Page 38 of Homestead

Smiling as I walk back to the house, I give Jimmy a thumbs-up when he calls out, asking if the clothes are fine.

I wash my hair in the kitchen sink since it wouldn’t have time to dry if I waited until my bath this afternoon. Then I spend a lot of time combing it out, noticing quite a few split ends. I search the house and find a pair of slim scissors that are still sharp, so I use them to trim about an inch off my hair.

In my search, I find a set of nail clippers, so I tidy up my finger- and toenails.

I discover some stewed tomatoes—obviously canned by his parents sometime in the past—in the root cellar. It gives me an idea, and I grab jars of beans, onions, and corn along with some sort of jerky so I can make a soup for lunch. He’s got some half-full containers of packaged spices, clearly left over from the old world. I’m not familiar with all of them, so I smell every one and pick out a few to add to my soup.

I taste it as I heat it up in a big pot, and it’s even better than I was hoping.

I get it hot and then let it simmer for a long time. When Jimmy comes inside around noon, he sniffs the air. “Somethin’ smells good.”

“I experimented and made a soup. We’ll see how it is.” I glance behind him. “No luck with the fish?”

“Oh, I got a bunch of ’em. They’re outside. Keepin’ ’em in water in the cooler.”

He heads to the sink to wash his hands and face while I ladle out the soup and serve it with bread and butter.

The soup is a success, and we have enough left over for lunch tomorrow.

When Jimmy goes outside afterward to work on putting a fishing rod together for me, I clean the kitchen and then curl up on the couch to read.

I read for about thirty minutes. Then I fall asleep.

I have no idea how much time has passed when I’m awakened by Jimmy gently shaking my shoulder. When I blink up at him, all I see is his face. His too-long hair. His untrimmed beard.

“I need to cut your hair,” I mumble.

His dark eyes widen slightly. “You can if you want.”

As awareness finally pushes the sleep from my mind, I sit up. “Oh, I didn’t mean to nap. What time is it?”

“It’s around three, I think. Didn’t wanna wake you but wasn’t sure if you still wanted to take a bath.”

“Oh. Yes. I do. Thanks for waking me up. I shouldn’t have slept so long.”

“Nothin’ wrong with takin’ a nap. I already got the bath ready for you.”

I stretch to see into the kitchen. “Okay. Great. Thanks. You want me to go first?”

“Yeah. Think that’s a better idea.”

He goes outside while I get into the tub and scrub myself thoroughly. Then I add more hot water before I tell him I’m done.

I stay in the bedroom while he’s bathing, start to put on my now-clean jeans, but then change my mind. The other women make an effort for Saturday dinner. Some came in skirts, some in nicer slacks. Some even looked like they were wearing makeup, which they must have scavenged from somewhere.

Since I don’t want to look like a slob, I put on one of the skirts Greta gave me. It’s brown and made of some sort of cotton blend—long and sewn in tiers. It’s pretty but doesn’t look too fancy, especially when paired with my hiking boots, the only shoes I have to my name.

I study my small collection of tops before I decide on the pink turtleneck.

When I check myself out in the mirror, all I can see are my boobs. The top is more fitted than the other ones I wear, and the deep curve of their shape is clearly visible beneath the stretched fabric. So is the outline of my nipples.

I pull my hoodie over it and am relieved. I haven’t yet fastened the zipper, but the way it hangs breaks the broad expanse of boobs.

There’s a tap on the bedroom door. “Okay if I come in?” Jimmy asks from outside the room.

“Yeah. Of course you can.”

He walks in wearing nothing but a towel around his waist. He stops short when he sees me.

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