by Kim Golden
Evan caught the chink in my armor though. "She didn't tell you about us, did she?"
"She told me enough."
"She tell you how she was trying to get me to leave my wife?"
I should have walked away then, headed back across the yard, back to Mia. But he knew he had me hooked. Before I could even come up with a way to answer him, he launched into his side of the story—how Mia was predatory, how she went after him when she knew he was engaged, that she had this thing about the hunt or getting guys to fall under her spell.
"She's good at that," Evan said wistfully. "Well, you know already. She's only been here two weeks and she's got you wrapped around her finger."
"You don't know anything about us."
"I know you're so into her you would do anything she asked you to. And I don't blame you. You just watch yourself though. Sooner or later she's going home. And you're the one who's going to be left up here on your own."
"You're crazy, you know that? Fucking crazy." That was all I could think of to say to him.
I left then, traced my steps back to the main house where I knew Mia was waiting for me. A frigid little nugget of fear was already crystallizing inside me. And when she came into the living room, for just a second I didn't see the woman I wanted to kiss, I saw the awful image of her that Evan had built up. And it scared the hell out of me. I didn't want her to be that calculating home-wrecker, but now that was all I could see.
Wet clots of snow splatter against the windows. This definitely isn't good. Everyone here says dry snow is what you want. It's light enough that the wind carries it without weighing things down too much. Wet snow wears down everything. And then the lights flicker. I've already stripped down to my t-shirt and thermals and climbed into the sleeping bag. Upstairs, it's quiet now; maybe Mia is already asleep. I close my eyes and try to concentrate on the fire still crackling in the hearth. But my mind is fucking with me. She's all I can think about.
This is going to be a rough night.
It's not the silence, it's the cold that wakes me. It seeps into the sleeping bag through the floorboards and webs my skin. I struggle to wake from a dream. I am encased in brittle ice. And then there is a flash of copper. The woman from the road to Kabul steps forward, her face grayish blue, her lips gone black. She shatters before me and I shout—I don't know what I am trying to say, am I warning her? I don't know, but I wake up from my dream tangled in my sleeping bag. Then I hear what sounds like scratching at the front door. I struggle out of the sleeping bag and stumble to the door. Evan waves from the other side of the glass. Let him freeze out there, I think, but I know it won't change anything. I let him in and ask him what he wants.
"There's no electricity," he says. He's shivering like crazy. "The heat's not working either."
"I'll go check the furnace." When I go back in the living room, I throw on my clothes and shove my feet into my work boots. Evan is surveying the scene. At least it's dark enough to hide the sleeping bag, but he's probably already guessed that Mia and I didn't share the same bed. "You may as well help. Grab the storm lantern from the dining table. There should be a lighter there too."
Evan does as he's told. "Where's the furnace?"
"Down in the basement."
There are two entrances to Mia's basement. One is accessible from outdoors, but with the snow it'll be impossible to open the fruit cellar doors. The other way, is through the door hidden in the dining room paneling. Ruth Carter showed it to me when I first arrived. She said I looked handy enough to take on the furnace if need be. Maybe she thought keeping an eye on it would help pull me out of the swaddling inertia I was stuck in. She said I needed to check it at least once a week, because it was old and temperamental. She swore that Hart Wilkinson had done this every week, so I figured I could do it, since I was the only man on the property these days. She showed me the hidden door, just barely discernible and how you just gave the upper corner of the door a gentle push to open it.
Evan and I take it slow down the old wooden steps to the basement. The air here smells earthy and damp. I lift the lantern to light our way, and also to find the industrial flashlights that should be on the shelves. We finally find a flashlight. I turn it on and hand it to Evan. When we get to the furnace, I can see the pilot is no longer lit. But when I touch it, it's not even lukewarm.
"Well, that explains the lack of heat…"
I try to restart it, but nothing helps. We'll have to call a repairman in the morning. I make my way over to the fuse box and check the fuses. Nothing has blown. It must be a power outage then.
