Still holding the skirt, I turn around and give him the smallest smile. But the thing is, it’s a real smile. It’s what I’m really feeling. I’m happy to have had this moment, I guess, but sad that I don’t get more, I'm sad for many things. Atticus dips his head, turns on his dirt-laden boots, and leaves. His weight makes the stairs creak with each step he takes down, and when the door closes, and I know he’s actually gone, I close my apartment door and let the skirt fall to the floor.
With my back to the door, my eyes still swollen and aching from my meltdown, I reach under my thong and slide two fingers between my labia. I’m not surprised I find my clit wet and thrumming. With the rasp of his voice still in my ear and the memory of his fingers trailing my arm still bubbling at the surface, I finger myself and come to the fantasy of being taken by him.
Maybe it was the cathartic cry or the busy day, but I wake the next day having slept so good. Better than I have in a long time. And I wake with a rumble in my gut, too, like breakfast is something I want, not something I want to convince myself I don’t need.
It could’ve been the cry. The heart-to-heart that Beau tried to serve up.
It definitely wasn’t the way Atticus made me feel in a less than three-minute interaction.
No, that’s crazy.
eight
atticus
All I’m doin’ is keepin’ my word
“Can’t believeyou finally spent some money, man,” I tease Beau, who is sipping coffee from a paper cup two feet away. We’re standing in the garage, near the lift, as we watch Miller prepare to do his first carburetor swap on his own. He’s been here a while but has only been an apprentice until recently. He was on his own timeline, and it took him getting dumped by some stuffy bitch to realize he needed to move forward in life.
He sips his coffee again, and I do the same. “It was actually my dad’s,” Beau says with a laugh. “Just didn’t have any reason to head up there ‘til now.”
I drape a hand over my heart. “Ain’t that sweet.”
He smiles instead of rolling his eyes. A year ago, the son of a bitch didn’t talk about nothin’ with me. He drank, he rolled his eyes, and he called me to pick him up off floors. Now, he’s practically a daddy with an old lady, and I’ve never seen him doing so good.
I’m happy for him. And I’m proud of him.
He’s been asking me to come to his cabin with him, Beck, and her son for a while. I never felt right being the third wheel. And anyway, who wants to watch a happy couple kiss and give off “no, you hang up first!” energy all weekend? Not fuckin’ me. But after convincing Miller and Delane to come, too, I agreed.
We may all work together and get on each other's nerves, but that’s how family rolls.
“Anyway, I’m meeting Beck at the studio at noon. Once we’re done there, we’ll head up. But the key’s under the mat in case you make it up there first.”
“Alright.” I look over at Miller, who is referring to a notepad coated in shop grime. “You know what to do; you don’t need notes,” I remind him. He closes the notepad and slides it onto the workbench. “Sooner we get outta here, sooner we get up to that cabin,” I remind him after Beau has walked out front to greet a customer.
Miller looks at me as he reaches for his coffee, taking another drink before we start. “Well, let’s get it going then,” he says with a smile. Only fucking Miller smiles while working. I like working with cars and gettin’ my hands dirty, don’t get me wrong, but you don’t see me grinnin’ about it.
* * *
A few hours later,I’m following the navigation from my phone to get to Beau’s cabin. As the robotic female voice tells me that I will arrive at my destination in four hundred feet, I flick on my blinker and navigate down the dirt road toward the small cabin at the bottom of the land. I passed a few cabins on the drive but not too many. Gettin’ a place out here with these views, the acres per lot, and all this privacy? I let out a low whistle as I throw my truck into park and survey the cabin through the windshield.
Small, quaint, and cozy, but private as fuck and on a ton of acreage. Cost a pretty penny; I don’t doubt. It’s been snowing some up here the last few weeks, and as I get out of the truck, powder falls against my leather jacket in quick, heavy thuds. I grab my bag out of the cab and hustle up to the door, diggin’ below the mat for only a second before locating the key.
Inside, the place envelopes me in a familiar, warm hug. I’m reminded of a man I loved and respected for many years–Graham Burns. He may’ve been Beau’s dad, but he was my boss and mentor for years. And he trusted me enough to be his son’s mentor, which I didn’t and still don’t take lightly.
Photos of Beau and Graham litter the walls, frames of all sizes and shapes, some crooked, all coated in dust. On the wall is a large stone fireplace, and because it’s starting to rain and cool down, I get to work building a fire.
Once the fire is cracklin’ and putting off some heat, I snatch my bag from the floor and toss it onto the bed of the first open room. I find a bean grinder and coffee press in the kitchen, so I get to work fillin’ the kettle with water and putting it on to heat. After grinding some beans from the cupboard, I pour ‘em into the press and stare at the kettle, willing it to sing. The cabin is slowly warming up–the heat from the stove radiates through the small kitchen while the fireplace is doing the same for the front room. Pouring the boiling water into the press, I’m just about to admit how cozy cabins really are when I hear a loud screech.
The undeniable screech of unchained tires attempting a hard stop in the snow. Tucking the curtains to the side, I peer out the window, swipin’ my hand through the condensation to get a better view. But as fast as I wipe it away, it returns, and the outside of the glass is getting icy, too. When I get to the door and pull it open, I see that in the last hour, snow has started to fall. Aggressively, too.
Blinking through the white, I see headlights, low like they belong to a small car or a sedan. It’s not Beau’s Tesla, and I can’t imagine they’d bring Beck’s car up here when he’s got one much safer. I pinch my gaze down, tryin’ to decipher the plate. I can see a few digits, and it’s not Miller’s–that I know. And I guess I assumed he and Delane would come together since Miller would probably have a coronary before he let her drive up here in the snow alone.
But the leg that swings out does not belong to Miller, Delane, Beck, or Beau. I know this ‘cause they’re all Oakcreek-natives, like me. And when you live in Oakcreek and spend your life coming up this hill to the mountains for camping (or cabin trips if you’re doing well), you know what shoes not to wear. The foot dangling above the wet ground is wearing a Converse sneaker. I can see the logo from my dry spot on the porch. Slick-bottomed with no insulation or grip, it’s the worst shoe you could wear in the woods, especially with weather like this.
The foot is joined by another foot, and a moment later, they’ve both disappeared into the slushy earth. Then out pops a head of shiny dark hair, the ends disappearing into a large puffy coat the color of bubble gum.
Goldie.