fast relationship and a rushed marriage already. I’m too old for the bullshit head games, but I don’t want to be with anyone who’s in a hurry to go ring shopping. I’ve learned from my mistakes.”
She was right, he thought, feeling more optimistic than he had in months. He was lonely and cranky that he missed having someone in his life, but he truly wasn’t doing anything to change that. He was sleepwalking through life, and he didn’t want to miss another street fair. He’d let the milking farm become a substitute for intimacy, facilitating his sexual needs while he escaped needing to make himself vulnerable.Godsdammit.
“So all I need to do is what? Walk around whistling? Wear a sign around my neck? ‘I support a pants mandate and I would like a girlfriend who’s okay with taking it slow.’ Is that it?”
She gave him an unladylike snort of her own, her laughter ringing across the long expanse of their side-by-side yards. “You just have to let the right one in, I guess. And get ready to pucker up and kiss some frogs before you find her.”
***
“I’m on my lunch break.”
The milking technician hesitated at his words, the masked employee behind her jumping in to speak as the silence stretched. “We have a trainee working with you today, but I assure you we’ll have you out the door in no time.”
Perfect, he thought, rolling his eyes as the pair of women disappeared beneath the bench. A trainee.Not that it matters. He had resumed his visits to the farm, keeping a standing, end-of-the-week appointment once a week. An elder at the Minoan Society had been critical of his disuse, telling him so directly at the most recent dinner.
“You know, I’m inclined to say you’re being irresponsible at best.” The speaker had been an older bull, one of the Minoan Society chairs, and his greying forehead had wrinkled when Rourke admitted that he hadn’t visited a milking facility in weeks. “Irresponsible and — forgive me, son — derelict in your observance of the unspoken code of our community. This is somethingwehold over humans. Those extra funds earned are a tithe back to the community by those of us able to do so.”
The lecture had hit its mark.He’s right. It’s idiotic to not go.Start putting the money you make here into your 401k, give more to the charity, and don’t go crazy this time. You’re in control of everything else in your life —be in control of this.
His visits to the farm were now squeezed in on his Friday afternoon lunch break, a rote entry on his schedule, not much different than picking up his dry cleaning every Wednesday or putting the trash out on the curb Thursday mornings as he left for work. Upon his return, he found that the treatment had lost a good chunk of its appeal. It was a stranger beneath the bench, manipulating his anatomy to elicit a predetermined physical response in a clinical setting. It was barely different than being asked to give a urine sample, he’d decided. Hardly sexual, let alone sexy.Get in, get out, get on with your day.
He had taken Lurielle’s words to heart, but he hadn’t redownloaded the app.She said just be open to happiness, but I’m tired of chasing it. Instead, Rourke had taken it upon himself to rediscover the quirky idiosyncrasies of Cambric Creek. The Saturday morning Maker’s Mart had become yet another opportunity for the community board to block a road as the crafters and artisans of the community hawked their wares. He had discovered a brand new baker, ordering one of her triple chocolate ganache cakes for the office. Leorna had oohed and ahhed over her slice, cutting a second to take home and then pleading with him to remove it from the premises before she ruined her diet. He’d not complained about taking the rest of the cake home, polishing it off over the course of the week, and saving the number of Ava Esben’s Cake Box in his phone.
