The need to hold him and make it better overtook me. But this was no scraped knee that a kiss on the skin and some antibiotic cream would make all better.
I hiked up the stairs, my fingertips skimming along the smooth polished dark wood banister. The doors to two rooms were open, and one was closed. I peeked into the first open room, which had a simple pine double bed in it and a pine dresser with a small brass lamp on it. A framed crisp black-and-white poster of a mountain range was hanging on the wall.
I passed the closed door and went on to the next room. Boner’s bedroom. The queen-size bed was made with a royal-blue-and-black-trimmed quilt. Matching curtains hung across the long bank of windows. I drew them open, and my breath caught. The view was pretty damn spectacular.
The Black Hills stretched out beyond, pink-and-dusky-blue-sky rolled overhead, as the sun began its descent, touching the tree-furrowed low-lying mountains. It was quite unlike the country suburbia of Meager where Rae lived. Here, on the outskirts of town, was a magical hush, a quiet grandeur.
My gaze swept over his bedroom again. Orderly and simple.
A large round mirror sat on top of the dresser, and an unmarked dark purple glass bottle stood sentry before it. I picked up the small bottle and sniffed. That unique blaze of warmth that Boner’s scent inspired in me every time flared through my veins. I took in another whiff. Wood, black pepper, amber, maybe a hint of chocolate, too.
Glorious. Boner had custom-made cologne? Man of hipster mystery.
I would have expected a no-frills guy like Boner to just grab whatever man products he saw by the cash register at Walgreens—if it occurred to him that he should have them—whenever he popped in to pick up a new pack of cigarettes or gum or condoms. But no, here was something handmade-to-order just for him. My fingers lingered on the glass bottle’s decorative grooves.
I touched a tiny knob on one of the small cube-like drawers at the wooden base of the vintage-style vanity mirror. What would he put in these? Cuff links? Not likely. A watch maybe? His rings? Extra condoms?
I tugged the drawer open. Two rolled up balls of paper tumbled forward in the drawer. A third was open and very wrinkled. I spread it out on top of the dresser.
If I could be with you where rules didn’t apply I’d live for the moment
Without asking why
If I could be with you
I unrolled the next paper.
Embraces that mean a thousand things
Glances that hang on strings
I let go of your hand
Is it forever?
And years from now
Will you even remember?
I want to remember
I want to remember it all
My pulse pounded in my neck, blocking my air. I unraveled the other balled up paper.
Who did I cut myself into pieces for?
The man in the moon
Or the ghost in my living room?
I’m nothing but cold inside Am I supposed to tremble at your threats, at your dark visions?
I don’t have many tears left
Let me slash the rope gouging my throat
I’m to blame
Yet I don’t get the rules of this game
I hate you
And you hate me
I don’t get the rules of this game When did it become a game?
When did we become nothing but pain?
The water in the shower stopped running, and fumbling sounds came from the master bathroom. I stuffed all the papers back into the small drawer, shutting it with a loud thunk, and I stood there, staring at that tiny drawer.
He wrote. He wrote poems. Boner wrote. And not in a notebook but on slips of scrap paper bundled and hidden probably all over this house.
Why not have a notebook? Where would I find more? Under the bathroom sink? With the forks and knives?
He had surrounded himself with these jagged pieces of heartbreak tucked away all over his organized, simple house.
How old were these poems anyway? I planted my hands on the edge of the dresser, and my stomach clenched. Were they all about the same woman?
He’d told me he never had an old lady. Grace had said he’d barely ever had a serious relationship before, just very short-term serial monogamy or he played the biker field. He’d tended to keep things with women casual and light.
Until me.
“I don’t want anyone else. I don’t want to be with anyone else. I don’t want to be inside anyone else.”
So, who were these tortured words about? An epic first love?
“There’s my impatient Firefly.”
I pivoted, and there he stood, the naked pirate home after a hard day’s pillaging. A sheen of water on his skin glistened in the light from the bathroom as he toweled off, a grin on his face, his cock at fantastic attention.
“Missed me?”
I was unable to suppress a smile. “I did.”
He planted a kiss on the side of my face and went to a drawer next to me. He pulled out a pair of warm-up pants and then a plain black T-shirt from another drawer. He tossed the towel at me and tugged on the pants.
“I explored your house a little. You don’t have a television, do you?”
“Is that going to be a problem?” He let out a laugh. “A deal breaker?”