Chapter 6
Six
NOELLE
A wareness comes slowly, gradually. The first thing I become aware of is a contradiction of sensations: cold and warm. A bird chirps somewhere close. A jet scuds noisily overhead. A car horn blips as someone keys their locks.
I'm not in bed. At first, that's all I know. I'm stiff from being in one position for a long time, but even before I reach full consciousness, I'm aware that I've slept better than I have in a very long time. I just don't know why, yet.
A soft, gentle snore whuffs a hot breath onto me, startling me. Which is when I become aware of where I am, and with whom.
Bear.
His apartment.
The cold is the air around us—a thin fleece blanket has been draped over my hips and legs, but my upper body is exposed. I crack an eye open—the door is still wide open, and Panzer lays in the opening, curled into a giant comma shape, facing the outside. His eyes are open, nose twitching, ears perked up, swiveling. Watchful, alert. God, what an amazing dog. I'm so glad Bear saved him.
The warmth is coming from Bear—he radiates heat as if he's a furnace. He's scooched low on the couch, his butt half off, long legs hanging over the far end of the coffee table, head lolling to one side. My cheek is on his sternum, my hand on his belly. His arm is a heavy weight draped across me like a weighted electric blanket. His hand curls across my belly.
I'm comfortable and warm, covered in a blanket, with his huge body a radiator and a mattress in one, while he, still in jeans and boots, is in what looks like a horribly uncomfortable position, exposed to the cold. He held me all night long rather than move to a more comfortable position.
I take the opportunity to study him. Slack and asleep, his features are boyish and smooth. A small white line bisects his left eyebrow. Another peeks out from the line of his beard along his right cheek. Yet another tugs the left corner of his lower lip down ever so slightly. His beard is a ticklish frizz-bomb, and his hair sticks to his lips and drapes off to one side. I use the moment to pinch the ends of his hair in my fingers—split ends, dry strands. I wonder if he even knows how to tie it back.
I wonder if he'd let me clean him up a little? I decide to ask, at some point. I could show him basic hair and beard care.
Somehow, that thought leads to images of Bear in the shower, his huge bulky body bare and wet—bare Bear. I snicker to myself at the wordplay, biting my lip to keep from waking him. I try to dismiss the image of him in the shower, but it's a tricky, demanding image. It makes my belly flip-flop and my core go damp and hot.
I haven't even thought about sex in a long time. After Brennan's betrayal and our subsequent divorce, and then the single idiotic date I went on, that part of me just sort of went dormant. I focused on work and whatever errands and factors my family demanded of me.
Bear is waking up my libido, however. Quickly.
He's unlike anyone I've ever met by several orders of magnitude. Physically, obviously, but in every other way as well. He’s unfathomable. I just never know what he’s thinking, and even when I ask and get an answer, I sense that for as much as he says, there’s ten times more beneath the surface that he just doesn’t know how to express or is unwilling to.
His past should terrify me. He's been stabbed more times than he can count? And he just shrugs it off as no more than “a poke." I don't even like getting a darned sliver.
He was in a gang. He's done a lot of bad stuff, enough, according to him, that he felt a ten-year prison sentence was fair for the crimes he committed.
So…why am I so comfortable with him? Why am I so utterly unafraid of him? His life has been violent. He has been violent.
When I hit people, they break.
Yet here I am, having slept in his arms like a baby. Safe. Warm. Content. Protected.
But how could he fit into my life? What would that look like? My conservative, church-going, straightlaced parents would not understand him. My sisters would turn up their noses, at best. My brothers are wild cards—who knows how they'd react if I brought him home.
The girls—Raina, Ashlynn, and Kyle—love him. They think he's cool as heck, although, in the text thread, they used the F-word instead of heck. I mean, the way he sent those collar-popped dweebs running scared with a glare, a growl, and two words was the highlight of their week. My friends, however, are the most accepting, open-minded, and loving people I know. So it's no surprise they get my attraction to Bear.
Could I try a relationship with him? Would he want that? It's hard to tell. This is the most contact he's ever initiated, and he's asleep. And even asleep, his hand is carefully placed. I have no doubt that's on purpose.
I get the sense that he battles some serious self-worth issues. Which is understandable, given his life: abandoned as a child, homeless, surviving on the streets, forced into a life of violence, and then framed for murder. Goodness knows any felon must have a hard time finding a place in the world post-prison—I know enough to know I don’t have the slightest clue what that's like.
