OUR LITTLE COTTAGE is quiet when I get up. I pull Emmy’s door shut on my way to the bathroom. She sleeps like a rock unless she has a nightmare, but I like to keep her cocoon as peaceful as I can until she wakes.
The hardwood floors are chilly under my feet as I pad silently to the stove and grab the hot water kettle. I love our place. For whatever reason, be it the charming wraparound porch or the big oak in the front yard, or the soothing beige walls and cozy old fireplace, this feels like home. Already. And we haven’t even been here two full weeks yet.
I glance up as I pour water into the kettle. My stomach flutters when I see him. He’s there. I hoped he would be.
Every morning since we moved in thirteen days ago, the man we saw building the sandcastle has been working across the street at the cottage diagonal from mine. Rain or shine, he’s there. I don’t know who he is or why he draws me to my window each day, but he does.
I find myself peeking out at him often. More often than I should, probably. But as hokey as it sounds, something about him speaks to me. Calls to me almost. And I can’t shake it.
I mean, he’s a pleasure to watch, of course. And that’s saying a lot coming from someone like me. Physically, he’s all that a woman could ask for–tall, fit, ripped in all the right places. Most days he wears nothing but faded jeans, work boots and a tool belt. Sometimes a baseball hat. Rarely a shirt. And if ever there was a body made to go around shirtless, it’s his. But that’s not what pulls me to the window time after time, day after day. It’s not even the tattoos scrawled up his ribs–the one on the left reading “always”, the one on the right reading “never”. No, there’s something else that brings me here to watch him. Something…more.
I’ve noticed that whether he’s hammering or scraping or carrying something through the door, he has this intense solitude about him. It’s as though the world has abandoned him. Or maybe that he’s abandoned the world. I can’t put my finger on it. I only know that it’s decidedly incongruous with a man who looks like he does.
I think about him being on the beach that day. Building a sandcastle like it was the most important thing in the world. It was strangely haunting for a man who looks like he does to be so…alone.
Maybe that’s what draws me–his isolation. I can’t be sure of course, but something tells me that he doesn’t have much of a life outside his job. He arrives sometime before I get up, which is early, and stays to work late, long after I give Emmy her bath. He eats lunch on the lawn by himself and I’ve never seen him talking on a cell phone or engaging the few people who pass by. He just appears to be alone. All alone.
We’ve fallen into a strange rhythm of sorts. It’s just one small thing, but it seems significant somehow. Every day, at some point, he will catch me watching him. Every day, he has. And every day he holds my gaze, even from so far away. It gives me chills, the way he stares back at me. But then he frowns, just like he did at the beach that day, before he turns away. It’s like I make him think of something he doesn’t want to think about. And my need to know what that is increases with every day that passes. Need, not want.
I’m not sure if brokenness is discernible with nothing more than our casual contact (if you can even call what we have “contact”) or if this is all in my head, but for some reason that’s the word that comes to mind when I see him–brokenness. Someone who’s broken.
From the outside, he’s practically perfect. Well not even practically perfect. He is perfect. Flawless. Breathtaking. But he’s too quiet, too withdrawn, too…solitary for someone as handsome as he is. Maybe that’s why I think he’s broken. Surely in a town this size, every single woman within ten miles would be banging on his front door, offering to help with whatever he might need. Or want.
And yet, he doesn’t seem to have anyone. I’ve noticed that his ring finger is empty, too. As empty as his life appears to be.
Maybe he’s got dark secrets that keep the town at bay. A scary skeleton in his closet, a maniacal monster under his bed. That’s probably reason number one, the only one I should need, to stay far, far away from him. And that’s exactly what I’m doing. Mostly because he stays away from me, never offering to come over or speak when we go outside. He just keeps to himself and I do the same.
But still, he pulls me.
So here I am. Watching. Waiting, it seems. On what, I don’t know. But I often get the feeling that something is about to happen. Only it never does.