from sharing that beer, side by side, was the way he helped me, so different from anything I’d experienced back home. He didn’t take over the project like my father or brothers would. He waited for me to lead, offering a hand, as needed. That level of deference, from such a big, stern-looking man had taken the threads of attraction I already felt and twisted them up into something stronger.
I think of him every time I look at my ceiling fans.
I practically skip the last couple blocks home now, excited at the prospect that I might see him and tell him my good news. Will he come to the opening? Maybe as my date?
I don’t know. I’ve caught him watching me with a weird smile before…like he doesn’t quite get me. Like maybe I’m a weird little person he can’t wrap his mind around.
I force myself to slow at the last minute. Right. Gallivanting like a four-year-old probably isn’t the best way to approach him. I can’t quite manage a sedate walk, but I can go slow. Ish.
The streets are a restless jumble of whirling wind and fallen leaves. People give me more of the looks I’ve gotten used to since moving to the city. It’s because I don’t belong here. They can tell. I have no idea how to fix that, no idea how to fit into a place like Richmond. The Fan area, where I live, is full of people who’d stick out like sore thumbs back home in the Shenandoah Valley, with their tattoos and piercings, wild hair and messy beards. Here, I’m the odd woman out.
There’s his house, lit up. My heart does a little dance in my rib cage and, for a distracted few seconds, I wonder what that dance would look like in wool. I’d have to build a cavern out of a thicker weave for the rib cage, make puffs for my lungs, figure out exactly what a heart looks like and then somehow create excitement in the mix. Visually, it’s a challenge I can’t wait to take up.
But not right now. Right now, I’m slowing to a snail’s crawl, hoping he’s on his porch so I don’t actually have to go up to his door and knock.
No luck. The light’s on and the porch is empty, except for his beautiful swing and the chair I admire every time I walk by.
Especially if he’s sitting in it. Just that thought makes me blush. When he’s seated, his thighs look thicker than when he stands, the muscles meatier, his haunches so solid, I swear nothing can break him.
And I’m fantasizing…again.
A shadow appears at his window, startling me. Instead of heading home as I’d planned, I do it. I go up his steps, pull open the screen door and, before I can talk myself out of it, drop the massive knocker twice. I’d do once, but he might think it’s a mistake, though that idea’s preposterous, given how heavy the thing is. Not like the wind could accidentally set it to knocking and, oh, Lord, I should just go, because I’m a jittery mess. I won’t be able to shut up once he opens that door. Surely I’ll say something I regret.
I’m about to let the screen go and rush away to hide at home when the door swings open. He’s so big, he blocks out almost all the light from inside, though it spills out around his head. Immediately, Squid appears beside him. He woofs, nudges my leg, and goes in after I’ve given him a little scratch behind the ears.
“Jerusha.” Is that a happy voice or an annoyed voice? Impossible to tell with this man.
I swallow, wishing I’d thought to drink a beer before coming over. At least I’d be calmer right now. “Hi.”
“Hi,” he replies after a few seconds.
“Oh, um. I got pizza and…” Don’t tell him about the beer. It’s too much. “And I thought you might want to—”
“Who is it?” someone asks from behind him.
After an inordinately long hesitation, he cants his body to one side, giving me a clear view of the beautiful young woman behind him. She’s tall and thin and dressed in that perfectly relaxed way girls around here manage—yoga pants and a long-sleeved T-shirt that falls off her bones and boobs like it was made for her. And it was. Her hair’s that thick, straight kind that creates a perfectly neat/messy fall from the casual up-do she’s clearly got, just for the convenience, not because she’s