“Let me.” He slides his hands under the dog. His hands are huge, covering practically my whole stomach as he worms them under my arms. “I’ve got him,” he says.
“I don’t know if it’s a boy,” I say. “I don’t know anything about dogs. I mean, I guess I would’ve been able to tell by looking, but I didn’t think of it. But it’s really common, defaulting to male pronouns to refer to things of indeterminate gender.” Christ, I’m babbling.
He cocks his head at me and walks away. I pick up the strap of the gun gingerly and take off after him, holding it as far away from the trigger as I can. With the luck I’m having today, I’d trip and end up shooting the man. Or myself. Or, shit, probably the dog.
“HAND ME the scissors,” the man says. I’m petting the dog’s head and surreptitiously trying not to look at the poor thing’s leg, which the man has determined is, indeed, broken. His house was only about a ten-minute walk from the road.
I hand him the scissors and examine his face in the light of the lamp. I tell myself it’s just because I’d rather look anywhere but at the dog’s leg. He has a really good face, though. Strong, high cheekbones and a straight nose; straight, dark eyebrows, one with a white scar bisecting it, and dark brown hair that waves slightly. His eyes are lighter than I thought in the woods: a kind of whiskey brown that looks almost gold in the light. Maybe one is a little narrower than the other, but he hasn’t made eye contact with me long enough for me to be sure. His mouth is set in a grim line of concentration while he works, but it’s soft and generous. He hasn’t smiled yet, but he probably has a nice one.
He stripped off his outer layer of flannel as he laid the dog down on the kitchen table. It was a bulky, quilted jacket, but even without it, he’s huge, his shoulders and the muscles of his arms tightening his blue and gray flannel shirt. He rolled up the sleeves to reveal a white waffle-knit shirt that’s too short in the sleeves, exposing thick wrists and powerful forearms. His huge hands are gentle on the dog’s fur and I can’t help but imagine what they’d feel like on my skin. What it would be like to be held in those hands, to be enveloped. My hand tightens in the dog’s fur and I force myself to relax as it makes a sound.
“She’s a girl, by the way.” His voice startles me and I meet his eyes, praying that he can’t read what I’ve been thinking about on my face. The last thing I need is for tomorrow’s local paper—if they even have a paper in this town—to carry a story that reads, “Out of town gay man found beaten to death in cabin of unfairly handsome local straight bruiser. Police assume queer panic ensued after out of town gay made a pass at straight bruiser.”
“Huh?” I say. He swallows, like he isn’t used to talking.
“The dog. You were right, she isn’t a boy.” He pats the dog gently and scoops her up, depositing her in a nest of blankets in front of the fireplace.
“Oh,” I say. “Great.” I stand and follow him. I realize I’m nodding compulsively and force myself to stop. He touches a long match to the newspaper and kindling below the logs in the grate.
“Is she going to be okay, do you think?” The fire consumes the paper and there’s a delicious, earthy smell as the bark on the logs starts to crackle. With the fire lit, he turns toward me.
“I think so. If she can stay off this leg tonight, I’ll take her into town tomorrow. Have the vet check her out for any internal injuries.”
I’m suddenly so relieved that I go a little woozy. I didn’t kill anyone. I didn’t hurt the poor dog beyond repair. I’m not a total fuckup.
“Whoa,” he says. In one step, he’s there, grabbing me by both shoulders to keep me upright. My vision is a little blurry and I blink up at him. God, he’s handsome. His brows are furrowed with worry, his eyes narrowed.
“Sorry,” he says, looking down. “I should’ve made sure you weren’t hurt.”
“No, I’m okay,” I say, stepping out from under his hands.
“You were in a car accident. Come here.” He steps behind me and puts his hands back on my shoulders, guiding me to the bathroom. When he flips the switch, I wince at the harsh light after being so long in the dark. In the mirror, I can see why he’s concerned. My black hair is messy and there’s a smear of blood on my cheek from the dog. A bruise is already coming out on my forehead, though I don’t even remember hitting my head. I blink at my reflection. My pupils are huge, even in the bright light, leaving only a thin ring of green around them.
