Page 22 of Poetry By Dead Men
The way he celebrates me.
And maybe most importantly, the way he made me feel strong enough to choose something for myself for the first time ever.
NOW
August 2024
What I wouldn't do for you,
To hear your laugh, or see you grin.
Do you feel the same, my love?
Am I underneath your skin?
—A poem by Harrison Rouchester to Beth Winters
The smell of vodka sauce hits my nose the moment I open the front door, and my stomach growls.It’s been hours since the lunch I barely touched, and I’m starving.
Harrison’s at the stove when I enter the kitchen, changed out of his golf clothes into sweatpants and a white T-shirt, a towel slung over his shoulder. He looks hot, and my shoulders relax as I take in his casual attire. Something about seeing him domestic and dressed down makes some of my annoyance about him agreeing to Bobby’s deal dissipate.
"You made dinner?"
He jumps, but I'm not surprised he didn't hear me over the bass almost vibrating the skin off my bones. He switches off the music, but my ears continue to buzz. "Sure did.” He turns back to the stove, stirring constantly. “I called you a couple times. I was worried it’d be cold by the time you got home,” he says, not looking at me.
The oven timer goes off, and I open the door to find a steaming loaf of bread.
I take a second to think of how to respond, taking out the bread and sliding out of my heels. My arches ache as my feet stretch out on the cold tile floor.
“Why would you worry?” I ask, keeping my tone light. I knew Harrison would be concerned when I didn't answer my phone earlier, but I hadn’t been ready to talk to him after he’d agreed to Bobby’s terms without asking me. “I was just at the club.”
"I know. I checked your location. You were there forhours." The muscles in his jaw bunch. “Long lunch?” he asks, the wooden spatula making ascritchsound as it aggressively scrapes the bottom of the pan.
Is that jealousy I hear in his voice?
I have to stop myself from rolling my eyes as I lean against the counter. He’s the one insisting I live on a bus with a rockstar for the next two months. “They had a last-minute opening for a massage, and then I went to the sauna for a bit,” I say, not mentioning I’d done those things to give me time to think. To consider how I could get out of this tour without making Harrison question why.
He nods, the tension in his posture easing as he turns back to the sauce, and I exhale slowly.
“How about I go change, and then I can make the salad?” I suggest.
"Take your time," he says, offering me a smile before grabbing some basil from my tiny herb garden by the window. I rush upstairs to change into sweatpants and a tank, throwing my hair up in a loose bun.
By the time I get back, there’s two steaming bowls of sausage pasta on the table along with the warm bread and a green salad, already made.
"This looks phenomenal," I say, sitting down. My mouth waters when Harrison brings me a glass of red wine, sliding it into my hand and kissing the top of my head.
"You deserve it. I haven’t cooked for you in a while. I thought it was past due." He winks, sitting down and taking a sip of his scotch.
I wave him off. “You’re busy at work. I get it,” I say, stabbing the pasta with my fork and taking a bite. "Ohhmmygossshh,” I say through a mouth full of food. It's amazing. Creamy with plenty of garlic and parmesan, and I take another bite, ripping off a piece of bread and dipping it in the sauce. "How'd your other meeting go?" I ask.
“Great.” Harrison leans forward, his eyes lighting up with excitement. "Don't tell anyone, but Shane Brown got a DUI," he digs into his own pasta, nodding his head in appreciation as he talks.
"The guy from News 6?" I try to picture what he looks like, but all I can see in my mind is dirty blonde hair and jowls.
"The one and only. They coerced him into the breathalyzer without explaining his other options. Rookie move. He’ll get off on a technicality."
"Interesting," I respond, trying to sound happy for Harrison’s win, even though I hate the idea of anyone getting off without consequences after driving drunk.
