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I sit up, brushing the scraps of bark from my back, and he teases, “Is it getting past your bedtime?”
“Nah, I’m practically nocturnal. My sleep schedule is a mess, especially since I started working at the diner. Do you want to finish this?”
He nods at the half a joint we have left and joins me on the log again. “We have that in common. I’ve seen more sunrises at the end of my day than the beginning.”
I assumed as much, since his lights are often on late, and I’ve noticed him coming and going from his barn in the middle of the night.
We’re quiet as we finish smoking and watch the fire burn down to embers. He breaks the silence with a sudden announcement. “I’ve got cotton mouth like a motherfucker. Do you want a Coke or something?”
“I’d love one, but you aren’t leaving me up here by myself,” I snort, getting to my feet when he does.
“Would you rather go back through the graveyard alone?” He chuckles at my horrified look. “I’m teasing you. Come on.”
“Very funny. And to think, I was going to offer you some of those leftover donuts.” We trek back down the hill and enter the graveyard. The high humidity has spread a light fog over the ground.
“I humbly apologize. Especially if you have an apple fritter. They’re my favorite.”
“It’s your lucky night.” I move to walk closer to him. “You have me out here stoned in a cemetery at night. I knew you were trouble.”
“You’re the one who brought the weed.”
Fair point. “I could’ve done without the added creep factor of the fog.”
“Do you want a piggyback ride, so they don’t grab your feet?”
“You’re an awful person for putting that image in my head.”
His laughter fills the air, bringing a smile to my face. Once we make it to his front yard, I pause. “I want to clarify this isn’t a ‘Hey baby, want to come back to my place?’ mating call.”
He looks me in the eye, the moonlight shining over his features, making the white patches on his face seem to glow. “That wasn’t my intention at all. You’re welcome to come in but if you aren’t comfortable with that, I’ll bring you a Coke and we can sit out here.” His soft expression is reassuring.
“I’ll come in with you. Just making sure there wasn’t any misunderstanding. Let’s go grab the donuts first.”
He accompanies me to my cabin, ducking a little to get through the doorway. The healing scrape on his forehead shows how often the poor guy must hit his head on things. My ceilings give him a few inches of clearance, thank goodness, but he appears almost comically large in my tiny kitchen.
“You have a nice place,” he remarks as I retrieve the box of donuts from the table.
“Thank you. Most of the furniture was left by the last tenants.”
“My house was furnished when I bought it. I kept a lot and replaced what I didn’t like. You knit?” he asks, noting the yarn and hooks lying on one end of my couch as we walk back through my living room.
“Ah, no. I’m trying to learn to crochet but I’ve just started.”
He picks up the blue lumpy misshapen blob and looks over at me with amusement. “It’s not a bad unicorn for a first try.”
“Thanks for that, but it’s a bunny. Or supposed to be. Look, the ears are hard, okay?” I defend with a giggle. He returns the monstrosity to the end table then follows me out to the porch. “Will you hold these for a sec?” I ask, handing him the donuts so I can lock the door. “The latch is fiddly and has to be lined up just right.” He carries the box as we walk back to his place.
Judging by the exterior, Arlow’s house is a bit smaller than most traditional farmhouses. It’s more modern with two stories, a new stone chimney, and a wraparound porch. A porch swing rocks slowly in the breeze on one end, past a sitting area with a table and chairs.
He opens the door and escorts me inside, turning on some lights as we go. The air is lightly scented, a pleasant mix of cedar and a spicier earthy smell. “Your place is beautiful,” I remark, admiring the hardwood floors, exposed beams, and impressive stone fireplace.
“Thank you. I had a lot of renovations done before moving in.”
We get to the end of a hallway that opens into his kitchen, and he places the donuts on the table, then opens his fridge to pull out two bottles of Coke. Five small jars of honey sit on his counter, labeled in marker.
“Are you a honey addict?” I tease as he hands me a drink.
“It’s from my apiary.”
