Chapter 8 #2
He squeezes my shoulders. "I don't, Dad. I promise. Besides, I was just here for the chili." He laughs and hugs me from behind and then heads for the door. "Tomorrow morning at the rink? Six?"
"Sounds good to me. Love ya, son."
"Love you too, Pops. Tell Morgan I said hi."
He's out the door before I realize I never said who it was. He must've read my messages over my shoulder or something.
I wait until his truck has vanished into a cloud of dust before calling Morgan.
She answers on the second ring. "Hi, Noah."
"Morgan, how are you?"
"Y'know. Busy week. I wish we'd had a chance to see each other before now."
"Me too. We've both got busy schedules, though. It's okay. We've got a chance to connect now, though, right?"
"Right."
"Have you had dinner yet?" I ask.
"I mean, no, not really. I've been snacking while trying to figure out a dinner that doesn't involve cooking."
"I made chili. Noel was over, and we did a number on it, but I've got plenty left. You said you wanted to try it, right?"
"I didn't interrupt anything, did I?"
"Let's just say he saw me texting you, put two and two together, and suddenly remembered that he had to wash his hair."
She laughs at this, and god it feels good to make her laugh. "It's an all-day process for him, too, huh?"
"All jokes aside, he can be surprisingly vain sometimes, my son. The messy hair look doesn't happen by accident, apparently."
“Obviously. Beauty is never accidental." A pause. "You're sure I'm not intruding or interrupting?”
"I'm sure. I'll shoot my address over to you."
"See you soon, then."
"Can't wait."
I toss the phone onto the counter, take a breath…and promptly freak the fuck out.
Morgan Wheeler is coming over.
Here.
To my house.
I look around and realize I'm definitely not ready for a guest. There are dishes in the sink, a basket of clean laundry on the ottoman that I've been intending to fold and put away for…um…a few days.
Fine, weeks.
A month?
Fuck off. I hate doing laundry, okay? It's just easier to leave the basket of clean laundry on the ottoman, grab what I need, get dressed, and toss the dirty clothes right into the washer when I get home.
Without Tornado Taylor around anymore, things just don't run the way they used to around here; "Tornado Taylor" was my affectionate term for what happened when my dear wife decided it looked too much like people lived here.
She'd turn into Taz from Looney Tunes and whirl around the house like an inverse wrecking ball, tidying and cleaning and polishing and dusting and I don't even know what else—she'd shoo me out of the house to keep me out of the way.
I do my best version of Tornado Taylor, loading the dishwasher at warp speed without even rinsing them—which I’m sure will come back to bite me in the ass later, but for now, they're out of sight—tossing the clean laundry basket into the laundry room and closing the door, running the vacuum over the rug under the living room furniture, making sure the guest and primary bathrooms are at least not bachelor-pad filthy.
I pause in the doorway of the bedroom, staring at my unmade bed: another thing Taylor always did that I never do.
Fuck.
I make the bed, pausing again at the framed photo of Taylor on my dresser; it's one of my favorite photos of her, taken on a camping trip to Denali Park about five years ago.
White-capped mountains form a dramatic backdrop behind her, blue skies dotted with puffs of white cloud.
She's got a white wool beanie on, her hair unbound under it and draped down her spine.
I pick up the photo, at war with myself over it. Hiding it feels like a betrayal. But…
I hear a car door slam closed outside and bring the photo out into the living area; I place it on the mantle beside another photo of her, Noel, and me, taken the day Noel got drafted by the SkyHawks; he's wearing a SkyHawks ballcap and holding the jersey with his name and number on it, grinning ear to ear.
God, so young. He wasn't even eighteen and fresh-faced, barely needing to shave, yet taking the ice against grown men twice his age.
Taylor and I were more nervous for his first game than he was, I think.
We watched with our faces literally pressed against the glass the whole time he was on the ice, praying our baby boy wouldn't get pasted by some hulking, overzealous, mouth-breathing D-line enforcer.
He made it through the game without injury and even got a beautiful pass assist that made the highlight reels that night.
The sound of knuckles rapping on glass startles me, and I realize I've spaced out, thinking about Taylor and Noel and hockey.
I hustle to the door and drag it open. "C'mon in."
As she steps past me, I get a whiff of her—vanilla and citrus.
She stops just inside and takes in the living area: a worn, brown-leather sectional around a live-edge oak coffee table handmade for us by Taylor's grandfather, my beloved, battered, suede easy chair, the river rock fireplace with a gas insert, and a mantle made from the central support beam of an old nineteenth-century barn.
The cream rug with the royal blue arabesque pattern, chosen by Taylor because the shade of the pattern is, apparently, the same shade as my eyes.
"Beautiful home, Noah." Her gaze goes to the artwork on the walls—a pair of Athabascan beadwork moccasins, a trio of soapstone carvings, reprints of Georgia O'Keeffe paintings, and Ansel Adams landscapes. "The artwork, my god." She wanders to moccasins. "These are stunning."
"Taylor's roommate in college was Athabascan. She gave those to Taylor as a wedding present."
Morgan scans the room again. "You can really get a sense of who she was just by her style." Her eyes widen. "Noah, I—"
"It's okay. It's okay, Morgan." I take her hand. "You're right. Taylor's thumbprint is all over this place. It's in everything. She had an incredible sense of style."
"I just…I didn't mean to—" she shrugs. "I don't know what I'm trying to say."
"I do. And it's okay to talk about her. I may get a little emotional, but if you can handle that, so can I."
"No matter what happens between us or not, Noah, she's an integral part of who you are. I want to…acknowledge that, I guess. Honor it—honor her. Does that make sense?"
