Not only were there ecosystems to consider, but there were also other, far more uncomfortable truths I’d just as soon keep to myself.
Surely any confession now would end in disaster.
But what if it didn’t?
What if now was the perfect time because we were drunk and I could say it was the sangria and we could pretend it never happened?
I looked into his beautiful face, slack with alcohol and deadly with those candid, vulgar eyes.
“Well, it was a good night to make out,” he said, answering the question I’d forgotten I’d asked, “because it’ll be the last night for such foolishness.”
He slurredfoolishness, giving it a few extra syllables.
“Oh?” I asked, drunk and trying to keep up.
“Yep,” he pronounced. “I’m starting a family. Going to find me a man my own age and settle down and have childs.Children. At least one mini-Stevie with the Easy Bake Oven lady, if she’ll agree to it.”
I didn’t quite follow his ramble, save for the fact that Stevie was Emery’s daughter and Kess wanted to have a kid like his friend. With a man his own age.
Oh.
Got it, got it. He was letting me down easy.
See? This is why you keep your mouth shut.
“RIP your sex life, buddy,” I joked, the words like day-old cornbread in my mouth. “No more orgies for you.”
“Not all of us are built for slutting long term, Rowds,” he said with the sage understanding of the inebriated.
I, for one, had sobered.
“Only the lucky few,” I replied, patting him on his shoulder before sending him a salute and heading for the door. “Sleep well, neighbor.”
I made my way out of his stunning house, spilling tears onto the path that Woody and I had carved out between the two places. I wasn’t running, but it was a near thing.
Shit, shit, shit.
I stopped at the newly installed gate, quickly opening it and shutting it behind me so as not to let our devious animal friends escape. Bandit, Woody’s three-legged cattlejack—half Australian cattle dog and half Jack Russell terrier—came running up to me.He normally stayed at Emery and Woody’s place, but with Stevie gone for the night and guests staying over, it seemed that he preferred my company.
At least somebody did.
I let us inside the small cabin I called home, then took a deep breath, letting it out slowly.
Save for some new linens and the addition of my guitar, I hadn’t changed much. A small kitchenette directly ahead, bed to the left, reading and music nook to the right. The bookshelves, which had been filled with Woody’s favorite poets, were now overflowing with my extensive collection of sheet music and thrift-store vinyl, along with some of my favorite fiction authors.
I’d also added a small flatscreen TV because, unlike my recalcitrant cousin, I enjoyed communing with the outside world.
Needing something to help me come down from the emotional rollercoaster I’d just been on, I stepped to the right and grabbed my Castilla, a flamenco guitar I lovingly called vintage. In reality, I’d purchased it from a tiny roadside flea market for twelve dollars.
Sitting in the dark teal velvet chair I’d snagged off Craigslist, I warmed up the strings, then started with the familiar first bars ofCarmenby Marcin. His artistry was mesmerizing, and while I didn’t think I’d ever be able to make my guitar sound like his, I enjoyed experimenting with his inventive, percussive style.
Bandit circled the small space in front of me, then curled up at my feet—an audience of one.
After a few minutes of practice, I shifted into a slow, Spanish melody, closing my eyes and breathing with the rhythm of the notes that had been running through my head. I supposed that one of these days I should pencil the melody on a music sheet, but for now I enjoyed riffing without purpose.
I secretly loved the romanticism of Spanish-style guitar playing. As I strummed, I imagined what it would be like to be held, led around the dance floor by a handsome man as this music played in the background. I tilted my head to the side as though accepting the sweet words of a lover, imagining that deep, refined voice.
“Going to find me a man my own age.”