"It's the snow…we'll just have to use candles and lanterns until the power lines are up again," I inform him.
"Why don't you call the power company?"
"It's a storm; you think they're going to send someone out here just to fix the power for us?" I shake my head at Evan. "Come on, let's just go back upstairs. I'll start another fire for you at my place, but you'll have to keep it going yourself."
Outside, the wind howls and moans. Sharp snow crystals pummel my face and neck as we make our way back to the guest house. Once inside, I head for the living room and begin piling logs into it. Evan doesn't help. I hear him moving around, but it's not until he's right beside me that I see him clearly, thanks to the slits of moonlight on the windowpanes.
"I'm not done with Mia yet," he says in a rough voice. "You ought to step back, so me and her can figure things out."
I stand up, so we're nearly eye-to-eye. I am just a few inches taller than Evan, but there is something about his cockiness that makes him seem like he's the bigger man. I try to imagine what Mia saw in him that made her want to embark on an affair with him. He is not spectacularly good-looking—but he's got swagger. And self-confidence is a drug. If you have it, you can wield it over anyone and make them fall in love with you. But just beneath the surface with Evan, is a layer of arrogance. I've met men like him before, in my travels. They leave a trail of hurt in their paths and don't care. He will hurt his wife. Maybe she already knows he's been unfaithful. And he is the sort of person who just doesn't care.
I pick up the poker from the stand. He steps back and flashes me a wary look. I could hit him with this. It would be so damned easy. But what's the point? It wouldn't erase the doubt he stirred last night. It wouldn't make it easier for me to apologize to Mia. So, instead, I poke at the flames now spreading in the fireplace and adjust some of the kindling. "Whatever issues you and Mia have, are between the two of you. Just like, whatever is going on between us hasn't got anything to do with you."
"I know you didn't sleep with her last night. I saw your sleeping bag on the floor. You must've listened to what I said."
"Why do you care so much?" I ask him. I've restored the poker to the fire tools stand. I don't want to keep it in my grasp. The urge to swipe him with it is burning inside me. "You think I'm just going to step aside, just because you assume you've still got some kind of hold on her?"
"She came up here because of me."
"She came up here, because of what you did to her," I correct him. "It's a big fucking difference."
"And you just happened to be here to pick up the pieces."
"I've been here since August. I was here before her grandmother died."
"Did Mia know that?"
"Why don't you ask her?"
"I'm asking you." He pokes me in the chest with his thick index finger. I grab his wrist hard and shove him back.
"Don't fucking touch me, you got that?" I warn him. "You ought to be glad we even let you stay. We could have kicked you out when you showed up, uninvited. So here's the deal—you'll stay the fuck away from me, and Mia, until the tow truck shows up with your god-damn car."
"You don't tell me what to do—"
"I do when you're in my house. And since my name is on the lease here it's mine while I'm paying the god-damn rent. Don't come bothering us anymore tonight. The fire dies down? Figure it out yourself, since you're so fucking smart."
I leav
e him there in the darkness with the flashlight. He shouts something after me, but I slam the door and cross the yard again. When I am back in Mia's house, a calmness overtakes me. I lock the front door and then kick off my work boots. I go in the kitchen and try the land line, but there's no dial tone. If we're lucky, the cellular network is still in commission.
In the living room, I find my battered cell phone on the floor by my sleeping bag. I press the display button and check the reception. There's a weak signal. I could call the garage and find out when they can bring Evan's car, but I shouldn't even be involved in this drama. Because that's what it is; drama. I should let Mia handle it and just be there if she wants to talk.
I relight the fire in the living room. That will at least take some of the chill off down here. Then I ponder going upstairs. She told me there was a fireplace in her bedroom. If it's cold downstairs, it must be freezing upstairs. I climb the steps and listen for a sign that she's awake. I tell myself this is okay, going up to her bedroom. I'm only going to check her fireplace and light a fire. If she wakes up, I'll tell her about the heating and electricity. I go to the front bedroom and knock on the door. When she doesn't answer, I quietly open the door and go inside. The room feels chillier than downstairs. I shine the flashlight's beam along the floor, until I find the basket of balled-up newspaper and firewood. As quietly as I can, I build a fire for her and then replace the fire screen.