Yet, he also seems to know exactly who he is, and what he's capable of. It’s a strange juxtaposition.
I'd have to tread lightly, as Gloria advised.
He makes a grumbly sound in his throat and stirs—sounding so ursine that I can't help but sniff another laugh. He's just so much like the animal he's named after. It’s adorable, intriguing, funny, and sexy all at once.
Who knew my type was man-bear?
He couldn’t be any more the opposite of Brennan, my only relationship and the only person I’ve ever had a physical relationship with. Brennan was just over six feet, so he was not short, but he was slender and geeky—a church boy through and through. He could quote long sections of the Bible, loved to debate creationism versus evolution, and the occasional round of golf was as close to physical exertion as he ever got. He was sweet, attentive, and very needy. Sex with him was…well, all I’ve known, so I have no way of comparing it to anything. I was often—or maybe always—left wanting more, though—I can admit this now, a year after the divorce.
I was with Brennan for a long, long time. We dated all throughout high school, got engaged the year after, and got married a year after our engagement; we were together in some romantic capacity for fifteen years and married for eight. He was a third of my world—work and my family being the other two-thirds.
We did things right—according to my parents’ standards, at least. Mostly. We didn’t even kiss until after we graduated and didn’t go beyond a few heavy make out sessions until after he proposed to me—at which point we’d been together for more than four years. Our relationship was cerebral, I guess. Conversation, debate, companionship. We never moved in together, but we did sleep together regularly once we got married, obviously. The plan was to get married and get his career as a pastor going while I continued as a cosmetologist until we had kids, at which point I would become a stay-at-home wife. I was content with that—cosmetologist and pastor's wife. It was a life I could see.
And then he accidentally left his phone unlocked and open while in the shower after sex one morning. It went off while I was making the bed—rather than a text message, it was a topless photo of a woman. Another came through—her lower half, also naked. With her fingers touching herself.
“Can’t wait to have you again, Brenny baby.”
I was immediately sick—I'd run into the kitchen to vomit into the sink. Once I'd rinsed my mouth out, I took his phone, locked myself in the spare bedroom, and searched every message and email.
I discovered threads with two more women, all of them graphic and lewd. Lots of sexting, lots of naked photos going both ways. I can’t wait to see you again. Want you inside me. I love the way you “eff” me, Brenny baby.
All three women were from the church where we went—where he was an usher, deacon, and assistant teaching pastor and in the running to take over as lead pastor when Pastor Johnson retired. One of the women was married with kids.
I'd put his phone on the bed, open to the photo that had begun the whole spiral of discovery, packed my few belongings, and left without a word.
I left the church and haven't been back. I blocked his number. Refused to speak to him. Refused to speak to his parents or his two siblings, who had been like bonus siblings to me my whole life. Filed for divorce, asking for nothing from him but a speedy dissolution.
My one act of…vengeance, I suppose, was to forward myself screenshots of some of the more incriminating photos and texts, print them out in full color, and mail them anonymously to the church, care of Pastor Timothy Johnson.
Brennan had been ousted from his positions, ostracized by the community, and eventually moved out of Three Rivers in shame.
Perhaps I should feel guilty—a good Christian doesn’t deal in revenge, I know that. But goodness, it was rather satisfying, and I don't feel guilty at all. It was no less than he deserved.
My faith, ever since, has been…wobbly, shall we say. I still hold onto my core belief in a God who created the world, his son Jesus, and the Holy Spirit, but the trappings of organized religion have lost their appeal to me. Brennan ruined it. Maybe that's an indictment of my weak faith, but so be it. I just can't bring myself to go back. If someone like Brennan, raised in the church, educated in the Bible, and serving the church faithfully for his whole life, could be a cheating, philandering, butthead, then what does anything mean?
In the year since the divorce, I've felt happier than ever despite my loneliness. I’m learning to stand on my own two feet. Do things for me. Brennan never approved of my friends—especially not Thomas and Colin. Ashlynn, he hated more than anyone—for reasons I’ll never understand. She’s quirky and unique, takes no crap from anyone, and does what she wants. She’s dated men and women. Probably, she just makes him uncomfortable—like Thomas and Colin.
Now, without Brennan and his disapproval, I'm free to enjoy my friends, go out for drinks, and have fun. I've even gotten tipsy a few times. I kissed a stranger. It stopped at kissing and I didn’t like it at all, but I can see myself going all the way with the right person.
With Bear.
