Chapter 5 - Willa
FIVE
WILLA
The paint in my kitchen is barely dry when I see his truck coming down the road.
When I told him, “Come by Friday,” I meant it as a dare, not a real invitation, but that doesn’t matter anymore.
I spend the afternoon trying to make the house look lived-in instead of abandoned.
I clear the counters, sweep the floor, and put on a dark dress to cover the paint stains on my knees.
When I glance in the mirror, I almost look normal. It throws me off.
Beau arrives ten minutes early. I hear his pickup on the gravel, the door slamming twice, loud enough to announce he’s here. He knocks. I wait and let him knock again before I open the door.
He stands there with a six-pack, a wary look, and a new dent above his right eyebrow. “You said to bring beer,” he says.
“I said if you had to show up, and bring something productive.” I glance at the six and step back. “That counts.”
He stops in the doorway, looking at the new tile, the unfinished cabinets, and the butcher block counter. He notices the table set for two, with wine and store-bought bread. The only light comes from the crooked fixture and a melting candle.
He holds up the six-pack. “Want me to put these in the fridge?”
“I’ll get them.” I take the beers and stash them, then lean in the doorway, arms crossed. “You expecting someone else?”
He shrugs. “Maybe you’re hungry.”
I point at the stove. "Pasta's almost ready." I don’t say that every pot and pan is dirty, or that I spent the afternoon testing sauce and ignoring calls from work and my mom. Some nights, you just need to burn dinner and stare out at the road. Tonight is one of those nights.
He parks himself at the table. He studies the room, not me, but he knows I’m watching. “Looks good,” he says.
“The kitchen?” I ask.
He smirks. “The dress.”
Bastard. There’s nothing in his voice but plain fact, no mocking, and it leaves me without armor to put on.
I dump the pasta, plate it, sauce it, and join him at the table. He waits until I’ve picked up my fork before he goes for his. Polite, like he grew up with rules.
I feel tension in my body, legs pressed together and elbows tucked in. It isn’t nerves, just awareness. I’ve never been good at hiding what I want.
He twirls the pasta, takes a bite, and nods. “You make this?”
“All by myself. What, shocked, I can feed myself?”
He chews, swallows. “Shocked anyone tries. Most girls I’ve known, it’s just takeout and arguments.”
We eat. I drink too much wine. He sticks to beer, draining half of one before speaking again.
“How’s it feel?” he asks.
I look up. “What?”
“Having the place your way. Painted, patched. Like you imagined?”
His seriousness surprises me. “I didn’t have an image,” I say. “Just wanted a place tailored for me.”
He nods, like he knows the taste of that.
We don’t talk for a while. We just eat and refill our glasses. The tension grows, not in a bad way, more like holding your breath before something risky.
When it’s too dark to pretend otherwise, I clear the plates, set them in the sink, and gesture to the back porch.
“You want to see He heads out first, his boots thumping on the porch.
The wind has died down, and the sky is a deep black, the stars fixed in place.
He leans against the railing, arms folded like usual.ed as always.
I stand a few feet away, not facing him. “You ever regret growing up here?” I ask.
He considers. “Regret’s a waste of time.”
“Must be nice, knowing what you want.”
He looks at me, and this time there’s something different in his eyes. It’s a question, not a statement. “What about you?”
I look at my feet, then the yard, then him. “I wanted to run. Now I’m running in circles, just on my own land.”
He snorts. “You fit here better than you think.”
“That's supposed to be a compliment?”
He shrugs. “Supposed to be true.”
I move closer and lean against the rail next to him. We’re close but not touching. The silence grows heavier, filled with things I won’t say. I could reach out and touch his arm.
I tell myself not to.
He looks down at me, reading my face. “You’re not planning to sell. Are you?”
It isn’t a question. I shake my head. “No. I never was.”
He exhales a line of breath, almost a laugh. “Good.”
That one word hits me like a stone in water. The shock spreads through my chest, warm and dizzying, almost too much. I steady myself against the rail, my breath catching and my heart aching with something close to relief.
I don’t mean to reach for him, but I do: my hand on the rough denim at his elbow first, then higher. It’s not an invitation so much as an experiment, and he lets me. His skin is sun-worn, hair coarse, every part of him unyielding except the way he looks at me, softer than I expected.
He shifts, just a little. His hand covers mine, thumb brushing the back of my palm.
I’m not someone who usually waits, but this time I do.
I let him make the next move. When he does, he’s careful and slow.
He turns to face me, and suddenly the space between us disappears.
His other hand touches my cheek, gentle, as if I might break.
His mouth brushes mine, once, then again.
He tastes like wheat, cheap beer, and a kind of restraint I hadn’t noticed before.
The first kiss isn’t what I expected. It’s careful and intentional, with no rush or desperation, just his body close to mine. I’m the one who leans in, making it deeper, and he responds without hesitation. We pull apart when the wind picks up again, goosebumps running down my spine.
He doesn’t let go of my hand.
We stand there, side by side, staring at the sky like maybe we’ll see something special if we wait long enough. When I finally look back at him, he’s watching me—not the view, not the house, but me.
“Is this going to be a problem?” I ask. It isn’t even a joke. My voice sounds small, almost hopeful.
He thinks about it, then shakes his head. “No. I think it’s just started being a solution.”
I let that hang in the air. I could laugh or run. Instead, I lean my head on his shoulder, breathing him in. For once, I don’t pretend anything.
Later, when he walks me back inside, my hands won’t stop shaking—tremors twisting up my arms. I press my palms together and let out a shaky laugh. It isn’t fear. It’s hope so sharp it scares me.
I lock the door behind him and listen to his truck fade down the road.
I clean the kitchen in a daze, change into sweats, and brush my teeth, staring at my reflection. I touch my lips, thinking of his beard on my skin.
When I finally crawl into bed, it’s Buck who jumps up beside me, curling into the crook of my knee. I ruffle his ears, but my mind is ten miles away.
This is dangerous, I remind myself, with fear and longing twisting in my stomach. I could lose everything. My heart races at the risk.
But tonight, I don’t care. I want the risk and the trouble.
I turn out the light and dream of nothing but the stars.