“My car is stuck. Remember?”
“You know what I mean… Why are you in Alaska, period. You want me to engage in these conversations, too.” He waved his hand between the two of them. “But those discussions don’t interest me right now. I don’t give a shit about no Skinwalker. I want to know about the skin you’re in. Who! Are! You?!”
She shifted in her chair, visibly uncomfortable. Again.
“You’re blunt.”
“So are you when it suits you,” he quipped.
“Wow. You’ve known me a total of less than six hours cumulatively, and you think you know me, huh?” She winked at him and took another sip of her wine.
“I know enough.”
“How old are you if you don’t mind me asking?”
“I’m forty-four years old.”
“You look a bit younger than that, but you act way beyond your years. That’s what makes me uncomfortable with you. It’s like riding shotgun next to a pair of brass balls, full of bravado and wisdom. You’re also quite sexy.”
He ignored her compliment—that could lead to precarious places. “My mother said I came out of her an old soul. Sometimes, I feel much older than I am because of all the things I’ve seen during my lifetime. I know animal instinct. I know the wilderness and how to respect it and be one with nature… being wild and free. I know people and human nature, too. Most people aren’t worth a spit in a bucket.”
“Hmmm, can’t argue with you there. No one can accuse you of not being honest about your true feelings.”
“I can only think of one reason to lie. And that’s to save your own life.”
“I like honest people. It’s just that, uh, your delivery is interesting.” She took another sip, possibly to calm her nerves. “So, you want to know why I’m in Alaska?”
He shoved his plate aside and crossed his arms, tired of her dancing around the bush.
“I’ll take that as a yes. I had to get away from some people.”
“The law?”
“You asked that pretty calmly. What if it were spot-on?” She grinned, while he waited for her to say the truth. Her smile slowly faded when she seemed to recognize he wasn’t in the mood to play around. “No, not the law. I have some rather,” she removed her napkin from her lap, placed it on the table, and began to toy with the hem, “complicated family dynamics going on. I had to leave them behind.”
“You’re a grown woman. Why would you run away from your family? Couldn’t you just tell them to leave you alone, and go on about your way?”
“Like I said,” she threw him a sharp look, “it’s complicated.”
“Does this involve you leaving a pretty nice career as a Broadway show dancer?”
“Well, it’s intertwined.” She sighed. “Can we change directions with this discussion please? Not leave it completely, but shift gears?”
He grunted and threw up his hands.
“I can’t make you admit anything to me. Say what you want to say.”
She started to talk again about things he wasn’t terribly interested in, so he only half-listened as he cleared the table.
“You should’ve been a politician. Boy, can you dance! Not only for real, but around some questions.”
She chuckled, but he hardly believed she found his words amusing.
“Let me help you clear the table.”
This time, he allowed her to assist. They gathered up the plates and silverware, blew out the candles, and off they went into the kitchen. Then, she reached around him, trying to help wash the dishes and glasses after they were all piled into the sink, but he pointed to one of the chairs.
“You cooked. I’m washing the dishes,” she insisted, standing with her back straight.
It was a stand-off. He mirrored her stance, looking down at her, then closed the space between them, head cocked to the side. His gaze lowered to her lips, and she stiffened.
They leaned into one another at the same time. Closer… closer… too damn close.
“You’re a guest. You’re not washing any dishes. Now go sit down.”
After blinking a couple of times, she sucked her teeth and mumbled under her breath. He couldn’t make out the words, but her tone said it all. Off she went, sitting down on a chair by the kitchen table, the sounds of the icemaker and ‘1979,’ by Smashing Pumpkins mingling together. He filled the sink with hot water, added the soap, and started washing their plates, studying the distorted reflection of her face in the large chrome faucet.
“That night at the restaurant, I saw the flyers you brought. Martha said—”
“Nope. Stop right there.”
“What did I do?”
“Kim, don’t ask me anything about me, my life, especially anything to do with what was on my flyers, or anything remotely close to it, until you’re ready to have an adult conversation. Not one filled with imaginary crap and conspiracy theories. I’m a grown man. You’re a grown woman. I have grown conversations.”