Speaking of whom—he grumbles again, stirs. His eyes flutter open, and his green-gray gaze finds mine. "Mornin'."
I smile at him. "Hey, you." I wince as he rolls his neck, popping it loudly. "Sorry, I, uh, sort of fell asleep on you. You should have woken me up."
"Wouldn't do that for anything."
"You can't have slept well in that position."
His eyes search my face, sleepy and gentle. "Rather sleep like that, with you than in a bed."
"Bear." It's a whisper. "You're so sweet."
"Not sure about that. Best feeling in the world is you trusting me enough to fall asleep on me."
My heart melts, pounds; my stomach flips. "I slept great. Better than I have in a long time."
"Good."
"It's Saturday," I say. "What are you doing today?"
He shrugs. "Dunno. Downtime ain't my friend. Was thinking I'd work at the rescue."
"Downtime isn't your friend—what does that mean?" I ask.
"I can't afford to get in trouble. I don't know anyone around here except you and Riley and the guys I work with. I volunteer at the rescue to keep myself busy and out of trouble. And because I like animals more than people.”
"Would you…want to spend the day with me?" I ask, my voice a hesitant whisper.
He stares at me, blinking slowly, brows knitted. “You wanna spend a whole day…with me ?"
I nod. "Yeah." I reach up and brush his coppery locks away from his eyes and mouth.
His eyes flare at the contact—surprised? "What do you want to do?"
I shrug. "I dunno. Whatever. Get breakfast, to start with. We could take Panzer to the dog park and let him play. There are some nice hiking trails a few miles north of town." I hesitate, and then my mouth runs away from my brain. "My family is getting together for a cookout tonight. You could come."
He goes perfectly still—quite a feat for someone as given to stillness as he is. "Noelle…"
I touch his lips. "I understand if you don't want to. No pressure."
He swallows hard. "I…I don’t fit, Noelle."
I frown. "You don't fit? I don’t know what that means."
"You're…good. Clean. Normal. I…ain't."
My heart breaks a little. "Goodness, Bear. Don’t be ridiculous. My family is…we're just people." I keep going before he can say anything. "Just set that aside for now. Don't worry about it."
"'Kay."
I rub his cheek, the fuzz of his beard along his jaw. "Breakfast first. How about that?"
"I could eat."
I smile. "Me too. C'mon. I know a good spot."
Fifteen minutes later, we're parking in the back of the lot at The Good Egg, my favorite breakfast and lunch cafe. It's on the north end of Main Street on the corner of Compass, with outdoor, dog-friendly seating facing the rippling waters of the lake.
Carrying a leash, Bear paces beside me, Panzer at perfect heel, head on a swivel, nose going a mile a minute. We stop at the hostess station and wait.
A teenage girl with curly, mouse-brown hair approaches, nose buried in a tablet, a stack of menus under one arm. "Hello, welcome to The Good Egg- holy-shit-you’re-huge. ” Her wide, shocked brown eyes go to Panzer. “All d-d-dogs must be on a l-l-leash.” She squeezes her eyes shut and takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry. Let me try again. Welcome to The Good Egg. Table for two outside?"
"Yes, please," I say.
Her eyes flick to Panzer. "All dogs must be on a leash, please."
Bear hooks the leash to Panzer's collar, but then drapes the leash across the dog's back; his gaze dares the poor, trembling girl to say anything else.
"This way, please." She leads us to a table along the fence near the far side of the outdoor area. "Your server will be right with you."
Bear waits until I take a seat and then sits across from me; Panzer, without needing instruction, curls up into as small of a ball as he can manage behind Bear's chair, out of the way. Within seconds, the big beast is snoring.
"He stayed in that doorway all night?" I ask.
Bear nods. "Yup. Tell him to stay, he stays. No matter what."
"He's such a good dog," I say. "I'm so glad you saved him."
"Me too." He spends a few minutes reading the menu. "Don't know what to get."
"Well, you really can't go wrong with anything, but I'm partial to the stuffed French toast," I tell him.
He finds the item on the menu. "Never had French toast before."
I boggle at him. "What? You haven't?"
"Nuh-uh."
"Well then, that's settled. You have to get the French toast." I peruse the menu a moment or two longer before deciding on avocado toast.
The waitress comes by and we both get coffee; she brings that and takes our orders.
"So you walk everywhere?" I ask after our orders are in.
He nods, sipping coffee. "No car, no license."
"You don't have a driver's license?"
A shake of his head. "Nope. Never learned."
"I can teach you."
