But this night tested me. For the first time, I got why a man would sneak into a woman’s bedroom and rummage through her underwear drawer. The very thought made me sick, and fucking horny at the same time.
I am not looking at her panties.
When I entered, I was surprised to see an old iron bed in the center of the room, toppled with beautiful quilts. I’d guessed it would be more plush and elegant. Books lined the walls. An old rocker rested by the window. An opened book lay on one of the handles. I shouldn’t have, but I checked the cover, wondering what she’d been reading.
“The Bell Jar?” I checked the author’s name. “Sylvia Plath.”
The name sounded familiar, but I wasn’t sure if I’d read her before.
Setting the book down, I spotted the dresser.
My fingers itched to be bad.
My head kicked the stupid thoughts away.
Get Faith warm and then call her mother.
An old wooden trunk sat at the bed, just like the one I had in my own bedroom. It took a minute to open the thing. The gold locks had rusted. They screeched when I pried them open. A pile of quilts and blankets lay inside with the same color scheme and fabric as the ones in my own truck back in the cabin.
No time to compare decorating styles. Get Faith warm, man.
I grabbed all the blankets, rushed back downstairs, and piled them on top of her. She moaned a little and shifted on the couch.
I touched her forehead.
Unbelievably, she felt normal, warm and not too cold.
Am I missing something? She should be in shock and blistered.
For five more minutes, I took her pulse and monitored her breathing. I wasn’t a doctor, but everything seemed okay.
It’s still cold in here.
I gave up on trying to figure it out and hurried to the back of her house.
This is crazy.
Opening the door and pushing through it, I spotted the stacks of logs next to old silver antiques and copper molds. I piled a bunch of wood in my arms, spotted the ax, and promised to come back out and chop some more later.
Who’s been chopping the wood for her?
I studied it.
The pile sat light in my arms. Jagged, thin pieces instead of thick, chunks of logs.
She did this. Why isn’t Brett cutting the damn wood? Just because you’re divorced doesn’t mean you leave the mother of your kids to fend for herself. Women shouldn’t be cutting wood.
I did my best to not be a misogynist in life, but I blamed my mother for my old-fashioned thinking.
Dad did trucking and was away a lot. I had to be the man. My brothers and I always did themen work—chopping and shoveling, cutting grass and taking out the trash, fixing things and getting rid of the snakes and rats that scared the hell out of my mother.
At an early age, I understood that to be a man, meant to work hard in protecting the women around me.
I didn’t know how to let a woman pay for dinner on a date. Many tried. Even the women that I didn’t want a relationship with, I couldn’t let them reach in their pockets and pull out their wallets. That shit wasn’t in my makeup. Men paid. They opened doors. They carried things. They hammered shit and lifted the rest.
I need to have a talk with Brett.
The bag buzzed against my chest. I’d forgotten that I’d taken my shirt off. The last thing that Faith needed to see, when she woke up naked and confused on her couch, was me half-naked in front of her.