29. Arnaz
ARNAZ
“Lay you down”
See you’re held in peace under midnight’s keep.
Make haste. Gentle dreams await in sleep.
A light drizzle, or maybe dew, glistens on the trees, painting the treetops in streaks of silver when I wake up. For some reason, I never mind the sun if it’s mixed with rain.
Climbing out of bed, I brush my teeth, wash my face, and then go in search of Salem.
I find him sitting on the steps of the front deck. The fawn stretched near his feet looks me over, pings back to Salem, then me again, probably wondering how a man who radiates the calming flow of the river found himself in the company of scorched earth. I take a seat next to him.
“Hey, you.” He wraps me in his blanket cocoon. “I thought you’d sleep in.”
I don’t tell him that I slept peacefully until he took away his light snores. “Who’s your visitor?”
“I think we’re the visitors,” he says, turning back to the fawn. “I don’t know, but I kinda wanna buy the cabin so we can be together forever.”
“What about Simba?” I rest my head on his shoulder as he rubs his fingers through the nape of curls.
“He’d make besties of ’em in no time.”
“You found a dog friendlier than you?”
“Pfft. Simba has way more friends than me.”
I grin.
“Even Cillian’s cat, who tries to gouge the eyes out of every four-legged creature, sized Simba up, sulked away, then came back and slapshot a toy mouse at him.” He extends his mug to me.
“What is it?”
“Chai, but I used oat milk for you.”
I take a small taste first and then a larger sip. The ginger feels like drinking the sun.
“Have more,” he offers when I return the mug.
“What did Simba do?”
“Huh? Oh, he hunched down to his belly and licked the toy. Edgar hissed and then disappeared for the rest of our visit. But, y’know, Edgar’s like the Michael Corleone of cats.”
I grin.
“So that’s like an official sanction to enter with no smoke.”
I want to meet Simba.
I sniff the air and follow the scent to Salem’s neck.
“Want some?” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a tiny vial.
He rubs the roller against my wrist and temples. I clasp his hand as he pulls it back. “Vetiver,” I say out loud, reading the label.
“You like it?”
My eyes roll closed as I sniff my wrists. “It’s kinda like wood in a new house.”
“Yes, exactly,” he says, twisting the cap back on.
“This is what you do in the morning?”
“Hm?” He sips from the mug.
“Rub on oils, make tea, and sit with Simba.”
“Yeah…kind of.”
“You’re a real human.”
His dimple deepens. “What are you? A mountain lion?”
“If I’m a mountain lion, then you can’t be human.”
“Nah.” He smirks. “I’m whatever eats mountain lions.”
Mmm. Hello, morning wood.
“Wanna go for a run?”
He hands me the mug to finish. “If I beat you, will you throw a tantrum like you did losing to me in Klask?”
“Fuck off!” I down the tea. “I won fair and square.”
“You are a terrifyingly competitive sore loser .”
“Whatever, I won.”
“You did not.”
“I will drown you in the river.”
The fawn’s head darts up.
“You’re scaring the kids, honey.”
“Say I won!”
He pulls my curls. “Do I need to discipline you again?”
A coil of heat stirs in my belly.
“Close your ears,” he whispers to the fawn, whose head slumps back to the ground. He turns back to me. “If I win the race, you gotta give me something I want.”
“Like?”
“Information.”
I start to think it over, then stop thinking ’cause there’s no way in hell he’ll win. “Deal.”