"Of course it does, and I can't tell you how glad I am that you're willing to approach it like that."
"I just don't want you to feel like you have to tiptoe around the subject with me. She was and is a huge part of your life.”
I let her peruse the rest of the main living area; she spends a good deal of time at the bookshelf beside the fireplace, head tilted to one side as she scans the titles—Taylor and I were both eclectic readers, so there's a little bit of everything, ranging from biographies and histories to sci-fi and romance and airport thrillers.
"So, you wanted to try the chili, huh?"
She pulls away from the shelf and takes a seat at the island, hanging her purse by the strap from the chair-back. "Absolutely. A multi-generational recipe is a must-try."
I ladle her bowl, and while she's adding her toppings, I snag the recipe card from the cookbook stand and hand it to her.
Her eyes widen as if it's a national treasure. "Wow, look at this—so cool. Your grandmother's handwriting?"
I nod. "Yup. According to family lore, my Grandma Irene tinkered with that recipe for twenty years before she committed it to writing."
She takes a bite, then, handing me the card back, her eyes go even wider. "Holy shit." She covers her mouth with a hand, laughing. "I mean, it's just chili, but my god, it's so good."
"Right? I wish I could explain what it is, but I'm not enough of a chef for that. It's just damn good chili." I sit beside her. "I'd eat with you, but I demolished two bowls already."
She shakes her head. "It's fine. Thank you for sharing."
"I'm glad you called."
She smiles at me over her spoon. "It's good to see you. I…I’m…” she shakes her head, evidently unable to squeeze the word out past her nerves.
"Morgan, you don't have to…force anything."
"I just…I get these ideas. These feelings. They come in a rush, and I act on them, and then when I get there, I panic and freak out." She finishes eating and slides her bowl away.
"More?" I ask, gesturing at the crock pot.
"No, thank you. I'm full." She grabs a paper napkin from the wooden holder full of them on the counter in the middle of the island. "Does…does that make any sense at all?"
"It does." I glance through the house to the back door, overlooking the five-acre field that is our backyard.
The sun is setting, a massive orange ball spiked by towering pines. A cluster of deer browse just beyond the tree line, delicate hooves stepping into hock-deep snow, ears swiveling like satellite dishes. A harsh wind blows, sending a snow-devil swirling across the surface of the snow.
I pause. "D'you want a glass of wine or whiskey?"
"I wouldn't hate a glass of whiskey."
I snag the bottle and two glasses and precede her to the couch.
I sit in the corner of the sectional, to one side, so Morgan has plenty of space to decide how close to me she wants to sit.
I hand one to Morgan, who, instead of sitting beside me, wanders to the railing and admires the view while taking a sip.
I can't help admiring the view myself, although I'm not looking at trees or wildflowers.
Blatantly, I'm admiring Morgan's backside. She's wearing a pair of dark-wash blue jeans that are skin-tight enough they have to be at least partly leggings, molded to the curves of her thighs, hips, and ass the way they are. Brown leather ankle-height boots with a blocky heel giving her a couple extra inches of height, and a pale pink sweater of thin wool that dips low enough to show a generous amount of cleavage; I don’t think she’s wearing a bra, considering the prominent poke of her nipples against the soft wool.
She turns and glances at me over her shoulder, catching me staring at her butt. The corner of her mouth tips up knowingly. "Beautiful view you have."
"Never gets old," I murmur, hesitate, and then go for it. "I've got a pretty spectacular view from here, too."
The smile brightens. "Noah," she mutters. "Flattery will get you everywhere."
"Everywhere?"
She drifts to the couch and sits beside me—not quite tucked against my side but close enough she could with a simple shift of her weight. resting her glass on her knee, she looks at me. "Maybe not everywhere. But pretty far."
"It's not flattery, Morgan. You're gorgeous. Truly."
Her chin dips toward her chest. "Thanks." A huff. "Accepting compliments gracefully is not my strongest suit."
“You're doing just fine."
It's been a long, long time since I've had to think about how to approach someone in this context.
We're both attracted to each other. We both have needs and desires.
We've been open and honest about those desires.
But now that she's here, in my home, the home I built and shared with Taylor, I'm scared out of my mind.
What's the move? Suggest a movie? Just kiss her?
I don't want her to think the only reason she's here is for that. But then she's the one who suggested "Netflix and Chill" and claimed to know the implications of that phrase.
She sips, glances at me sidelong, swallows. "So."
I huff a soft laugh. "I'm sitting here like a dork trying to figure out how to be cool about this. I don't think I'm succeeding."
She laughs a little too loudly and claps a hand over her mouth. "Ohmigod. I'm such a spaz. I'm clearly not being cool about this either."
“We don't have to be cool, then," I say. "I'm nervous, you're nervous. But…nothing has to happen, Morgan. We can watch a movie and just…be together. Just talk."
She shakes her head. "I don't want to just talk, Noah. I like you. I'm attracted to you. I really, really am. More so than I can remember ever being attracted to anyone. I just…I'm…"
I take a swallow and set the glass aside, turn toward her, and rest my hand on her knee. "What if we started there?"
She puts her hand over mine. "I'm good with that."
Her hand goes to my knee, flutters and hovers, and then settles. Her palm is warm through the denim, sending sparks skittering up my leg and into my nervous system.
My heart patters crazily.
Part of me insists I kiss her already, and the other part of me shies away, feels the weight of the past in this home, the invisible ghost of my wife in every room.
I don't know if I can do this here.
"Noah?"
I shoot to my feet, pace to the sliding glass door. "Sorry, I…"
She follows me, stands beside me. "Talk to me."
I opt for the brutal truth.