He’s looking at me in the mirror, his light eyes fixed on mine. I can smell him behind me: wood smoke and damp wool and something lightly piney, like deodorant. Or, hey, I guess in the woods it could actually be pine. I can feel the warmth he’s giving off and it reminds me of how cold I am. He turns me around by the shoulders again, like he’s my rudder.
I shiver. I dropped my coat by the door, but even though it was cold out, I sweat through my shirt and suit coat while I was carrying the dog, and now they’ve turned cold and clammy. The tie I borrowed from my brother, Sam, and the new white shirt I bought for my interview are both streaked with blood.
“Shit.” I halfheartedly swipe at the blood. As I rub a little harder, I wince, realizing that my chest is sore.
“Were you wearing your seat belt?”
“Huh?” I feel like I’m processing everything five seconds after he says it. “Oh, yeah.”
He slides my suit jacket off my shoulders and starts to unbutton my shirt.
“Um,” I mumble. He bats my hand away and pulls my shirt apart.
When I look down, I can see a purple bruise forming in the shape of my seat belt. Well, good to know it worked, I guess. The bruise is long, disappearing into the tattoos that cover most of my torso.
“Tell me if it’s particularly tender anywhere.” He probes the length of the bruise gently.
“No, it’s okay,” I say, half because it’s true and half because I can’t think with his fingers on my skin. His hands are warm the way big guys’ are sometimes—great circulation, I guess.
“Wasn’t expecting those,” he says, gesturing to my tattoos. It’s funny. Anyone who meets me when I’m dressed professionally is surprised to find out I have tattoos, but anyone who knows me from my real life—at concerts, coffee shops, or just around—thinks my professional drag looks out of place.
I shrug and he gives me a cursory once-over, looking for other bruises. “Take your pants off.”
“Oh, um, I—” I scooch backward, away from him. There’s no way I’ll be able to keep it together standing in front of this gorgeous man almost naked. “Maybe, could I just take a shower?”
He doesn’t say anything, but turns the water on and grabs a towel from a shelf on the wall. It’s forest green. It seems like everything about him and this house is green and brown. Earthy.
“Here, give me your clothes,” he says. “I’ll get you something of mine to wear.”
When he leaves, I toe my dress shoes off, trying not to notice that anyone who looked could see the soles are worn almost through, but they’re polished to a mirror shine—or, at least, they were before my trek in through the woods. Five-dollar-new-shoes: that’s what my dad always called a shoeshine.
He knocks a minute later and hands me a pile of neatly folded sweatpants and a T-shirt. Then he hands me a drink.
“I thought you could use something to warm you up.” I sniff it. Whiskey. I down it like a shot.
“Thanks.”
He backs out of the bathroom and I undress and step under the hot water with a sigh.
I can’t let myself think any more about this shit show of a day—much less the fact that I’m in the shower of a total stranger who may or may not be about to axe murder me and wrap me up in this shower curtain—or I’m going to lose it. Instead, I pretend like Ginger is giving me a stern talking-to because, unlike mine, Ginger’s talking-tos sometimes work. Well, first Ginger would tell me to have a fucking drink, so I’m good on that count. Then it would probably go something like this:
Me: I’m having a nervous brea
kdown. I have no clue what I should be doing with my life. What if my dad is right and academia is for assholes who think they’re better than everyone else but never do a day’s work in their lives?
Ginger: Your dad is a fucking idiot. We know this. First of all, you don’t have to know what you’re doing with your whole life. Just what you’re doing right now. And right now, you’re being a professor. Second, you don’t think you’re better than everyone. Third, you’ve worked hard your entire life.
Me: Okay, but what if Richard’s right and I’m not really smart enough to do this? I mean, I wasn’t smart enough to realize that he was having sex with approximately 10 percent of Philadelphia, even though everyone else knew.
Ginger: Richard is a fucking idiot. Also, he looks like a boring version of an Abercrombie and Fitch model. You hate that all-American shit. You only went out with him because you were insecure about being the only one at Penn whose parents weren’t professor-types. You were flattered when he wanted to go out with you because you thought it meant you were smart. Well, you are smart, but that was stupid. You’re smart enough to be a professor; that’s why you’re going to get this job.