He looks down at the table for a second. "That'd be cool."
"We can do that after we eat. The parking lot at the dog park is big and open—it's a good place to learn."
"What's a dog park?"
I laugh. "A park for dogs?" His face twists, and I realize he probably thinks I’m mocking him. "Bear, I'm sorry. I'm not making fun. You just ask funny questions sometimes—I forget how vastly different our experiences are. It’s just a fenced-in area where people who don't have backyards can go to get their dogs exercise and socialization."
He nods. "I was a street rat. Until I went to prison, I lived my whole life in the same ten-block radius—the territory my gang controlled. Wasn't a whole lot there, but it was ours."
"What was the gang like?" I ask. “Do you mind me asking questions?"
"Nope. Don't mind."
"You don't ever have to answer, obviously. I'm just curious. But please tell me if I’m being nosy."
"It's cool." He sips coffee, his massive paws making the porcelain mug seem like a plaything. "It was complicated. They were my family. We took care of each other. Protected each other. Someone came for one of us, they got all of us. Some had families, a mom, or a brother or sister. I didn't. I stayed with whoever I could. Usually, I stayed with my boy Gerard. His mom was nice. She'd feed me. Let me sleep on her couch. I kept Gerard outta trouble."
"You still talk to him?" I ask.
His eyes narrow, flick away. "Nah. He died."
"Oh god, Bear, I'm so sorry." I reach across the table and take his hand.
Bear nods. "My fault."
I shake my head. "Bear, I’m sure it wasn't."
"Was. I was with a girl. Gerard was beefing with this clown from another gang. Wanted me to go with him for backup. Told him it was foolish. Forget it. Let it go. He went anyway, figured he could take the guy himself. Got jumped and beat to death." He looks away, his gaze hard. "Shoulda been there for him."
I squeeze his hand. "Bear, you were trying to keep him out of trouble. You told him not to go."
"Your boy asks you to go, you go. I didn't. He died."
I sigh. "I'm sorry. I know I have no idea how that must feel."
"Feels like shit." He clears his throat. "Done is done. Can't take it back."
"But you can forgive yourself, Bear."
He frowns at me. "How?"
"Understand that you made a choice. Maybe it was wrong, maybe it wasn't—obviously, I have no clue how things work in that world, but you clearly lived according to your own code. You feel responsible for his death. Maybe you were—it’s not for me to say. But Bear, carrying around that guilt isn’t going to bring your friend back. Nothing will—you know that far better than I do. I’ve never lost anyone I care about—not to death, at least. It's in the past, and it doesn't define you. It doesn't make you a bad person."
He regards me for a long time. "I could've saved him."
"You said he got jumped. Wouldn't they have killed you too?"
A shrug. "No."
“How many were there?"
"Dunno. Five or six."
"Were they armed?"
“Sure. Bats, chains, pipes, shit like that. Nothing I couldn't have handled."
I don't know how to process this. "Sorry, but…You could take on six people armed with bats and chains….by yourself?"
He nods, shrugs one shoulder. "Easy."
“Bear."
"What?"
"I really don't understand."
"Look at me, Noelle. I put on a shit load of muscle on the inside, but I was still a big motherfucker, okay? Stronger than anyone else, even then. My whole life, all I've known is how to take a beating." He spreads his mammoth arms wide, six-some feet from fingertip to fingertip, each bicep at least eighteen inches around, thick and heavy with muscle. "Told you. When I hit people, they break. Takes a whole hell of a lot more than six little clowns to slow me down."
I'm stuck on "all I've ever known is how to take a beating." His whole life has been pain, suffering, betrayal, violence, and hardship.
All I want is to show him the opposite.
I thread my fingers between his. "Well, that's not your life anymore."
He stares at our intertwined fingers. "No, it ain't. But figuring out what my life is, now…it's tricky. Don't know who I am. Where I belong."
With me.
The words stick in the back of my throat. I barely know him. I'm crazy—diving in headfirst with this guy. But I can't seem to stop myself. I don't want to.
I'm drawn to him. Endlessly fascinated by him. Driven to show him…everything. More of life—life beyond prison, beyond gangs, beyond the narrow, limited, scope of what he's known.
I'm attracted to him.
I'll have to take that slow, though. Even holding hands seems like it’s difficult for him.
"Did you have a girlfriend, before?" I ask.
"No. Had a few friends who were girls. But a girlfriend, like going on dates and…and whatever? No." He hesitates, and I sense questions coming.
