Page 31 of Grouch-ish

“Think owls will really nest in there?” I ask.

With her hands still covered in mittens but tucked under her chin, Pear stares up at the two houses we installed last. The ones on the old birdfeeder posts.

“We’re a little late to set them up. They should have been hung in October, but I read you can go as late as February and owls will still find their new homes.” She pauses a second. “But I don’t know why an owl wouldn’t love that place.” She nods at the box on a thick column. “It looks inviting, right? If I were an owl, I’d want to live there.”

I chuckle at the thought of her living in a box suspended in the air. If she lived there, I’d want to live there as well.

“February? Don’t tell me. Owls are the official birds of Valentine’s Day, like jars of pears are the official fruit.”

“Definitely official bird of romance,” she teases. “Nothing says love like the hoot of an owl.”

I snort, and without thinking, wrap my arm around her and kiss the side of her head. We make a great pair, whether she agrees or not.

Once back inside the warm human house, Pear cooks dinner for us even though she grumbled only days ago about feeding me. I hadn’t intended for her to provide anything for me, but I am grateful all the same. I can cook but I don’t love it. Breakfast is my specialty.

Dinners are typically a quick affair for me. Now that I’m alone, with both kids in college, I eat most of my evening meals standing at the kitchen counter, scrolling my phone while rushing through what I consider a necessity more than a pleasure.

Pear, on the other hand, enjoys every meal. She savors each bite, talking between each sample. A meal is an occasion for her. Tonight, we have pork chops she slow-cooked in mesquite barbeque sauce all day with a side of roasted potatoes, and I don’t think I’ve ever eaten anything so delicious in my life.

Pear is an amazing cook. Baker and cook. Her pie was heavenly. Her pork chops divine. I’ll happily take anything she wants to make me. Not that I wouldn’t cook for her. I can’t wait to tackle that tenderloin I bought. We’ve agreed to save it for New Year’s Eve, the official halfway mark of my stay.

The days are passing quickly, and the thought of leaving creates a strange ache behind my sternum.

“You okay?” Pear asks, catching me while I rub my knuckles over my breastbone.

“Heartburn,” I lie.

“You eat too fast.”

I sigh, falling back in my seat and staring at my empty plate. “Hazard of an empty nest. I eat alone a lot and hardly ever sit at my table. No reason to slow down. Just eat and move on.”

“Eat and be done. Blasphemy.” A sweet smile curls her mouth as she scolds me.

We’re finally back to the easiness that has developed between us over the last four days, and I, for one, am relieved. I like her, and I want her to like me. Not like some teenage crush thing, but actually enjoy my company, as a man. A man who hasn’t been with a woman in a long time. A man who values friendship but also wants more.

I’m not certain Melissa was my friend. We told each other things, but did we listen to one another? Did we hear what the other wanted? What the other needed? Melissa hadn’t heard my desire to build furniture. She’d scoffed at the idea. Guess carpentry was even lower on her list than fireman. Funny how being who I am never bothered her at first. Eventually, who I am led to a nice house. A decent car. Private education for our kids. It’s also strange she then ended up with a firewoman as her partner.

After the divorce from my wife and dissolution of my friendship with Kenny, Kenny took a position in a suburban fire department.

“Did you hear that?” Pear pauses, fork midway to her lips.

“What?” I tilt my head, listening.

“That—” Pear is already pushing back her chair, forgetting about her unfinished dinner and rushing toward the front door.

“Where are you going?” I laugh as she struggles to tug her coat off the hook.

“Outside.” She giggles like a boy-band-crushing teen while she steps into a pair of boots without bothering to lace them up and tugs on a jacket, skipping the zipper. Jamming her knit cap on her head, she opens the front door and steps outside, gingerly crossing the porch.

I stand to follow her, stopping within the open doorway, and then I hear it.

Ah-who-who-who.

“Oh my God.”

“Shh,” Pear shushes, turning toward me with a finger to her lips before swiveling back toward the barn. We hung the box on the eastern side to protect the creature from the harsh winds that rush off the lake and make this region in Michigan a snowbelt. Still, I’m shocked an owl has found the home so quickly.

While sliding my feet into my construction boots, I pull my jacket off the coat hook I designated as my own. I shove my arms into my coat, tugging the door to close behind me. The soft click sounds too loud in the silence of the night.