Page 6 of Big Timber

My mom always teased me that the sayinglook before you leapfits me to a tee, I will fully admit to having made at least a hundred pro and con lists in my life, but even if this turns out to be one of the worst decisions I’ve ever made, the look on Timber’s face will make me giggle for years to come.

Since I haven’t gotten around to changing the batteries on my garage door opener over the past few weeks, I pause to hit my code on the keypad and realize I’ll need to find a key for him. I’m just opening the door from the garage to the mudroom when I hear my truck door slam and breathe a sigh of relief.

It would bereallyembarrassing if Timber flat out said no.

“Do you have family?” he asks, as he studies my kitchen for signs of other people.

“Yes, my younger brother still lives with my parents about ten minutes away from here,” I tell him, motioning for him to follow me. “My older brother is stationed up in Idaho, but stays in this room when he’s back.”

I flip on the lights in what was likely intended to be a den. It has its own bathroom and separate doors leading to both the living room and kitchen. Besides some elbow grease around the house, Rick’s contributions to my home were a recliner and a massive TV, both of which are parked in this room.

Waving Timber out of my way, I reach past him to grab the handle of what looks like a wardrobe but is actually a Murphy bed. “The couple I bought the house from left this behind. I just changed out the mattress.”

“What about a boyfriend?” Is Timber’s next question, and I quickly shake my head. “You don’t know me.”

“No,” I answer slowly, feeling more unsure of myself than when I was sitting outside of Declan’s house. “Look, I’m just going to take it on faith that you’re not a homicidal maniac. I figure you need a place for a week or two and I’d just ask that you be respectful of my home. Please.”

“And you,” he says. His gaze is locked on my face, making me too nervous to look directly at him.

“I’m hungry,” I blurt out, suddenly turning on my heel. “Do you want something?”

“Water would be good. I ate earlier,” he answers, placing his backpack on the chair before giving me a nod to proceed him into the kitchen. “Are you upstairs?”

“Yeah, I have a TV and bathroom up there, so I shouldn’t bother you other than being in the kitchen,” I tell him, happy to have the task of getting him water rather than awkwardly assessing eachother. “Oh, I’ll need to get you the Wi-Fi password in addition to a key. I’m sure I’m forgetting something, but I didn’t exactly plan this out.”

“I can pay something for rent, and don’t feel like you have to tiptoe around me,” he says with a lopsided smile, accepting the glass of water that I hand him. “Do you have a washer and dryer? I bailed without doing my laundry.”

“Right in the pantry there,” I say, pointing to the door next to the fridge. “The old owners had a set in the garage, but Rick didn’t want me traipsing out there, so he and Dad cut through the back wall and hooked up a stackable set for me.”

“How often does your brother make it back?”

“When the wind blows,” I answer with a shrug. “He’s a smokejumper and works in construction part-time. Sometimes he’ll spend his downtime with his flavor-of-the-month, or he’ll call me on his ride down here.”

Just then, the doorbell rings, followed by a few sharp knocks and a holler.

Timber

One minute, I’m leaning against a counter, trying to keep the weight off my ankle without reminding Talia that I’m in pain. She’s bouncing around the kitchen, obviously flustered about me being here, when she freezes in shock and her eyes widen at the sound of someone at the door.

“Oh, fuck,” she squeals, her eyes darting between the door and the calendar on her fridge. For a second there, I swear she thinks about shoving me in her pantry. “It’s Sunday, isn’t it?”

I open my mouth, but snap it shut just as quickly. She’s halfway to the front door and my ankle is begging for mercy; bracing myhands on the countertop, I push off with my left foot and get my ass on the counter.

“Wait!” she turns back to me. “I don’t know your name. What’s your real name?”

“Tarak Hayes,” I say hesitantly, the name feeling strange as I speak it out loud. It’s been so long since I’ve uttered it.

“I’m Talia Workman,” she says, wringing her hands together.

“I remember.”

Without another word, she takes a deep breath and opens her front door to a tidal wave of people.

While the main group stays clustered in her living room, all exchanging hugs and teasing her for taking so long to answer the door, a man cuts through them, holding a large crock pot at his eye level so as not to hit anyone with it.

Past the last of them, he lowers it, and his eyes immediately fall on me. I look over my shoulder, noting the outlet that I’m blocking. “You need me to move, don’t you?”

Damn. I’m not looking forward to standing again.

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