Chapter 6 Brick #2
She sends a photo. Not her face, not skin, not anything I could get her in trouble for if my phone ended up in the wrong hands.
It’s a picture of her legs from the knee down, bare feet on the arm of her sofa, toenail polish chipped, a soft throw rumpled around her calves.
A sliver of night through a window. It’s the most intimate thing I’ve seen in months.
Pretty, I say, and mean the scene as much as the limbs.
You’re easy to please.
Harder to obfuscate. You keep brushing off compliments like it’s your job, when it’s your job to take them.
She goes quiet again.
Eventually I tell her, Tell me something true you haven’t said out loud in a long time.
There’s a long pause. I almost tell her to skip the assignment when my phone buzzes.
I miss being touched by someone who cares whether I sleep afterward.
I sit so still even the AC thinks I left. Then I answer in the only way I know. Honestly. I care whether you sleep afterward.
Brick.
Yeah.
Don’t say that unless you mean it.
I mean it.
The dots appear, vanish. She sends a breath typed into letters. Okay. Tell me one thing you’d do if you were here.
I’d put your ankle over my shoulder and kiss the inside of your knee and listen for the sound you make when you decide to stop pretending you don’t want my mouth where you want it.
She sends a curse and a laugh in the same message, and I learn new things about my pulse.
My hand drifts to the back of my neck. The skin there is tight with good tension. I could go further. I know how to ride this to the end. But I keep the reins light. The best rides leave a horse wanting more.
You’re a distraction, she says, and I can feel the smile even without an emoji.
From what?
From everything. The noise. The list. The ghosts.
Then let me distract you.
She sends a picture of the ceiling. I’m not good at this anymore.
You’re doing fine. You’re doing better than fine.
But I know the temperature has changed. It’s not sudden. It’s a soft draft across the back of my neck, the way a storm shifts before you see lightning.
Her next message takes longer. I need to slow down.
Understood.
I’m sorry.
Nothing to be sorry for.
It’s not you.
I wince at the cliché and then forgive it because there’s a person behind it trying to be careful. I’m not going anywhere. I like this. I like you. We can stop wherever you want.
She takes a while to answer. When she does, it’s small. Thank you.
I set the phone down a second and stare at the ring left by a glass on the nightstand. I want to pick her up, set her somewhere safe, tell her the world can keep spinning without her for one night. But I don’t do rescues. I do respect.
You okay? I ask after a minute.
Yes. I just…overcorrected. Long day. My brain tries to protect me by slamming the brakes.
I smile at the ceiling. Your brain is smart. I like her already.
You’re annoyingly kind.
It’s a problem.
She sends a photo of a coffee table with a single square of dark chocolate on a napkin. I bribe myself when I do hard things, she writes. Tonight I earned this.
You earned two, I say.
Maybe.
I settle deeper into the pillows, one arm flung over my head.
I imagine her across town in an apartment that smells like soap and one plant fighting for its life.
I let the ache of not being there sit like a coin under my tongue, metallic and specific.
It’s hard to explain it, or maybe I don’t want to understand it, but there’s something about this woman that scratches an itch.
What are you doing tomorrow between ten and ten-ten? I ask.
Patching up riders, she says. Not meeting you.
I grin. Worth a try. What’s your favorite song to drive to at night?
Odd question. My answer might be odder. Pat Metheny’s Last Train Home, or Miles Davis’ Blue in Green. And break glass in case of emergency, Take Five by Dave Brubeck.
A jazz fan? Be still my beating heart.
Laugh emoji. Them’s fighting words to a doctor, mister. What’s your night driving song?
That’s a hard question. I can either go with the mandated country music picks, or the real answer. But I did promise her honesty, so…
If I’m trying to relax after a long day, it’s old roller rink music. The Cover Girls, Nu Shooz, Rockell. If I’m trying to stay awake, Lil Sims, Busta Rhymes, Missy Elliot. Anything with a good beat.
No song in particular?
I can’t believe she didn’t call bullshit on my answer. Rebirth of Slick covers both needs, so probably that.
You’re so old.
I chuff a laugh at that. You’re the one listening to classic jazz that’s older than me.
Fair point. Go-to breakfast order?
Coffee, black. Bacon, burnt black. Eggs over easy, and enough toast to make me feel like a person again. You?
Huevos rancheros, eggs either scrambled or over medium. And coffee until my brain is working on the higher levels.
I like chatting with her, but eventually it’s time to call it. Been a long time since I didn’t want to get off the phone with a woman, but I think it’s past your bedtime, young lady.
Yeah, I should sleep, she says. And I don’t want to get off the phone either.
I stare at the hat on the dresser. The brim has sweat lines only I can read. Tomorrow will be another crowd, another gate, another set of seconds that take ten years off me and give me back nine. I should care more about that. I don’t. This is old hat. My body knows how to do it. My mind does too.
She’s not a distraction. A woman like Annie doesn’t throw me off my seat. She makes me sit up straighter. I’ll text you tomorrow.
Maybe…
Don’t ghost a cowboy. We’ll send a posse.
Terrifying.
Sleep well, Doc.
You too, Silver Fox.
I sit with the phone in my hand for a long minute after the screen goes dark, listening to the room breathe.
Then I set it on the nightstand face down, take off my shirt, and slide under the sheets.
I close my eyes and see a lemonade stand, condensation on her cup, the shade of my hat on her face, and the way she tried and failed to hide a smile.