Chapter 9 #2
Annoyed at myself, I slide the crate closer to the couch to make it easier for us to reach.
I’m not sure it’s big enough to hold all the food Oliver cooked.
Hell, I’m not sure my stomach is big enough to hold all the food Oliver cooked.
He follows behind me, humming what I’m pretty sure is an AC/DC song and smiling.
I like that I never have to wonder what he’s feeling.
Everything is there, written on his face and laced through his words like sunshine shining through water.
He flops down next to me on the couch, knee bumping against mine, somehow managing not to spill any water from the glasses in his hands.
“Thank you,” I say when he hands me mine.
“You’re welcome. Thanks for coming and saving me from what was probably going to be an epic food coma and stomachache.
” His eyes catch on the cold fireplace, and he frowns as he plucks the words straight from my head.
“Too bad we aren’t at your house. Much better ambiance for a dinner date than this dump. ”
He smiles when he says it, patting a hand on the arm of the couch to let it know he doesn’t have any hard feelings.
I wonder if he really does think the house is haunted.
Opening my mouth to ask him, I pause when he blinks and bites his lip, turning his face away and leaning forward to grab his plate.
His cheeks are red. As easy as it is to tell when he’s happy or upset, it’s just as easy to tell when he’s embarrassed.
I wait, watching him. He usually tells on himself before anyone has a chance to probe, but this time, he’s silent.
Popping a bite of enchilada in his mouth that was probably too hot by the way his eye squints closed, he pointedly doesn’t look at me.
A minute later, he takes a gulp of water, puts his glass down hard on the coffee table crate, and brings one knee up on the couch so he can face me.
“So, are you seeing anyone?” he asks. I stare at him. Is he joking? I shake my head no. Surprise and something close to relief slips across his face. He relaxes against the back of the couch. “Oh, good. Or not good. You know what I mean. Are you, uhm, interested in anyone?”
Frowning, I put a spoonful of the soup into my mouth and then immediately wish I’d gone for the enchilada instead.
At least then I could buy myself more time with chewing.
Oliver and I have never once had a discussion about love lives, and I have never missed that aspect of our friendship.
I don’t want to know what he does with his free time or who he does it with.
I don’t want to know who else other than Dryden he spends time with at the Temptress.
There is nothing I’d like to think about less than Oliver making dinner for someone else, kissing them, and sleeping in the same bed.
Which isn’t fair. Oliver isn’t a pretty toy I can take out to play with whenever I’m in the mood.
He’s a whole person with a life and needs of his own, separate from mine.
And he’s beautiful. He’s too good for most of the world, but he deserves to find someone if that’s what he wants.
Which I assume it is, given the random segue into dating talk—a conversation that has never once come up between us in the time I’ve known him.
Inhaling, I meet his eye and shake my head. No, I’m not interested in anyone.
He deflates a little bit, expression uncertain as he reaches for his abandoned plate.
He hasn’t eaten all that much, but he’s usually pretty slow.
It’s hard to eat when you’re talking. Worry buzzes in my chest. Being around Oliver means being part of his energy.
Right now, that energy is sad, and I’m pretty sure I’m the reason, even though I did nothing more than shake my head.
“Are-are-are-are you-you?” I ask him, worry tightening into self-consciousness in my gut.
I need a field guide for this sort of conversation—helpful signposts and maps to aid me in deciphering the clues I have no hope of figuring out on my own.
He shrugs, tilting his head from side to side as he chews.
“No. Yeah. Well, maybe. Sort of, I guess. You know how it goes,” he replies, which even for him is a fairly incoherent response. I nod as though I know what he means.
I suppose I do, in a way. I’d said no when he asked the question, which isn’t fully the truth.
I’m interested in Oliver. I’m interested in helping repair this horrible house and showing him how to take care of chickens, eating dinner together and giving him more of my clothes to wear.
But am I interested in someone attainable?
No. There’s no sense in me admitting to a pipe dream.
I’m already too familiar with the feeling of being laughed at to put myself in those situations on purpose.
