I laugh. “Maybe some day. Not anytime soon, though. Puppies are a lot of work. I should chuck it.” I lift a can out and look for the expiry date. “Oh, doesn’t expire for two years. Maybe donate them to an animal shelter.”
“Good idea,” he says and resumes stirring the sauce.
“Found it,” I say, holding the carton of baking soda he had me hunt down.
“Perfect,” he says and then he opens it and puts a teaspoon into his pizza sauce and begins stirring it. I watch it foam up and bubble before calming down while he stirs. He reduces the heat, stirs it again, and holds out the spoon. “Taste it.”
I taste the sauce and make an “Mm” sound before dabbing my mouth with a piece of paper towel.
He tastes from the spoon, too. “Better,” he says. “Took the tartness down a notch.”
“What about this?” I hold up a can of pineapple.
He points at me. “Do not open that can.”
“Aww, c’mon. Just on my half.”
“Woman, you’re insane. And you’ve got no taste.”
I bark out laughter.
“Except for my taste in men?” I ask.
“Well…” he holds his hand out flat and tilts it. “Fifty percent good taste, fifty percent… eh.”
I bark out a laugh and then it dies.
“Too soon?” he asks.
I scrunch up my nose. “Yeah. Too soon.” I wave my hand. “I don’t wanna talk about him at all. I’ve spent enough energy on him.”
“Too much,” he corrects.
“Yup,” I say and then I pour myself another glass of wine and top his glass up.
It’s been a great day. We took a walk along the property this morning. He showed me the big garage, the granny flat, and took me to the edge of the woods out back where the property line is, at the start of denser woods.
“We should totally come here and get a Christmas tree when it’s time. There are some great trees here,” I said.
“The people that owned it did the same every year, the real estate agent said, that’s why there are so many planted. Maybe we’ll spend Christmas here,” he said.
I smiled brightly. “My parents would love me to be home, though.”
“We can do both. Wake up here and then drive to their place?”
I nodded. “That sounds awesome. We’ll need to bring a tree to your apartment, too.”
“Our apartment,” he whispered against my temple before dropping a kiss. “Give your landlord notice when we get back.”
I couldn’t stop smiling all the way back to the house. He made us pancakes for breakfast and then we both got to work, in the living room with our laptops, him working on stuff for his business, and me doing my job. And it was a companionable time, an old radio playing seventies soul music, a crackling fire, and both of us doing our thing.
I feel so much happiness with him I can hardly fathom it. Looking at the bruising on his face though, the reality of how things could’ve gone the other night hits me repeatedly, making my pulse race, making my blood run cold.
I catch him looking at me occasionally, too. Most times he’s just studying me and I can’t get a read on it, but when I smile at him, it seems to break a spell and then he smiles, too.
“Am I an enigma?” I ask, catching him staring.
“Nope. I just like looking at you. What do you want for dinner tonight?” he asks me.
“Hmm,” I ponder. “We can just eat the rest of the pizza.”
“Or we could go out. There’s a little steakhouse ten minutes from here.”
“Ooh, awesome. I’ll get changed.”
I’m glad I brought a semi-nice outfit as well as jeans, sweats, and yoga clothes with me.
As I’m getting ready, my phone rings. My doctor’s office.
My STD test is all clear.
62
Killian
Dinner with Violet at a local restaurant would seem to anyone like a simple thing, but to me, it’s more. She’s focused on me, the scenery, talking excitedly about things we can do to spruce the house up. Her face is lit up, I get dimples, and I see once again how she’s kind to everyone she meets. The waitress, an old man that smiles at her, a kid in a highchair with ketchup all over his face that keeps waving at her. She waves back and keeps making silly faces at him to get him to laugh.
And the way she’s talking, about us painting things, about her helping me do things, it’s endearing and fascinating to me. She talks about repainting the old furniture instead of buying new shit. She talks about sanding with me, painting with me, instead of hiring someone to come in and do it. She’s spent the past five minutes talking about how she can refinish the staircase.
“You know,” I cut in, “I was planning to hire someone to fix it all up. You can just pick what you want out of a catalogue and the next time we go…” I snap my fingers, “it’ll be done.”
Her face falls. She looks disappointed.
And I can’t help but smile wide. She’s beautiful. Fucking beautiful.
“Baby,” I call out and reach for her hand. She puts hers in mine and looks at me with full attention. I’m all she sees. That’s how she looks at me, and I can’t get enough of it.
“Do you wanna fix up the house ourselves?”
Her lips part, but she looks embarrassed.
And I decide that yes, I want that. I wanna see her take on our oceanside getaway, even if I’ve got to help her do it. I want her painting a table we’ll eat our meals at. I want her picking out pieces of art and furniture from adventures we take together to find things she’ll want to surround us.
“I’d be happy to let you do it if you wanna.”
“Really? That doesn’t sound like a pain in the ass to you?”
I shake my head.
It probably will be a pain in my ass, but I can endure it if it makes her happy.
The condo is perfection to her and it’s all polished and done, but she likes to ‘upcycle’ and go antiquing and so I’ve decided she can do whatever the fuck she wants with the place in Tillamook. If it’s a pet project she’ll enjoy doing, making it a space for us, who am I to burst her bubble? Besides, I’ll be there with her, watching her enjoy herself and that’s good enough for me.
“Seventy-five hundred square feet - consider it your canvas. Paint it up.” I throw out a hand. “Whatever you want. You want a pro in to do something, you tell me and I’ll hire someone. You wanna do something, you can do it. You wanna buy something, tell me and I’ll pay for it. The only shit I don’t wanna do ourselves is plumbing or electrical. Plumbing, because it’s dirty and mistakes can mean a fuckin’ mess and electrical, because I’d never wanna cut a corner on something that could mean a fire hazard when we’re not there or heaven forbid, someday down the road, when it’s me and you and our kids sleeping in the house.”
She jiggles excitedly in her chair. And then her face changes, goes shocked. And it’s got to be because of my ‘our kids’ comment.
Her face is lit up, still, though, and then she sips her Coke.
“Except the basement. That’s all yours?” she inquires.