And there was a rolling stool off in a corner that had a high seat, much higher than his chair, which was probably what he used to cook when he wasn’t on his legs, or used to rest on when he was giving his legs a break.
“Did you do all this work yourself?” I asked, glancing around.
“Nope,” he said, tucking the beer and wine in the fridge, then turning to me. “My dad taught me, you don’t know what you’re doing, don’t do it. I could YouTube how to install a kitchen sink, but this house is over fifty years old. There could be shit I don’t know what I’m dealing with in the walls, under the floors. Lucky I have a bud who does know what he’s doing who did it in exchange for me providing muscle when he had bulky materials being delivered and other shit he needed that a layman could do running a contracting business. Though, he did it in his spare time, so it took almost a year for this kitchen to get done. Six months each for the bathrooms.”
He was grabbing a stemless wineglass from one of his cupboards.
There was already a bottle of rosé open on the countertop.
And Rix kept the information flowing.
“The living room was already paneled, though, and I put in the floors, after my bud gave the approval that what was underneath was good to go.”
He poured, and I approached when he turned.
He handed the glass to me.
I had questions to ask that I was uncomfortable asking.
They were things I’d need to know, things I should know.
His life.
His history.
His heartbreak.
Sure, understanding he stubbornly stuck to the original Star Wars as his favorite in the franchise (I mean, he wouldn’t even discuss Rogue One, which was lunacy) was important.
But there were much more important things.
And as his fiancée, I’d know those things.
So as my fingers curved round the glass, and I allowed the zap of energy I felt when they touched his to course giddily through me, I asked, “Was this before your fiancée, with her, or after?”
He looked dead in my eyes and shared, “The floors went in before. The rest, when I was with her.”
“Did she live here with you?”
A curt nod and, “She moved in halfway through the kitchen reno.” He turned to the fridge, and I noted with no small amount of satisfaction that he grabbed a Goose Island. “Then she moved out.”
Right.
I’d pretty much used up my courage to dig into that situation, so I took a sip of wine and dropped the subject.
Rix popped open his beer.
“Chicken is already in the oven,” he announced. “I’m gonna finish getting these carrots in the water. You’re on couscous duty.”
He said his last nabbing a box of Near East couscous that was on his counter.
I approached him again, taking the box.
“Pan beside the sink, baby, measuring cups are that cupboard there”—he titched his head toward a cupboard—“butter in the fridge unless you want olive oil, that’s by the stove.”
I nodded.
He turned back to a cutting board that had some sliced carrots on it. “Eating out back on the deck.”
“’Kay,” I mumbled, making a mental note not to bring up Peri again, because Rix wasn’t a fan of talking about her.
What I did not make a mental note of was what that might mean.
We finished making dinner in silence that wasn’t companionable, but it also wasn’t entirely awkward.
We loaded up our plates in the kitchen, cutting up our chicken at the counter so we didn’t have to do it in our laps, since Rix told me he didn’t have a dining table out back.
Then we went to Rix’s small-ish (actually, it seemed less small and more intimate) back deck, and by then, I was used to the revelations.
Still, it should be noted, his deck was fab.
“This,” he muttered when he noted my appreciation, “is all mine.”
He hadn’t stained it brown or red, a cool and unusual choice.
The wood of the floor was stained gray, partial walls slanting down each side to provide privacy from the neighbors were stained black. Benches were built in, covered in white or black and white striped pads and pillows, making them look cozy. A hammock-weave club chair with cushions sat opposite a corner bench. Some small tables for drinks. And even black lanterns with battery-powered candles in them.
“Your place is awesome, Rix,” I told him as he indicated I was to curl into the cozy bench seat with a jut of his chin.
I did that, putting my glass down on the small, round table in front of me and holding my plate.
He lowered himself into the chair and set his beer aside on his own table, stating, “Your place is better.”
Really?
“You think so?” I asked.
“Yup,” he said, scooping couscous on his fork.
“Because it’s in the trees,” I deduced.