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I didn’t. Half-delighted and half-terrified by the idea of being alone with Ken, I hopped out of my Mustang—subconsciously palming my pepper spray keychain—and bounced over to where he was waiting behind his car, bathed in light from the garage door opener overhead.
“Dude!” I cried. “You live here? This place is beautiful! And that gazebo is fucking adorable.” I gestured to the front of the house with my left hand, which I realized still had a lit cigarette in it.
Ken’s lips curved slightly. “Thanks. I put a swing in it last summer. Want to see?” Ken walked past me, headed toward the sidewalk that led to the front porch.
I turned and watched him go, blinking. Then, I hustled to catch up.
We walked up the white front steps, onto the white wooden porch, past two white rocking chairs, and into the little white gazebo on the corner where a white bench swing was swaying gently.
I squealed as soon as I saw it. I knew I had about T-minus five minutes before my teeth started chattering, thanks to the February chill, but I wasn’t leaving without sitting on that damn swing. Zipping my flight jacket up to my chin, I hopped up on the hanging bench, leaving enough room for Ken to sit next to me.
He didn’t, of course. He stood three feet away, leaning against the railing with his personal-space bubble intact.
Damnit.
I was just about to start kicking my legs to get some momentum going when Ken lifted a foot and gave the bench a gentle push. I swung away from him in surprise and rocked back in anticipation, my knees grazing the edge of his magnetic field. Ken held my gaze as I advanced and retreated, but he was quiet again. I could see the wheels turning behind his shadowed eyes.
“Now what are you thinking about?” I found myself asking for the second time that night, the future psychologist in me frustrated over my inability to read him.
Are you wondering how my brains will taste?
Do you think I look pretty?
Shit. Do I have marinara sauce on my chin?
“I’m wondering how many pounds that swing will hold.”
I laughed through my nose, a smile splitting my frozen face. “You’re just over there, crunching numbers, huh?”
Ken’s lips pulled up on one side. “Always.”
“Don’t worry.” I smiled, trying to hide my panic. “If it breaks, we’ll just sue Gusto’s Trattoria for damages. I’m pretty sure I gained ten pounds tonight, thanks to those garlic knots.”
As my thoughts began to spiral about my weight and what I was going to do the next day to keep from gaining more of it, it occurred to me that Ken was wondering about the weight limit—not because I was a heifer, but because he’d never sat on that swing with another person before.
The thought warmed me from the inside out.
Then Ken’s body was next to mine, and it warmed me from the outside in.
Unlike mine, Ken’s legs were long enough for his feet to touch the ground, but he didn’t give us a push. He let us hang, just like the silences that never seemed to bother him.
Ken was content with stillness.
I, of course, was not.
As soon as my cigarette was done, I leaped off the swing, reached through the gazebo railing, and smashed the butt of my Camel Light into the soil beneath a rose bush.
“So”—I spun around to face Ken, practically jogging in place—“can I see the inside?”
Ken nodded and walked us over to the front door, which wasn’t white like the house or black like the shutters.
“I love your red door,” I chirped as Ken stuck his key into the deadbolt. “What does that symbolize? Aren’t red doors supposed to, like, protect you from evil spirits or something?”
Ken chuckled as he pushed the door open. “I wondered the same thing, so I looked it up.” Holding the door open for me, he said, “In Scotland, it means your mortgage is paid off.”
I giggled as I stepped inside, wondering who the fuck was paying this mortgage, when Ken flipped on the lights.
The interior was immaculate. Tasteful. And devoid of a single personal memento or photograph.