"You can ask me anything, you know." I finish my coffee as the waitress brings our food, along with a carafe to refill our mugs.
Bear pokes the six-inch-high stack of marbled French toast that's been stuffed to overflowing with creamy ricotta and drizzled with real maple syrup.
He tries a bite, and his eyes flare. "Jesus."
"You like it?" I ask.
"Fuck, yeah. Good shit." He wipes his mouth with a napkin. "It bother you when I curse?"
I shake my head. "No. Not at all."
"You don't curse."
I shake my head, cutting a section of toast, avocado, and egg whites. "I was raised very, very religious. I've moved on from that for the most part, but I never picked up the habit of cursing."
"So you grew up going to church and all that?" he asks.
"Yup. Every Sunday and most Wednesdays."
"Wednesdays too?"
I chew and swallow, sip coffee. "Youth group."
"Dunno what that is."
"Like church but just for kids your age. We’d sing songs, hear a message about God, and hang out. It was fun."
He hums a sound that's neither yes nor no, just sort of acknowledging what I said. "Don’t go church at all anymore?"
I shake my head. "No, not really."
"Why?"
I consider what to say and decide that if I'm going to ask him about prison and being in gangs, I can darned well talk about Brennan. "I was married. His name was Brennan. We started courting—dating—when we were freshmen in high school. I loved him. We were together for… gosh, how long? Twelve years? Or close to that, at least.”
He blinks at me. "You were with the same guy for twelve years?"
I sigh, laughing a little. "The world I grew up in was…well, as far from the world you grew up in as you can get, I suppose. In my world, you didn’t date, you courted. Our first four years of dating, we had chaperones."
"Don't know what that means," he says, around a mouthful of French toast. He's devouring it, inhaling it. "This is the best shit I ever had. Legit."
I grin. "Good! I'm glad you like it." I take my time cutting, chewing, and swallowing. "A chaperone is just someone who goes on a date with you to make sure you remain pure. No hand holding, no kissing, none of that."
"Weird," he mutters. "Sounds lame."
I cackle. "It really was, honestly." I laugh again. "Anyway. After high school, the church we went to went through some changes. Things loosened up a little with the new pastor, Pastor Timothy. Less strict, not as many legalistic rules. After that, our parents let us go on dates alone, as long as we continued to remain pure until marriage.”
He does some mental math. "You'd have been…what, twenty?"
I nod. "Yes."
"And your parents still controlled who you went out with and how?"
I nod again. “Oh yes. Very much so. I lived at home. Obeyed their rules." I blush, preparing to discuss things I'm uncomfortable discussing. "We, um, we didn't, you know…um, sleep together, like that, until I was twenty-one.”
He shakes his head. "And you were with him for another how many years?"
“We were married for eight years, and together in the sense of dating or courting or whatever you want to call it for fifteen—from the time I was fifteen until I was twenty-nine last year. My one-year anniversary of being divorced is this month”
"A lot of marriages don't last that long."
"I know."
"Why didn't you marry right after graduation?” he asks. “Why wait so long when you’d already been waiting for so long?”
I tip my head to one side. "That was him. I wanted to. He wanted to have our lives set up first. He wanted to be a pastor. He was studying to get his doctorate in divinity."
"Sounds like an excuse to me."
I sigh. "It was. I discovered he was having sexual relationships with three other women.”
Bear's face darkens with fury. "Piece of shit."
"He was, very much. A real piece of…poop." I laugh. "I'm lame—I just can't…I can't bring myself to curse, even now."
He shakes his head. "Don't. You don't need to." He polishes off the last of his meal and then eyes me. "What'd you do when you found out?”
"Cut him out of my life, left the church, moved out of my parent's house, and, um…sort of sent evidence of his wrongdoing to his pastor. Which, umm, sort of ruined his life."
Bear snorts. "Good. He around, still? I can cram his face down his neck for you."
I snicker and then turn serious. "No, he's long gone. I wouldn't want you to do that anyway. It's not worth what it would cost you." I look at him. "You would, though, wouldn't you?"
He nods. "In a heartbeat. Dunno how he could do that to someone as perfect as you."
My eyes water and sting—he threw that out so offhandedly. "Bear. I'm…I'm not perfect."
He looks panicked—it’d be comical if it wasn’t so sweet. “Don't cry, please. Jesus. But you are."
I duck my head and fight the tears back. "God, Bear. You're too darn sweet."
