“Good,” Ethan said, striding over him, “because I wasactuallyjust calling to see if you wanted to come out.”
His mouth dangled open. Then words surfaced, floated out. “You mean tonight?”
“Yes, right now.”
The chirping of night birds filled the line.
He imagined Ethan standing on his porch, the front door shut, strangling the phone line so that he could talk in private.
“Wife’s just about asleep, kids are in bed, so I thought you could come over, have a drink with me—”
“I’ll leave in ten,” Jackson rushed to say, suddenly afraid Ethan might change his mind.
“Park just inside the gate, and kill your headlights, too. Meet me out back, up by the pond.”
The thought of a rendezvous, of Ethan not even pretending that this meeting was about anything else—woodworking, scoring clients—made Jackson nearly asphyxiate.
And now as he’s edging off the blacktop road, rumbling over the Swifts’ cattle guard, killing the engine, he feels once again like he might pass out.
Before he steps from the car, he hand cranks the windows back up, then drags his fingers through his hair to put it back into place.
He creeps along the drive on foot, like a burglar, ears attuned to everything: the ensemble of night birds that warbled over the phone earlier, the glow of fireflies whose amber light bites at the darkness swelling around him, the sound of his cowboy boots gnawing on the crushed-gravel path.
Despite his effort to remain cool, the damp heat causes his shirt to stick to him, leaving sweat to ring his armpits.
The lone front porch light winks at him, but other than that, the house is asleep. Curtains drawn, lights extinguished.
Jackson circles the house, cutting a wide berth, his breath hitching as he spies Ethan’s form silhouetted against the night sky, whiskey bottle tilted to his lips.
The ground beneath his feet turns marshy as he crests the hill, nears the pond.
Ethan spots him and waves the bottle.
They are far enough away from the house, where their voices won’t carry. But still, Ethan talks in a hushed tone. “Glad you could make it. On such short notice.”
A crescent moon, its surface marbled with pewter, droops just above the tree line, casting snowy light over the water, over the sharp features of Ethan’s delectable face.
“Well,” Jackson mutters, tongue fumbling in his mouth.
Ethan palms him the bottle. “Want a swig? Sorry I don’t have cups, but I was trying to be quiet, not wake the wifey.” He winks at Jackson.
Jackson’s stomach stirs. The bourbon scalds the inside of his mouth, but he takes a nice long pull anyway, tries to steady himself.
The air near the pond is tropical, briny. Ethan walks over to a tiny dock, the wood slats so old, they bark in protest under his weight, and jerks his chin skyward, inviting Jackson to join him.
They sink, cross-legged, down on the slats.
“Nice night like this, I’d say we could go for a swim, but”—Ethan stretches his legs out, supporting his weight with his elbows—“had a little too much.” He wiggles the bottle at Jackson.
“Then I’ve got some catchin’ up to do,” Jackson says, lifting the bottle from him.
He takes another long drink, reclines back like Ethan.
“Like I said, glad you could make it. I figured,” he starts, a lock of hair dangling over his forehead as he leans forward and takes the bottle from Jackson, “we could pick up where we left off.”
“Ha!” The laugh chokes out of Jackson’s throat, unbidden, but he’s caught off guard by Ethan’s directness, his amber eyes probing Jackson’s, glazed over with alcohol.
“On second thought—” Ethan says, rising to his feet.
