Page 22 of Necessary Space

“Don’t be a stranger.”

Rome hung up and I shoved my phone onto the couch. Appetite long gone, I shuffled into the kitchen for wine, carrying a half-empty bottle and clean glass out to the patio.

The shitty old patio set had two chairs and the one that had failed me still sat in a rotted heap where I’d left it. I poured some wine and gingerly lowered myself into the second chair. It creaked, but the weight held, and after the count of five, I relaxed. One of the things I did like about California was the weather. It was always nice outside, which was refreshing after a lifetime of East Coast seasons. The dead weeds in the back yard didn’t look like they’d ever seen rain, let alone snow, and I knew that was a kind of life I could get used to.

“Is that you?” Miles’s voice came softly from beyond the fence.

“I sure hope so, otherwise you’ll need to call the cops.”

He knocked a couple times against the fence. “Not a fan, so I’m glad to hear your voice.”

“You could have heard it at any time between Wednesday and now,” I reminded him, unable and uninterested in hiding the bitterness in my voice. The call with Rome had been exactly what I needed to get my head on straight and the rejection from Miles burned my cheeks with every word he said to me.

“I don’t want to fuck you,” he admitted, and the embarrassment burned hotter.

“Thanks.”

“I don’t want to fuck you because…”

The rotted plastic straps of the chair snapped and I tumbled through the seat, just as I had done earlier in the week.

“Fucking Christ,” I groaned, detangling myself from the mess and kicking the chair frame into the yard.

“You all right?” he asked, voice still soft.

“I’m fine.”

“Did you hear me?”

“No.” My voice cracked and I cleared my throat.

The bruise on my thigh was still fresh and it throbbed with a renewed intensity. Between that, my embarrassment, and my wounded pride, I was ready to call it a night.

“Come closer,” Miles beckoned me toward the fence, and I limped that way. He rapped his knuckles against the wood a few more times and I went toward the sound until a sliver of his face came into view through the dry and warped slats.

“What?” I demanded, ready for a fight.

“I don’t want to fuck you because I’ll fall in love with you,” he said.

“You said you’re not the type,” I croaked.

“I never said that,” he corrected. “I said I wasn’t a good man. I said you kissed me better than I deserved. You, though… you’re the one who said you didn’t date men younger than you. And me, I’m younger than you.”

I dropped my forehead against the fence, letting my eyes close. Rome’s call to action fresh in my head.

You know the right thing to do.

“Why do you think you’ll fall in love with me?” I asked.

“You just seem like the type,” he answered, that familiar flippancy evident in his tone, even though I could tell he was trying to cover the underlying meaning of his words.

“You’ll have to elaborate.”

“You make me feel a certain way when you kiss me, when you look at me…” Miles trailed off, and I swallowed, throat dry.

“How do I look at you?”

“Like you mean it,” he whispered back.