Our eyes hold in silence. He hands me his drink when he sees I’ve finished mine, and I appreciate him not giving me his opinion at all. I appreciate him listening—the fact that he asked.
I sit next to him quietly as everyone chats, and I take a sip, and he takes my fingers in his and squeezes reassuringly. “You’ve got us.”
“Damn right,” I say, imitating his drawl.
He laughs, and I laugh too, both of us staying right where we are, with his hand on mine.
Then we’re both silent, the classical music his mother chose to play in the background tonight so soothing that it seems natural not to talk. Plus he’s a guy, he seems content being silent now, squeezing my fingers between his large, callused ones.
His family notices, and because I don’t want them to think there’s anything going on, I pry my hand free and continue enjoying our dinner together.
His mom confesses that all of her friends told her he’d grow up to be a heartbreaker.
Tahoe assures her he never stays long enough to get that far.
I kick his ankles, telling him he should be ashamed of himself.
He kicks mine back and says he’s not ashamed at all.
His parents watch us with these odd, happy grins that have a hint of sadness in them and pain. Not raw pain, the kind of pain that’s subdued, hopeful—almost healing.
I love that their idea of celebrating their anniversary was having a quiet dinner with their children.
I’m also glad we will be staying for the weekend here.
There is so much comfort in this house. Every nook is bathed by warm lamp light and books you hadn’t known you wanted to read until you spotted them. There is warmth in every corner; in the decorative throws on the couch arms; the living, breathing plants by the windows.
His parents head to bed shortly after dinner, and as I follow Tahoe upstairs, my breath catches in my throat as I look around the upstairs living room.
The room has sleek floors, white and gray marble, and huge windowed walls. I can practically see all of the Hill Country from here; white, yellow, and blue lights twinkle at us from below.
A quiet fireplace stands to my right, and to my left, a huge wall is plastered with black-and-white pictures of oil fields.
I scan the room and my eyes stop on the man who stands directly in front of me.
He looks warm. Rumpled. Strong. Hard muscles, soft skin and scruff. He has a wineglass in his hand, accounting for his wet pink lips and narrowed blue eyes.
We don’t say anything. He just nods his head to the right, gesturing for me to follow him.
He leads me down a long corridor, where I can see his room through a cracked door at the end. We stop just before his door at a room on the left.
Past the door, a big white bed with light blue accents stares back at me. Silk and cotton sheets beckon me to sleep for decades on them.
“You can sleep here then,” he rumbles. “Towels are right there, you’ve seen the living room, kitchen is downstairs—”
“Where will you be?” I hear myself ask. I regret it the moment it comes out of my mouth. I feel myself blush, and then force myself not to take it back. I force myself to stay silent until he answers.
“I’m right next to your room.” He smiles, gesturing behind me to his room, peeking at me through the cracked door. Tempting me to go in and see where the T-Rex spends his nights.
I just nod.
He looks me up and down, his eyes burning a path from the top of my head to the tips of my toes. He clears his throat. “Well, uh, I’ll be in my office if you need me.”
He exits the room quickly. Too quickly. I couldn’t ask him where his office was.
Come on, Regina, you don’t need to know that.
I shake my head, take off my shoes, and lie down on the bed.
*
Fifteen minutes later I’m still in the guestroom bed.
Except I can’t sleep.
I get up. I don’t know where exactly I’m going, but I don’t really care.
I wander out of the room, my bare feet and red nails peeking at me under the material of my silky nightgown. I navigate my way through the house and his office is empty. I then head back and stand at the door next to mine and tap lightly. It’s partly open, so I peer inside.
Every sharp angle and smooth curve of his face is beautifully outlined in the dark. His blue eyes practically glow.
His feet are bare. He’s only in jeans and a soft white T-shirt. Hair rumpled.
The way he sits at the edge of the bed with those massive shoulders hunched tell me he’s tired.
I peer around his room. An old picture sits on the nightstand. He takes it and puts it facedown, then stares at the back of the frame, his jaw working.
“Who is she?”
He startles at the sound of my voice then softly says, “My wife.”
*
“She’s your Lisa? The woman you loved?”
“She was the nicest human being I’ve ever known.”
“Now you like the dicks like me?” I try to joke.
He just looks at me, and his eyes flood with tenderness, but most of all, I especially like that I manage to make his dimple peek with a light smile.
I laugh. “I’m sorry. I can’t help it.” I sit down next to him. “What happened?”