I steal a glance at her. She sleeps curled into a tight ball on the right side of the bed. Her dark hair forms an inky cloud on her pillow. She lets out a little gasp and then rolls over onto her back. Her right arm escapes the tangle of blankets and her hand seems to hang in the air. I approach her bed and adjust the covers so she won't be cold. Just as I turn away, I hear her say my name. I turn back around and sit on the edge of the bed.
"Hey…"
"What's wrong?" she mumbles, still caught in dreams. "Did something happen…?"
"The storm knocked out the heating and electricity, so I came up and lit a fire for you."
"Where's Evan?"
"Still at my place."
"Good…I hope he can leave today…" her voice is still thick with sleep. "I'm cold…"
"You'll warm up soon," I tell her, but when I touch her arm she's freezing.
"Just hold me," she murmurs. "I know you want to take it slow, but hold me so I warm up…"
So, I do what she asks. I climb into bed with her and mold my fully-clothed body to hers. Her breathing deepens again and I can tell she's slipping back into her dreams . I hold her close, her hair tickling my nose, one arm draped over her waist, the other cradling her pillow. She feels so good in my arms. My body is already responding, even when I silently reproach it and try to think of anything else…but she moves, and her ass brushes my erection. God…this is torture. So close, yet so far. Maybe it's the slow rhythm of her breathing that finally distracts me. It pulls me in, my eyelids finally close, and my own breathing begins to match hers. She closes her fingers around mine. And then sleep comes down…
I am not sure when it happens. When she wakes again and begins kissing me. Her skin is no longer cold. If anything, it feels like waves of steam are rolling off her body. She's stroking my neck, nuzzling into me and whispering, "Wake up…talk to me…"
It's still dark. I don't know if the curtains are closed or if the sun hasn't risen yet. Mia sighs and lowers her hand to my chest. The fire is still burning. She traces her fingers along the front of my shirt. "What happened last night? When you came back from helping Evan?"
"Nothing…"
"It was more than nothing," she says quietly. Her hand dips lower, grazing my stomach now. God, she is torturing me. I watch her hand glide downwards, feel my breath catch with every centimeter. "He said something, didn't he? Something that made you scared to take anything further with me."
"He said I was just a rebound for you…that sooner or later you'd have to go home and you'd see things differently."
"Figures. He probably said more than that. I know what he's like."
Her hand drifts ever lower and I grab it, before she reaches her goal. "I can't talk if you're going to do that."
"Sorry…" I can hear her smiling. With my free hand, I pull her face closer to mine and kiss her, lingering on her full lips, and then I slide my tongue into her mouth and taste her.
When I stop, she whispers, "You sure do know how to kiss a girl."
"Can I ask you something?"
"It depends. Is it something you really want to know or something Evan thinks you should ask me?"
"A little of both."
"Maybe it's better if I just tell you what happened between me and him."
I don't say anything. It's what I want. I don't want a stilted question-and-answer session that will leave more questions unanswered. So, she tells me the story of her relationship with Evan and how it started when she was in graduate school and met him at an African-American Student Union get-together at Temple University in Philadelphia. I don't know much about her hometown, though she never really calls it that. When she says home, she means here in Hunters Grove. I figured it out early on. It amazes me that Evan hasn't figured it out, for all his posturing about how he knows Mia better than she knows herself. "Maybe it was seeing all of my girlfriends finding partners and it was happening so easily for them. I'd meet guys and they would be interested, just not in relationships. So, when Evan approached me and told me I looked sexy…I clung to that."