Me: Fuck me, Ginge—this place is ridiculous. I’m probably the only queer within a hundred miles. There’s a park near here called Gaylord, and I bet no one even thinks it’s funny. Seriously, if I get this job I’ll have to be celibate. Until some cute little gay undergrad catches me in a weak moment, after I haven’t had sex in seventeen years, and then I’ll get fired for inappropriate conduct, or put in jail for sexual harassment.
Ginger: Look, kid, you’re flipping out over maybes and you’re overthinking, as usual. Just see what this job is before you’re so positive it has nothing to offer you. Ride the wave. Besides, you know the stats. I don’t care if it’s the lunch lady, your accountant, or the butch lumberjack; there have got to be homosexuals, even in that godforsaken little slice of Minnesota.
Me: Michigan.
Ginger: Whatever, pumpkin.
She’s right, as usual. And, of course, her mention of butch lumberjacks brings me right back to... shit, I don’t even know his name.
I MAKE my way back into the living room, holding up my borrowed sweatpants in an attempt not to trip and kill myself. The T-shirt sleeves reach past my elbows. It’s like when I used to have to wear my older brothers’ stuff, only worse because I wasn’t concerned about looking attractive in front of my brothers, who would’ve told me I looked like an idiot no matter what I was wearing. Of course, it makes no sense to worry about how I look in front of this man either, since it’s not like some super masculine straight guy is going to care. These clothes do have one advantage over my brothers’, though: whereas my brothers’ hand-me- downs smelled like stale sweat beneath industrial-strength bleach, these smell like fabric softener and cedar.
As I walk past the fire, the dog lifts her eyelids and regards me sleepily, but doesn’t stir. I can hear noise coming from the kitchen.
“What’s your name?” I ask the man’s broad back, where he’s bent over the sink, washing a plate.
The muscles in his back and shoulders tense, as if I startled him. He turns around and his eyes immediately go to my hips.
“Those things are gonna fall off you,” he says. “Come here.” He rummages around in a drawer next to the sink.
Be still, my fantasies, I insist as I step toward him. The last thing I need is to pop a boner in this guy’s sweatpants and have him kick my ass. Not that it’d be the first time.
He squats down, gathers the excess fabric around my hips, and folds it over, then holds it together with a binder clip. I must look confused because he shrugs and mutters, “I use them for chip clips.”
“Thanks,” I say, and roll the T-shirt sleeves up a little so I don’t look like a child.
“What’s yours?”
“Huh? Oh, I’m Daniel.” I stick out a hand to him in a weirdly professional gesture, as if we haven’t been together for an hour, as if he didn’t just binder-clip the waist of my borrowed sweatpants. But he just takes my hand in his large palm and shakes it firmly. God, his hands are so warm.
“So?” I ask again.
“Rex,” he says, and ducks his head a bit shyly. Rex. King. It suits him.
“I guess I should go,” I say, making a vague gesture toward the door. “Oh shit, my car—I have to call someone—and I didn’t even check in to my hotel yet, so I need—” God, I’m tired.
“I took care of it,” Rex says, turning back to the sink. “Here, do you want another drink? You look like you could use it.” He pours another whiskey and holds it out to me.
“Thanks. What do you mean, you took care of it?” I sip this whiskey a bit slower. My head feels like it’s full of cotton.
“I called someone and had your car towed. It was a rental, right?” I nod. “So, you can just pick one up at the airport. It’s right near here.” Relief floods me that I won’t have to handle that. I can’t even remember the last time someone took care of anything for me.
“Thank you,” I say, and I can hear the relief in my voice. I finish the whiskey in my glass and hold it out for a refill without thinking about it. Rex gives me an amused nod and refills my glass, pours one for himself, and then gestures me into the living room.
