Page 52 of Where We Go From Here

I pay the cab driver and then shuffle out of the back seat, pushing the door shut with my hip and beginning the trek from the bottom clearing up to the bungalows at the top of the valley. I keep my steps fast because one look skywards tells me that we’re probably in for a snowstorm. A rainstorm at the least. That odd winter stillness, almost akin to summer humidity, is hanging cloyingly in the air and I can practically taste the imminent onslaught. The clouds are thick and grey, and the cool pause in the air heightens the scents of the pine trees.

Mitch brought me something to eat yesterday evening and then told me that he was heading to his place in Phoenix Falls so that he could access his home workshop and get me some furniture finished up for today. I’d been overwhelmingly tempted to say screw it to the whole endeavour, to tell my mom to tell Holly that she’s most definitely not welcome here, and then to grab Mitch by his collar and tell him that we’re still on for tonight. For date number five.

Instead I wrapped my arms around his neck and reached up to press my lips against his, letting him push me up against my doorframe as he kissed me slow and deep.

I told him I was sorry. He told me he wouldn’t let me down.

I drop the grocery bags on the step outside of the bungalow, fishing out my key and then quickly opening up. I move everything over to the kitchen counter and then start organising what I bought.

Dishes to cook in, kitchenware to plate up on, and, most importantly, all of the food. I don’t know why I let my mom talk me into being so hospitable but I’m here now so I may as well get this over with.

I wash and peel a bunch of vegetables and leave the pre-cooked chicken resting on the counter, hoping that I’m not about to make the sequel to food poisoning part one. Then again, giving my sister food poisoning wouldn’t exactly be unjustified.

Don’t be petty, I tell myself.You’ll cook, she’ll talk, and then you can part with a happy-family story to tell mom about on Monday.

I’ve got all of my dishes labelled, ten timers set on my phone, and I’m looking undecidedly at the new bottle of champagne in my fridge when there’s suddenly a three-thump rap pounding on my door.

I hastily close the fridge, hiding the champagne like illegal contraband, and then I scrunch my fingers through my hair, hoping that it has a littleva-va-voombounce as I pull open the front door.

Mitch’s truck is pulled up outside with the bed facing our bungalows. He’s turned away from me as he throws down the back of the bed, and then he reaches in, spreads his feet and lifts.

When he turns around he’s got a medium sized kitchen tabletop gripped over his forearms, the cords in his neck protruding from the weight of it, but his face is as calm and controlled as ever.

He jerks his chin at me and I quickly step out of his way, freeing up the doorway so that he can walk the large wooden top through it sideways.

“Sorry it took so long,” he says, his voice low and tight as he lowers an edge of the tabletop to the floor and then leans the underside against the wall. “I made a bunch of parts back home but we’ve been assembling them on-site, in the cabins. Last night I remembered that I’d have to build the table inside the bungalow, ’cause the wood’s too big to get through your entryway. Got the chairs in the back and they’re upholstered real nice. You like red, right?” he asks over his shoulder as he walks back to his truck to pull out two beautiful carved chairs, their seats made up with plump red padding.

“I like red,” I reply, watching him carry the chairs in, one in each hand. “How did you know that I like red?” I ask, and he lets out a low grunt as he drops both of the chairs down by the kitchen counter.

He wipes his hands on his cargos and walks out again, avoiding my eyes. When he comes back with the final pieces for the furnishings – legs, stabilisation planks, and screws to finish off the table – I see that his cheeks have turned ruddy.

Have I forgotten something? I let the thought rest when he shakes his head, drops his equipment and mumbles out, “Just a guess.”

In less than a minute his thighs are splayed, he’s half-straddling the underside of the table, and he’s screwing the metal bolsters in place, aligning the legs against them before he gets to the drilling.

I send off a text to my mom to tell her that I’ve done my prep and that I’m all set for my sister’s arrival. Then I toss my phone onto the dresser in the bedroom and I unashamedly lean against the kitchen wall, watching Mitch as he works. He grips a leg into place and twists a bolt inside of it, in a fast rhythmic rotation of his fist.

He glances up at me when he catches sight of my legs in his peripheral vision, still in my jeans from my quick stop into town, and he stares for a moment at the top of my thighs, his hand moving a little slower as he lets his mind wander.

Then he swallows, blushes, and drops his eyes back to his work.

“You aren’t using an electric drill?” I ask him, watching his bicep bulge with each curl of the tool.

He shakes his head. “Used an electric drill for the holes, but when it comes to screwing the pieces together I don’t need anything battery-operated. Manual tools let me screw it in tight and precise, whilst keeping total control.”

“I don’t use anything battery operated either,” I say to him.

His work instantly pauses.

He glances up at me from his splayed position on the floor and he licks his lips as his eyes trail down my body again.

“You don’t?” he asks, his voice hoarse.

I shake my head.

He nods, his jaw clenched.

“I like that,” he says finally, and then he drops his drill to the ground, standing upright and stepping back to survey the table.

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