On a night much like the other, except he was stone-cold sober, Wes didn’t hear the sounds of wild se
x. He heard crying.
“Olive?”
Silence.
“Olive, what’s wrong?”
“The bracket snapped off and the foam won’t stay in place and I wanted him to have a taste of vintage surrealism, because that’s what people expect from me, but in reality, he’s going to look like a cross between a bowlegged cowboy and one of those aliens with the too-long body because he’s stretched out, and I’m really hungry. Like enough to eat him before I even get the clay on his bones.”
A smile tickled Wes’s lips. He reached over to the clipped scarf attached to the pully cable—largely unused but for the occasional hey, that song is grating on my last good nerve when the radio decided to belch out the newest country-pop hit—and ran the cloth up the pully like a flag of truce to their silly rules.
“Can I come over?”
“No.”
“No?” He was incredulous. Speechless. Utterly without a tether to what should come next. One minute stretched to two. She hadn’t started crying again, but she hadn’t wrapped up their little discussion, either. Just when he was about to leave her to her crippling artist insecurities, her voice penetrated the barrier, his heart.
“May I come over?”
A chuckle slipped loose of his throat, more of a can-you-believe-her? to his subconscious mind. They had stared at the inside of these weathered boards, this stupid hay bale wall, for too long. He had a better idea.
“Put on your shoes.” He shook his head at how much, after only two weeks, he knew her. She was never in her creative zone with footwear. “And grab your coat.”
“Where are we going?”
“Artistic field trip.”
“The Gritty Somewhere?”
“Better.”
“The Starlite Motor Lodge?”
As tempting as that sounded, he digressed. “Better.” His tone betrayed all he really thought of the no-tell-motel. “You really should get out more.”
“I’d love to, but we’re kind of in the middle of nowhere.”
She rounded the barrier, looping a plump scarf around her neck. The loose weave held her hair hostage. Her wide, unguarded eyes were rimmed red; the tip of her nose was pink. It was the first he had seen her without her glasses.
“Just how I like it.” Exactly what he’d intended to say, but the words stalled, a near-death on his tongue.
She covered her face with her hands. “I know. I look a fright.”
There it was again—not quite an accent but entirely foreign. Magnetic.
He lifted her hands from her face and placed them at her side. “You look like art.”
Olive smiled, unconvincingly.
Wes tugged at the ends of her scarf, which drew her closer. Close enough that the short wisps sweeping her forehead snagged the day’s beard growth. He planted a soft, soundless kiss on her forehead through the soft strands. Somehow, it felt right. Acceptable. Within rules.
“Come on.” He took her hand and tugged her out into the night.
He hoped the chill would return him to his senses.
“A rowboat?”