I sink down onto Rex’s green plaid couch and pull the blue flannel blanket over me. The couch dips with Rex’s weight as he sits beside me and I open my eyes. In the firelight, he is a god. The flames flicker over the planes of his face and the straight lines of his eyebrows, create a shadow under his full lower lip, turn his stubble to velvet and his eyes to molten gold. I slug back the rest of my drink and put the glass down. I can’t look away from him. He’s regarding me calmly and I can smell him on the blanket I’m wrapped up in.
Something is happening to me. It’s like there is a magnet drawing me toward him and I am in actual danger of making an idiotic move on a stranger who is, as far as I know, straight, in a cabin in the woods, when no one knows where I am. Okay, now is when I need to remind myself of all those stereotypes of rural cannibalistic serial killers. Remember The Hills Have Eyes, Daniel! Texas Chainsaw Massacre! Or, more realistically, I just need to focus on how much it actually hurts to get hit in the face, which is what’s likely to happen if I get any closer to Rex than the other side of the couch.
I clear my throat and shake my head, trying to banish the fog that’s taken over.
“Is everything you have made of plaid?”
“No,” Rex says. “Some of it’s just plain flannel.”
I start to laugh and can’t stop, even though it’s not particularly funny. All of a sudden I realize what should’ve been obvious: I’m drunk. I’ve had three whiskeys after being in a car accident and I haven’t eaten since breakfast. Can Rex tell?
“When was the last time you ate?” he says. Yep, I think he can tell. And I almost don’t care. It’s so nice and warm here, so cozy. No one I know is here to witness me potentially losing my shit in Holiday, Michigan. No one ever has to know that I hit a dog. And no one here knows that in approximately one month I will be evicted if I can’t grab a whole lot of extra hours at the bar so I can afford my rent. None of it matters while I’m warm and tipsy here, in the land of flannel and wood.
Suddenly, the middle of nowhere seems like the best possible place I could be.
I MUST’VE fallen asleep for a minute, because when I wake up, Rex is standing over me holding a sandwich.
“Daniel.” I sit up a little and take the plate from him. “Uh, yeah.” “What are you doing here?”
I look around the room, my head still spacey. No, Daniel, he means in town. Get it together.
“I had a job interview. At Sleeping Bear College.” I take a bite of the sandwich and feel a little sick, the way I sometimes do if I wait too long to eat. But the second bite is heaven.
“What kind of jam is this?” I ask.
“Mixed berry.”
“It’s good.”
“Wh
at was your interview for?”
“To teach in the English department.” The words make my stomach clench with anxiety. Or maybe that’s just the peanut butter.
“You’re an English professor? You seem so young.”
“Yeah. Well, technically, I’m still a grad student, but if I get the job, it’ll start in the fall, and I’ll defend my dissertation in the summer, so then I’ll be a professor. It’s funny you think I’m younger than usual. Most people, when they hear I’m in grad school, they’re like, ‘Oh, so that’ll take you, what, two or three years?’ And I’ll say, ‘No, more like seven or eight,’ and they think it’s crazy because they’ve seen TV shows where all the characters have three PhDs by the time they’re twenty-three. It’s unrealistic and propagates total misinformation about higher education. Drives me crazy.”
“A dissertation. That’s the book you write to get your degree, right?” Rex seems to actually be listening, even though I’ve gone off on a grad school tirade.
“Yeah. I’ve been working on it for five years.” Alongside teaching every semester, bartending on the weekends, applying for fellowships, and, recently, applying for fifty-six jobs across the country, that is.
“What’s it about?”
“Oh, it’s boring; you don’t want to hear about that,” I tell him.
“Well, if you think I won’t understand,” Rex says, and his jaw tightens.
“No, no, that’s not what I meant. I just—no one who isn’t writing a dissertation ever actually wants to hear about them. Hell, even the people who are writing them don’t really want to hear about them; they only ask so that you’ll ask about theirs in return. Do you seriously want to know?”
“I asked, didn’t I?”
“Um, yeah. Well, I study nineteenth and early twentieth century American literature. Basically, I’m writing about authors from that time period who use social realism to explore the different models of economic theory available. So, some of them were critiquing capitalism, but didn’t offer anything in its place; some were radically anarchist; some were staunch Marxists; etc. But all of them used their writing to explore the effects of those different models.”