The guys aren’t as cut off from civilization as I thought. I take in the smooth skin of her face, in shadow under her baseball cap, and her tight and toned body. She leans in, and he hesitates a moment-still looking at me-before he finally turns to her and lets her kiss him. I glance over, still feeling Jake’s eyes on me, and watch the naked woman-now dressed-strolling up to Jake with a brown leather backpack slung over her shoulder as she wraps an arm around his neck. “Alright,” someone calls, and I hear her footsteps enter the kitchen. And then the anger went away, and there was nothing. This guy’s a prick.ĭespite that, though, my stomach warms, and I sip my coffee to cover up my nerves.Īfter the sadness, anger was my constant companion as a kid. Regardless of whatever bad blood was between him and my father, the orphan is the last person he should be targeting with his insults. I turn away and take another sip of my coffee. He lowers his chin, his stare locked on mine, and I see his jaw flex. I turn my head, peering up at him, and he narrows his blue eyes on me. “So real men use chainsaws and pick-up trucks instead of Mont Blancs and cell phones?” I ask. “My dad had pretty hands,” I muse, taking a sip without looking at him. “Your dad did, too,” he adds, and I can hear the taunt. I look down at them wrapped around the mug. “I was just keeping it warm for you,” he says, his breath brushing the top of my head. I’m about to move away, but then he reaches in front of me, and I watch as he switches off the coffee maker.

I search my brain for something to say, the awkward seconds stretching and making me want to bolt.īut then he moves closer all of a sudden, and I straighten, on alert as his chest nearly touches my arm. The kitchen grows smaller, and the silence more deafening, except for a bird cawing in the distance.

He just stays there, and I feel myself wanting to sigh, because this is the part where people usually expect me to make an effort to carry on a conversation. His light hair, damp with sweat, sticks to his forehead and temples as he looks at me, and I nod, turning away again. “Your bedroom last night?” he says, elaborating. I take another paper towel and wipe the wooden countertop some more.

Credence by Penelope Douglas