Page 68 of The Cabin
I take another sip, eyes closed, and I’m with Adrian in Paris. The last time we were happy together, before The Big C took him from me. He knew then. That’s what that was for. A goodbye. Memories to die with.
I swallow hard, blink away tears. Turn away before Nathan notices, and scrape the flipper under the pancakes so they don’t stick to the griddle. Clear my throat.
“Thank for this,” I say, lifting the mimosa.
“I dunno, seems like I stepped in something complicated.”
I shake my head. “You couldn’t have known.”
He doesn’t answer that. I plate the last of the pancakes. Grab the syrup, plates, forks, and a stick of butter, and bring it all out to the porch. It’s a glorious morning, cool but not cold, sunny and bright, the early morning light golden and clear.
Nathan is wearing perfectly tight blue jeans, a red-and-blue flannel shirt open over a gray waffle-print Henley, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows. His stubble has grown into a thick beard since I met him, and he seems content to leave it. His hair is a little too long, shaggy and feathered around his ears and the back of his neck. He could use a haircut.
I used to cut Adrian’s hair. I have no formal training, just some cosmetology shears from Amazon and some YouTube knowledge. But he liked me cutting his hair, liked the way I did it. Mainly because I’d do it in booty shorts and a bra so I didn’t get hair on my clothes. He’d only get a professional haircut if he had to do an interview or before a big international signing or promo event.
I shake these thoughts off, settling into my rocking chair and gesturing for Nathan to go first. “Help yourself, please.”
He forks four pancakes at once, cuts himself a thick slice of butter and spreads it on the steaming top pancake, and then the others under it. Liberal syrup. And then, oddly, he cuts his stack into pieces all at once, which makes me grin.
“What?” he asks, partway done chewing.
I shake my head and shrug, but I’m laughing. “Nothing.”
He sighs. Sets his fork down with dramatic finality. “It’s because I cut them all up first, isn’t it?”
“I’ve just never seen a grown man do it that way.”
“It’s convenient, is all.” He spears another forkful. “A little bit of cutting up front and I can eat them a lot faster. Which means I can get more sooner.”
I cackle. “A-ha! The real purpose comes out.”
“I’m a big guy. I eat a lot. Dad would only make pancakes for us once in a while, but when he did, he’d make a shitload, and it’d be a race to see who could eat more.” He pauses, and I sense a heaviness settling on his shoulders. “Then, after I was married to Lisa, she’d get a kick out of feeding me pancakes. She’d call me to breakfast some random morning, and she’d have the first two batches done, and she’d wait till I was sitting, and then it’d be a race. Could I finish them all before she was finished making the next batch? She’d have two griddles going at once, and I’d be just, god, just gorging myself on them. She thought it was equal parts hysterical and baffling how many I could eat.” He perks up, laughing. “Course, back then, I was going to the gym regularly, so I could afford the extra calories.” He pats his stomach, which I wouldn’t say is anything to be embarrassed about, but is probably not going to win any Instagram best six-pack awards. “I haven’t touched a barbell in years, but haven’t changed my eating habits all that much, least until I got here, that is. So I’m not in the shape I used to be.”
“Well, we all cope in different ways.”
I steal a glance at the rest of him—he is big. It’s not that I hadn’t noticed, before—he’s of a size that you can’t miss. Six-four, with heavy, rounded shoulders, as if the weight of muscle on his shoulders is almost too much for his frame to bear. His arms stretch the sleeves of the flannel. He doesn’t have a noticeable, protruding belly, but generously speaking, it’s clear he likes to eat. His hair is black, longish, with touches of gray at the temples, and streaks of gray shot through his beard near his ears and jawline. He has enormous hands. His fingers nearly meet around the width of his wineglass, which requires both of my hands to accomplish. He has scars on his hands, cuts and nicks in crisscrossing white lines. His knuckles are scarred—he’s leaving out some dark periods of his life, I think. My dad’s knuckles looked like Nathan’s, and I know Dad had a history of getting into scuffles, before they had me.