We lapse into what feels like the first uncomfortable silence I’ve experienced with Oliver since his early days working on the boat.
Maybe I’m supposed to press him on it. Ask him more questions to show I’m willing to listen if he wants to open up.
But I can’t, and it’s not even the stutter that is fully to blame. It’s selfishness.
I’d like to stay in the bubble we created during the blizzard.
Keep the world small enough to fit into my house, and Oliver never more than a room apart from me.
If I weren’t certain of being turned away, I’d tell him that I think I might be interested in him.
I’d tell him I enjoy spending time together, that I like the color of his eyes and the dimples on his cheeks.
I’d tell him my house is far too silent after two days of music, and I wish my songbird would return.
But I’ve been kicked while down too many times in the past to curl up on the ground and ask for it. Instead, I stay silent.
“Hey, Nils, it’s Rudy. Listen, I hope this isn’t out of line, but I know you keep chickens up there, and I’ve got a box of fresh chicks that were dropped off at the door.
I checked them over, and they’re fine, but you know how it is.
Hard to get people interested unless we’re close to Easter, and then they find their way to me anyway once people realize they don’t stay small forever.
Well, anyhow, I just thought I’d see if you had room for a few more.
Let me know. Clinic is open until seven tonight—I’ll leave your name at the desk if you want to stop by.
Okay, yeah, I’ll be seeing you. Bye now. ”
I listen to the message twice through. It’s been a long time since I’ve had to visit the veterinary clinic, which means it’s been a long time since I’ve spoken to Rudy.
I keep to myself and generally avoid all places in town that might be considered popular.
As such, I’m probably the only resident of Siren’s Point who doesn’t know what’s going on with everyone else.
I might also be the only resident who doesn’t care what’s going on with everyone else.
Rudy isn’t bad, as far as locals go, though.
He’s the only vet in town, and he was professional and kind when I had to bring one of the chickens in for a broken leg.
I could easily take the chicks. Especially right now, with it being the low season, since I’d be home and able to take care of them.
Helping him out might also earn me a bit of goodwill with Rudy, which is a currency I rarely have access to.
Tapping my fingers on the counter, I glance at the time.
Early evening yet, and he’d said they’d be open until seven.
Before I’ve even consciously made the decision to do so, I leave the house and walk to my storage shed.
The chicks will have to remain separated from my flock for a bit before I slowly begin integrating them.
I’ve got heat lamps and bedding stored—the little ones can live in the bathtub of my spare room for now.
When I get to town an hour later, I’m pushing it on time.
I park in front of the Caring Claws Animal Clinic, the red lobster curled around the words looking a little worse for wear since the last time I saw it.
Winter has been hard on everyone. When I walk inside, a woman looks up at the sound of the bell, frowning.
I almost frown back, no more excited to be seeing Shelby Dawson tonight than she is to see me.
I nod a greeting as I approach, watching as she fixes her customer service smile into place.
“Evening! Name?” She pins her eyes to the computer screen as though ready to search for my appointment. I sigh. She knows my name.
“Ni-nils L-l-l-l-l—”
“Lee?” Shelby fills in. Clenching my jaw hard enough for my ears to ache, I nod again.
If she wants to pretend she doesn’t know my name, she should give me time to finish saying it.
I don’t know why people insist on asking me to talk, only to turn around and be frustrated when I try.
My shoulders tighten, muscles locking into place. I already regret coming.
She types on her keyboard for a few seconds.
I can’t imagine what she’s looking for. I’m here for a box of chickens, not a prostate exam.
Shoving my hands into the pockets of my jacket, I wait.
This is why I hate coming to town. The odds of running into someone I dislike—someone who dislikes me—is far greater than the odds of seeing someone who treats me like everyone else.
“Hm, well, shoot. I don’t see you here. Who did you bring for a visit?
” Shelby peeks her head over the counter, looking for a pet crate that isn’t there.
Shame, so thick I feel like I could choke on it, coats my throat like tar.
I swallow, wishing I could turn around and just abandon this plan altogether.
“Ru-rudy called. Ch-ch-ch-chi-k-kens?”