Page 59 of Gifts

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Keelie

Light seeps into my eyes and it’s a foreign experience. I never wake after the sun. I roll to my side and wince, pain shooting down my arm, cutting through my muscles.

It all comes back to me.

I push up to an elbow, relieving some of the ache—but not by much—and my stiff body complains.

Pushing my hair out of my face, I look to the clock on my bedside table. What the hell? It’s ten thirty-seven.

I haven’t slept past six. I don’t even need an alarm clock anymore. My body has been trained by toddlers who aren’t toddlers anymore, but still insist on waking before the crack of dawn. If my children don’t wake me that early, Jasmine does. I wonder who got my donkey to keep her mouth shut this long?

I flop to my back and look over at my other pillow, thoroughly mussed and concave from the man who slept in my bed last night.

With almost no clothes on.

And my last thought before falling asleep is that I was hot and sweaty. His legs were itchy on mine and my skin became clammy against his, but I didn’t care. All I could think about was his thigh between my legs and how he wanted to make me hotter and sweatier in a whole different way.

I roll to my good shoulder and pull his pillow to my face. It smells like trees and day-old cologne and testosterone—if testosterone had a smell.

It smells like a man.

My bed smells like a man.

And not just any man. A big, beautiful, rugged man who made me cry, and by doing so, made me feel better on the day his daughter and I were shot at.

I like the smell of Asa in my bed.

But I have no idea where he—or everyone else, for that matter—is.

I groan as I push up, making myself let go of the magical concoction that makes up all the smells of Asa Hollingsworth. Going to my bathroom, I give my teeth a quick brush, take some more meds, and pull my hair up into a high knot.

I’m surprised I don’t look tired. It’s a cold day in hell when I don’t wake an exhausted mess, having to glue myself together just to fake it, pretending I’m remotely close to having my shit together.

I head down the stairs and if there was a church mouse lurking, I’d hear it. My house is eerily quiet. Come to think of it, it’s Saturday. Jimbo works every Saturday and is normally hammering as the sun rises.

When I pass by the kitchen, the sink is piled high with dishes, pots, and pans, but my dishwasher is running. Cleaning is Saylor’s kryptonite and Knox only starts it when he’s asked. This makes me wonder if Asa does dishes.

Just when I was picturing Asa standing at my kitchen sink doing who knows what, movement catches my eye and I look to the window. My breath catches.

Levi and Knox are kicking the old soccer ball back and forth driving the goats crazy. They love to butt it around. Saylor and Emma are sitting on the ground with the three babies climbing all over them, and Asa is standing in the middle of the pasture holding a goat under each arm.

Why is he holding goats? The poor man, they stink.

I head to find my boots so I can figure out what everyone is doing, but when I step into my empty garage, memories of gunshots riddling my minivan fill my head.

Does insurance cover drive-bys? I’ve never thought to look for that clause when buying insurance. Hail—sure. Collision—yes. Cracked windshield—of course. A million bullet holes riddled through my mundane family car?

No way in hell.

My stomach sinks wondering what I’ll do if it isn’t covered. Even if it is covered, I’m sure it will be totaled. It’s an older model and I’ll have to find something new, which probably means a car payment I can’t afford.

I should’ve stayed in bed where I could smell Asa on my pillow and not have to think about real life.

I make my way out to the pasture and Asa sees me first. After he puts the goats down, his hazel eyes meet mine and a brow raises right before his gaze drags the length of my body.

Saylor breaks through my haze when she yells, “Momma! We got all our chores done already. Asa and Levi helped and Emma played with the babies.”

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