Page 32 of How Dare You
Sadie did an admirable job packing for me, even including my oldest pair of running shoes, knowing I’d be running on sand and dirt and wouldn’t want to damage the others. That’s the one bright side so far. Without meetings and work controlling my time, I can sweat out my frustration for as long as I want.
There were two glaring flaws in the choices she sent me out here with, however. One, she intentionally left out my computer. And two, she packed my favorite pajamas, which consist of cream-colored satin shorts with slits to the hip on each side and a matching camisole that showcases my nipples in a way Rhett doesn’t deserve to see. Again. So, while he was outside, reading by the fire, I looked through his closet for something more appropriate.
Everything was neatly organized, smelling like cedar and fabric softener, and I found what I was looking in the form of a t-shirt that was likely black once upon a time, but had grayed after years of wear. The white lettering read Banjo’s BBQ and was cracked in a couple of places. The short sleeves hit me at the elbows, and the material was soft in the way only a decade-old t-shirt can be.
Moving at a slower pace than usual with the challenge of the uneven ground and the need to watch out for obstacles, I run straight north from the trailer for half an hour until I reach the fence demarcating his property line and stop to consider. I’ve already run an additional mile past my usual halfway point on my route at home. Between the slight incline, the uneven terrain, and the added distance, it would be a good idea to turn around.
The other side of this fence will be private property as well, so if I keep running that way it would be trespassing. A vision of the last time I trespassed flashes through my mind, Rhett jumping into the pool at the country club, the muscles of his legs flexing as he launched himself into the air, and higher up his body, past his thighs—No. That’s the last thing I need to think about, especially now that I’m sharing a bed with him.
Hopping this fence and continuing my run would be the wrong thing to do, which he would love. Dammit. He’s worked his way into my thought process, and I can’t seem to get him out. There isn’t anyone or anything around for miles. It’ll be fine. I hop the fence and continue on my way.
I end up running almost twice my regular distance, and by the time I’m back in the trailer the late-summer sun is beating down, my sweat drips onto the sand, my muscles are sore, and I’d give anything for a long, soothing shower. But when I turn the shower handle, nothing happens. I’ve designed enough bathrooms and selected enough plumbing, that I’m confident using any shower system. And no amount of twisting, pulling, or waiting makes any water come out. Not even cold water. I walk out to the reception rock to text him.
Me: Shower isn’t working.
Rhett: The one inside isn’t hooked up. Use the one out back.
Me: I’m not showering outside.
Rhett: Then I guess you’re not showering.
The shower out back turns out to be a fully functioning permanent structure with a tile roof, wooden fencing around three sides, and a view of the low hills behind the trailer on the other. Next to it, there is a sort of storage shed that I’m sure he built as well. How long is he planning on living out here?
After my outdoor shower, I head back into the trailer. There is nothing else for me to do, since he made up his project to get me out here. Minus the atrocious pink flamingos, he’s done an impeccable job with it. Every inch of the interior has been refinished with custom woodwork and upholstery, showing a level of craftsmanship far and above what he’s gotten to exhibit on the jobs we’ve worked together.
There are cabinets directly across from the entry door, with custom details to fill out a decent-sized closet. On the opposite wall, the one with the door, is a fridge, sink, stove, and more cabinets he built from scratch. There is a tall thin drawer filled with spices that appear to get use. Upper cabinets—also bespoke—have locking mechanisms to keep things safe during travel. It’s a stretch to call the space to the right a bedroom, but it does have a door that closes. There is just enough clearance to walk through at the foot of the bed and a bit more on either side, with more built-ins underneath and integrated nightstands.
I’m not generally a nosy person, but he is the one who wanted me trapped with him in a space that can’t be more than 250 square feet. The drawers on the nightstand closest to the front door are filled with his things—a flashlight, a well-worn book, a knife, loose change, and a photo of him with his family. It’s hard to tell which ones are his siblings and which are their spouses, but there are four couples, including his parents, plus him and six children, two of which are hanging off of him like a jungle gym. Do they all live in Texas? Everyone looks so happy, like they really like each other. Why would he have left them behind to move out to the desert?
The drawers and storage on the opposite side are all empty, save for a second flashlight and a phone charger. Did he do that for me?
On the opposite end of the trailer from the bed, there is a bathroom and a sofa with a table the folds down into a dinette. It only takes about forty-five minutes for me to snoop around the entire trailer, and then I’m overwhelmed by an unfamiliar sensation, boredom. He must be at the Shephard house, building something Trina designed, and I’m alone with miles of sand, Joshua trees, rocks, and a trailer that doesn’t need any design help. He and his truck were already gone when I woke up this morning, probably because I slept more soundly than I have in months. Which I obviously will not be admitting to anyone.
Without anything else to do, I sit on the reception rock and download every podcast episode I’ve missed in the last few months, hook my phone up to a Bluetooth speaker I found in a cabinet, and lie down in the shade on the daybed, sketching in one of the notebooks Sadie packed for me. Every five or ten minutes, something else I should be working on comes to mind, so I start a list of priorities for when I get home. It’s not the worst day.
Rhett
Bradley: She kill you yet?
Me: Not yet.
This feels too damn good. Too natural. Too right. It’s been a long day working with my hands, framing out a bathroom in my future house, and now I’m driving back home to her. She’s in my home. Well, assuming she hasn’t hitchhiked back to Palm Springs yet.
Thirteen and a half days left to talk her into taking me seriously, giving me a chance, but I haven’t made much progress. Although, she did sleep in my favorite shirt last night, there’s no way she could have known what it means to me. It was my work shirt at my first job, bussing tables when I was fifteen at a BBQ spot a mile from my house.
My parents said if I wanted a car, I had to get one myself. So I rode my bicycle to Banjo’s BBQ in the Texas heat for almost a year, saving up for one. It broke down a week later, and I rode my bicycle for another month, saving up for the repairs. The t-shirt reminds me what it feels like to earn something, to work hard and revel in the rewards.
The place went out of business when I was in college, and a local girl I hooked up with tried to take it home with her. After that, I kept it tucked away in my bottom drawer like a treasure. But it’s never brought me more joy than seeing it on Devon this morning, hanging off one shoulder with the sunlight shining through the windows onto her goddess-like face.
When I turn the corner around the hill that separates my trailer and my house, she’s sitting in the shade on the daybed in front of the trailer, legs curled underneath her, drawing in her sketchbook. “McCoy,” she greets me without looking up from her task.
“I’m going to shower, so don’t come back there unless you’re interested in the show,” I say, peeling my shirt off as I walk by.
Chapter 14
Day Two
Wi-Fi password is heyMama822;)