“Right. Okay,” I replied quickly.

But even though this was an explanation, something niggled at me because I found it odd if he was still so deeply affected by his father’s passing, why he’d chosen to be in a place that daily, hourly, each second he was in it, reminded him of that in such a way it clearly bothered him.

I knew what it was like to lose a parent because I’d lost both. How that came about, I’d had no choice but to let them go and I’d lost each in entirely different, but not equally agonizing, ways.

I knew how hard it was. I knew how painful. No matter what way you lost them.

I also knew escaping anything that brought additional pain was a good coping mechanism.

So I wondered, no matter how fabulous this space was, why he didn’t find his way to that.

I did not ask this as it became clear even if I’d asked, he more than likely would not tell me.

This made something else clear.

This was not a getting-to-know-you date.

This wasn’t a date at all.

This was a hookup.

This was not something beginning.

This was something else.

Not just sex, as such.

But something I’d never encountered.

And as handsome as he was, as nice as it was that he gave me the best seat (and all the rest), even if I wanted that to be the type of girl I was (and I actually did), that wasn’t the type of girl I was.

I always wanted more.

Sitting there I realized with more pain than it should cause, I wanted this maybe especially from Johnny.

“Baby.”

That came gently and I turned my attention to him.

“Not sure I like the look on your face. It seems a lifetime ago but also like yesterday. Most the time, I just live with it. But sometimes I have bad days. This is one of those days.”

This was one of those days.

A sunny early summer morning in his house . . . with me.

“My mom died of cancer, Johnny, so I get that.”

He stared at me.

“Ate her up. She was dead in six months,” I shared.

He blinked.

“I miss her every day, and if I let it in, I miss her every second.”

“Iz,” he whispered, a wealth of meaning and understanding and a lot more in his saying my name, all of it, for his sake on a bad day where I was sharing that day with him thus him having that understanding didn’t make me feel real great.

I didn’t focus on that.

“But that wasn’t the meaning behind the look on my face,” I told him, surprising myself at my candor.

“What was the meaning?” he asked.

I didn’t know what was happening. What this was. Where it led.

I just knew I liked him a whole lot for a whole lot of reasons, the most recent him being thoughtful enough to give me the seat at the dining room table in his own home that had the best view.

But it seemed he liked me mostly because he could have sex with me and I amused him with my shy ways in the midst of me having lots of sex with him.

He let me talk about myself, and he listened, because that was easier than sharing about himself, something it had become clear he didn’t intend to do. Or at least not without a goodly amount of effort on my part and with little elaboration when he gave me something.

He shared his body and his talents in bed without a problem though.

So I might not have a lot of experience with a hookup, but one and one were equaling one in this equation, not the path to there maybe being a two.

“I need to go home. Deanna took care of my animals but I have things to do today,” I declared.

This was somewhat a lie. I had one thing to do, which would take me ten minutes.

He put his fork to his plate and sat back in his seat, eyes on me.

“So do you mind, after I help you clean up, taking me back to my car?” I asked.

He studied me pensively as he answered, “You don’t have to help me clean up.”

“I don’t want to be rude.”

He didn’t respond to that.

He tipped his chin down to my plate and asked, “You get enough to eat?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“You ready to go now?” he queried, even though neither of us had cleaned our plates and that so went against the grain for me, it was difficult to give him my answer.

But I did.

“Yes, that probably would be best.”

“Right, Eliza,” he said on a curt nod. “I’ll get this soaking. You get dressed.”

“I can help,” I offered.

His eyes came to me. “Get dressed.”

That hurt. It shouldn’t. It was me putting an end to this.

But it did.

I got up and went to gather my clothes. I took them to the bathroom and got dressed.

By the time I came out, the dishes were cleared, soaking in the sink, jelly and ketchup still on the table.

“Be out in a second,” Johnny muttered, moving by me to go down the hall.

He disappeared in the bathroom.

I felt the sudden need to cry.

Instead, I went to his wall of windows, leaned a shoulder against one and looked out.

It was then I knew why he didn’t give up this place that reminded him of his dad.

The creek was wide and meandered slowly. Some of the trees grew straight out of it, their wide trunks serving as banks. Even that early in the summer, there was so much foliage, the sun struggled to get through but the power of it was such it cast streaks of bright against leaves and trunks and glimmered in the clear water and stone creek bed, making it appear magical.

I could stand out there with coffee every morning for fifteen minutes, half an hour, ages, just letting the peace of it and the gently turning water wheel calm me.

I wouldn’t have that opportunity, then or ever.

Johnny called from behind me, “Ready?”

I pushed away and looked to him to see him in another T-shirt and a different pair of jeans, wondering inanely (knowledge I’d never get either), where he got his clothes from, and I nodded.

I went to the island to get my purse, made sure my phone was in it, then followed him out the door.

He didn’t lock it behind him.

I moved at his back toward the truck, feeling a melancholy steal over me when he walked right to the passenger side door.

He opened it.

I started to shift around him to get in position to climb in but stopped when he slammed the door and turned to me. Hooking an arm around my waist, he pulled me around, put his hand to my stomach and pushed me against the truck.

My heart started beating hard as I tipped my head back to look up at him.

“You just got your fill or what?” he asked coldly.

“Sorry?” I whispered anxiously.

“Is that your play?” he demanded to know, the ice still in his tone.

“My . . . play?”

“Cut the crap, Eliza. What the fuck?”

I stared up at him.

“I don’t know. I’m not a woman,” he went on. “Only know the different reasons a man goes alone to a bar. The reason I hit Home last night was not the way it turned out to be. But I figure, one of the reasons men go alone is one of the reasons women go alone. So is that it? You went to find yourself some cock. Found it, got your fill, now you’re done?”

I felt my eyes get wide.

“You don’t owe me dick,” he continued. “I got it good so I’m not complaining. But assuage my curiosity. What the fuck?”

“I’ve never . . . not ever . . .” I trailed off, not knowing if I was offended, hurt, angry or all three.

“You’ve never what?” he pushed tersely.