It takes a few minutes for me to regain my composure—no one has ever said things like that to me. Brennan told me he loved me, but now, in hindsight, I realize he only ever said it when he was pushing me toward sex, or afterward. He never complimented me. Never told me I was beautiful.
Gosh, why was I even with him for all that time? Fifteen years? I spent literally half of my life with someone who I'm only now realizing was just an all-around piece of poo.
Piece of shit.
He was a piece of shit.
A liar. A cheater. A scumbag. Fake. Slimy. Horrible. Not even very nice. Was I attracted to him? Maybe, but only because I didn't know any better.
When I shake myself out of my thoughts, I find Bear watching me very closely.
"Lost you there for a minute," he murmurs.
"Sorry, I was just…thinking," I say.
"Care to share?"
I sigh, rub my face. "About Brennan. In telling you about him, I'm just realizing how pathetic he was. And how pathetic I feel for wasting so much of my time on him. I think…" I look away, hunting for the truth, and how to put it. "I think I felt like he was what I was supposed to want. I was supposed to want to marry a man like him. Or a man like I—and everyone else, apparently—thought he was good, righteous, and pure. A pastor. A man of God. But…he wasn't any of that. Not even close. And…I don't think he ever really loved me. He…" I blink hard, trying to hold back tears as the truth tumbles out. "He never said nice things to me. Never complimented me. He never told me he thought I was pretty, or that I looked nice in a dress. He thought I was stupid for going to cosmetology school and insisting on working."
Bear rumbles in his chest, his face a mask of outrage. "What a dick."
That makes me laugh. "He was a dick." I cover my mouth, sputtering laughter. "Oops. I said a bad word."
For the first time since I’ve known him, Bear smiles—a full, real smile, with a single booming bark of laughter. It fills my soul.
"Dick barely counts as a curse word in my book, but good for you. Curse his name." He shakes his head. "If I was ever lucky enough to be with a woman like you, I'd tell you how fucking gorgeous you are every single fucking day. Be a crime not to."
"With me? Or just a woman like me?" The question slips out before I can stop it.
He licks his lips. "Noelle, I…" He looks away, voice dropping. "Wanting to be with you…it makes me feel like Icarus."
It takes me a long, long time to process what he said, to understand the implications of it.
Icarus, the man who flew too close to the sun with his wax wings. Flew too high. Wanted too much. Wanted something not meant for him.
"Bear," I whisper, eyes stinging all over again.
“Read a lot of books on the inside. One of the guards helped me get connected with a librarian from a nearby high school. We'd email back and forth and she'd send me books to read." He brushes his long, wild hair out of his face—the wind pushes it right back across his eyes. "The librarian, Miss Ellsworth. She helped me get my GED. Taught me a lot."
"That's so cool, Bear. Do you know which school?" I ask.
He furrows his brow, thinking. "Hmmm. No. But if I could get into that email address, I could find out. Somewhere up here, I think.”
"You can use my laptop at home," I tell him. "You should reconnect with her now that you're out. I'm sure she'd love to meet you."
He nods. "Be cool to meet her in person."
The waitress comes by with the check, and before I can say a word, Bear hands her cash and tells her to keep the change.
"That was very nice of you, Bear, thank you." I stand up. "So. How about we take Panzer to run around?"
Bear nods. "He'd like that. I think."
We're sitting on a bench watching Panzer, all two hundred pounds of him, prance and bound and sprint like a puppy, his booming bark shivering the leaves and terrifying squirrels for miles. The other dogs join him, and soon the whole park is doggy mayhem.
After a good half an hour of play, Panzer lopes over to us, panting, and plops down at Bear's feet.
"I think that means he's done," I say.
Bear nods. "Yep." He looks at me. "Now what?"
I regard him, watching the wind ruffle his beard and plaster his hair across his face, resisting his attempts to control it. "Well, I do have one idea. I don't know how you'd feel about it, though."
"Try me."
"I'd like to do something with…all this." I gesture broadly at his face. "Not cut it off, just…clean it up."
He thinks for a moment. "Okay."
I light up. “Really?"
He nods, shrugging one heavy shoulder. "Sure. Why not? I got no clue what to do with it. Gets in the way most of the time."
I grab his hand and pull him to his feet—or, well, I pull at him, and he stands up. I doubt I could lift so much as one of his gigantic legs on my own.
"The salon is closed on Saturdays, so we'll do it there." We walk hand in hand back to my CR-V, Panzer trotting after us with a big doggy grin.