She shifts away from me, but I don't let her get far. We are alike, she and I. We want closeness, but then we shy away. She inches back, but keeps her back to me. "He didn't tell me about his girlfriend. Not in the beginning. He said he wasn't exclusive with anyone. Then I found out he was pretty serious with a girl called Melissa and that she was one of those girls who wears her Christianity like a badge. He was sleeping with me, because Melissa said sex was too special to have before marriage."
The more she told me, the more I hated Evan. I imagined him calculating ways to keep Mia on a string, so he could always have her at his beck and call. She was his perennial booty call and, when she began hinting she was tired of being his go-to girl, he made it sound like he and Melissa were having problems. Problems that none of their mutual friends seemed to know about, but Mia convinced herself she had something special with Evan. She'd felt so lost, drifting from one guy to another, looking for someone who would make her feel special and not just as a filler girlfriend. And, for a while, Evan treated her like she was more than just a girl who'd do more than his girlfriend would. He wooed her. He took her to expensive restaurants, concerts at the Mann Music Center, weekends at the shore. She thought they were heading in the right direction. And then, he told her he liked her, but she wasn't really the type of girl he could introduce to his parents, who were churchgoing upper-middle class blacks, and who expected their only son to bring home a model girlfriend—that is, one who didn't look like she was made for sex, one who looked like she'd be proper, who would be active in the church and who'd want nothing more than to have babies for their son.
"I could have been that woman, but it just wasn't in me…I'd have to pretend…and it was bad enough I was having to pretend that not being his first choice didn't bother me."
So he married Melissa, and talked Mia into sticking around by telling her she was the one he really loved. They'd meet when they could, stealing moments and Mia kept it a secret, until her best friend Jane figured it out. But, even then, she told herself she was doing the right thing because all was fair in love and war, wasn't it? Then, one day, she realized she'd been sneaking around with Evan for six years and he'd stopped talking about leaving Melissa. So, she gave him an ultimatum—choose me or it's over. And he promised her he was choosing her.
"It was all supposed to become official on Thanksgiving. But, instead, he announced that they were having a baby."
"And that's what brought you back to Hunters Grove."
She nods.
How could h
e do something like that to her? I scour through my mental file of relationships. I have not always been the world's best boyfriend. My relationship with Thandie is a testament to how low I have been. But, to string a woman along for years, to let her believe she meant something to me when I just saw her as a pair of legs to spread…
"Do you love him?" The question slides out of my mouth before I can stop it.
I have been thinking it. I was thinking it when Evan boasted of how easily he could have Mia again if he wanted her. I wanted to slam my fist into his face, but I stayed focused on the firewood and setting it up properly and wanting to get away from him as quickly as possible. If she is still in love with him, I cannot delude myself into thinking we'll ever be something more. Maybe she doesn't want more than a Christmas fling. Maybe he is right.
But her "no" sounds sincere. And then she turns in my arms and seeks my lips with hers. And I tell myself this is okay. We'll be alright. We just have to get Evan out of my house.
We forget about the world outside, at least for a little while. Mia curls into my chest and falls asleep again. I even manage to get a few extra hours, before we're finally awoken by the shouts and laughs of the town's snow removal team. Mia jumps out of bed first and shoves her arms into a faded flannel robe.
"I should make coffee for them," she explains and rushes from the room.
Her sudden exit barely gives me a chance to take in the significance of what we have had. She let me in. I ease out of bed, still clouded by the euphoria of how good it felt to sleep in the same bed with her. Even if we didn't have sex. It will come. I tell myself we'll learn how to trust again, we'll learn that not everyone wants to disappoint us or use us. Downstairs, Mia is clattering around in the kitchen and then she lets out a loud, exasperated groan.
I jog down the stairs and stop at the living room window. The amount of snow the storm has dumped on us is insane. Snow drifts reach the porch banister and hide the steps. The sky and the snow blend into the same dull, even white. Only the black trees and the somber colors of the house facades stand out against it. In the kitchen, there's another slam followed by a "shit" and then a "I don't believe this…"
