In the Middle of Somewhere (Middle of Somewhere, #1)(31)
It was, I suppose, a good date, if a good date is interesting conversation, common tastes, and an appreciation of each other’s senses of humor. But the entire time we sat there, I could tell he was half listening to me and half planning what I was useful for. There was a cold, calculating air to him that made it feel more like an interview than a date. I was dressed all wrong for the restaurant Richard had chosen, I picked a wine that was (he informed me) a terrible choice given what I ordered, and when it came time to pay and I pulled out cash for my half, he slid the check from under my hand with a subtle shake of the head, as if I were embarrassing him. He paid the check, I realized later, the way I’d seen the fathers of fellow students pay checks when they took their kids out to dinner: with absolute knowledge that the person across the table wouldn’t be there if it weren’t for them, and with the gratification of being able to lift that person out of their sad world of cafeteria food and ramen noodles for one special night.
A treat. That’s what Richard thought he was giving me.
At the time, though, I was so distracted by trying to shove cash back in my wallet and thank him that I didn’t think about it. As we left the restaurant and I told him he needn’t have paid for me, he smiled indulgently and told me I could buy him a drink next time. That he wanted to see me again was a balm to my wounded ego; that he expected to see me again wasn’t something I thought about until later.
I PULL on my black jeans and the maroon shirt that Ginger gave me, cuffing back the too-short sleeves and thinking about my best friend doing battle with the pro-lifers on South Street. Every few months they mass at the Planned Parenthood near her shop and make everybody miserable. Ginger insists that she doesn’t just fight with them because she finds them ethically and politically abhorrent, but also because she thinks signs of aborted fetuses are a deterrent to getting tattooed.
I towel-dry my hair and put a little wax in it so it won’t turn into a knot the second the wind blows. I look okay. A lot better now than I did when I got in the shower. There’s some color in my cheeks and my eyes don’t look so tired anymore. I brush my teeth, take a deep breath, and go to find Rex.
He’s in a crouch, picking at the painted-over windows in the living room. When he sees me, he gets to his feet.
“You look great,” he says, looking me up and down.
“Thanks. Um, should we go?”
“It’s not safe to have these windows painted shut,” he says. “If there was a fire… or carbon monoxide.”
I laugh a little at the shitty luck of living my whole life the way I have and then dying of carbon monoxide poisoning.
“Don’t worry about it,” I say.
“Seriously,” he says. “Carl should fix them for you.”
“I’ll mention it if I see him,” I say, mildly irritated.
I grab my backpack with the bourbon I bought for Rex and shrug into my jacket.
“Do you have a warmer coat?” Rex asks, running a finger over the shoulder of my leather jacket.
With him standing in my apartment I’m more aware than ever of how low the ceilings are.
“Er, it’s on the to-buy list,” I say, tucking the cuffs of my jeans into my boots. I doubt they’re going to be much help in keeping me dry, though. The leather is worn and cracked from years of puddles and rowdy concerts and the soles are worn smooth. I wonder if there’s a cobbler in this town.
DESPITE IT killing my car, the snow is really beautiful. In Rex’s truck it doesn’t seem so formidable and the drive to his house passes in appreciative silence. The last mile or so is just the woods, dark and quiet, the laden pine boughs dipping to kiss the ground.
“I can see why Ethan Frome would remind you of here,” I say.
“Yeah.”
When we pull into Rex’s driveway, his little cabin is lit up inside like some kind of real-life Thomas Kinkade painting, the snow in drifts against the rough wood exterior and the windows glowing yellow. It’s beautiful, guiding us home like a lighthouse. Except, this isn’t my home. I can’t even imagine living someplace like this—someplace nice and clean and private. Someplace in the middle of nowhere.
Inside, it looks just like I remember. The wood makes it feel cozy and natural, and the scent of cedar seems to come from the walls themselves. The front door opens onto the living room, with the couch and armchair arranged near the fire, and the kitchen is off to the left, the bedroom and bathroom to the right. Everything is greens and blues and browns, but the cabin looks very clean. My eye catches on the blue flannel blanket neatly folded on the back of Rex’s forest green and black plaid couch. I’m flooded with memories of Rex wrapping me in that blanket back in February, of pulling it up over my nose after Rex went to bed, thinking it was the closest I would ever get to him. I know how that blanket smells, how it feels against my skin.
“So,” Rex says, once we’ve shed our snowy boots, “if you were at the library so late, you probably haven’t eaten, right?”
“Um, I had some soup earlier,” I say, distracted by Marilyn, who has come running to the front door to greet us. “Hi, Marilyn,” I say, squatting down to pet her. “Do you think… do you think she remembers that I was the one who hurt her?” I ask. “Like, when she sees me, does she remember that I broke her leg?”