Page 7 of Big Timber

“If you wouldn’t mind,” he says, trying to school his face as his eyes study me before traveling lower to read my cut. “I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Bill Workman, Talia’s dad.”

“Tarak,” I respond, using my given name more in the past two minutes than I have in the past five years.

Taking a breath, I slide off the counter, carefully keeping my weight on my left foot. Not that Bill’s eyes miss the strain on my face.

“Are you injured?” he asks, plugging in the crock pot.

“My ankle—” I start and am immediately cut off.

“Who’s this?”

“Talia! There’s a man in your kitchen!”

“Hubba-hubba, and he’s a fox,” exclaims a woman at least twenty years older than me.

“Talia! You didn’t tell us you were dating anyone.”

As the overlapping comments continue, Bill laughs and pats me on the back. “Can’t even run away, can ya?”

“Wouldn’t be right, leaving Talia to face them alone,” I quietly respond, just before a lady pushes through the crowd.

“I’m Kristina,” she says, reaching her arms out for a hug. “But everyone calls me Tiny.”

And just like that, she wraps her arms around my ribs and my eyes meet Talia’s across the throng of people. She’s beet red and mouthing the words,I’m sorry. I shoot her a wink, setting in motion a new wave of comments.

“Alright, alright!” Bill’s voice cuts through all the people talking. “He needs to sit down, and I need a beer.”

With his hand at my back, he guides me out the kitchen door that leads to a small, neat yard, and I take the nearest seat, tossing my leg up on the matching ottoman. A guy who looks to be a couple of years younger than Talia follows us out with a cooler.

“Find him a bag, so he can ice his ankle,” Bill instructs him as he hands us each a beer. “This is my youngest, Tanner.”

“And Rick’s up in Idaho?” I contribute, drawing another look once I show that I know a little bit about Talia. “I’m going to be in his room for the next week or so.”

“How’d that happen?” he asks and since he’s looking down at the label on the beer, I’m not sure what he’s referring to, so I decide to explain everything.

Pointing at the name on my cut, I wait until he looks up and gives me a nod. “I live out at the clubhouse, but the structure needs to be inspected before we’re allowed back there. It was still on fire when I arrived there that day, and the smoke got to me a little. Anyway, my bike banged up my ankle, and I’ve been staying on my friend’s couch since stairs are a hassle. Talia offered me her spare room.”

“Yeah, I heard all about the scene out there. It’s not an easy thing, losing someone to fire. Particularly a friend,” he commiserates with me, shifting in his seat. Tanner rejoins us and scoops ice from the cooler into a bag for me. I take it, waiting for the words that Bill seems hesitant to spit out. “You men have trouble coming?”

“Nothing we can’t handle,” I tell him, looking over my shoulder when the door opens again.

Our conversation gets shelved as Bill’s two sisters chase him off before sitting down to grill me themselves. The next couple of hours is a rotation of Talia’s family members, each sizing me up as they bring out plates of food or come to help themselves to the beer in the cooler next to me.

As the afternoon wears on, I finally stand up, needing to relieve my bladder after my sixth or seventh beer. Taking my time in there, I go to grab my toothbrush but can’t find my bag. It’s more than a little surprising when I exit the den to find the house completely empty and Talia gulping down a glass of wine in the kitchen.

“What the fuck just happened?” I ask, looking around in a state of shock. I swear everything looks cleaner than it did when I arrived.

“We all get together on Sundays, just at different houses,” she says, wiping a little of the red liquid off her lip. “I completely forgot it was my turn. Are you alright?”

“I’ll tell you tomorrow,” I answer. “Um, one of them may have grabbed my backpack. It isn’t where I left it.”

Talia lets out the longest, deepest sigh I’ve ever heard. Pouring herself another glass of wine, she leaves it on the counter before crossing to her panty.

“I was afraid of that,” she whispers, and I come up behind her, chuckling at the sight.

One of her overexuberant family members decided to do our laundry for us. Both of our bags are on the floor, leaning against the washing machine, and there are two neatly folded piles on the shelf next to it.

Reunited with my belongings, I quickly locate my toothbrush but not my mobile. “Hey, could you check to see if I left my phone in your car?”

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