Page 62 of Existential
TWENTY-EIGHT
Dagne
The damn washer mystifies me. I’ve stood in this same spot for an absurd amount of time, simply trying to figure out which of the two slots I pour the powder into. Damn it. The fact my mind keeps wandering back to Hooch and how he looked might have something to do with my lack of focus.
Right. I’m going with right.
My hand’s poised over the compartment, powder spilling in an avalanche of lavender goodness, when I’m assailed from my left.
Washing powder goes everywhere.
My feet scramble for traction.
And before I can fully comprehend what’s just happened, a mountain of a man has wrapped himself around me. One man, to be exact: Hooch.
“You okay?” I tentatively place my arms around him, completing the circle.
“I’ve been lookin’ everywhere for you.” The steady rise and fall of his back as he sucks in deep breaths complement the warm gusts that pepper my neck. He’s tall, so much broader and stronger than me, but in this moment he seems so fragile.
“Well, here I am.” I rest my forehead on his collarbone; his body arced in order for him to rest his face on my shoulder. My arms slip lower to his waist, and in the confines of the clubhouse laundry room, I finally find peace.
All this time I’ve been searching for a place that sets my soul at ease, when all along it was a person.
The things we learn …
I inhale deeply, relishing the smell of a warm masculine body encasing mine as he squeezes me a little, almost as though he’s reassuring himself we’re doing this. In all honesty, I’m wondering if it’s a dream too.
Hooch softens, and then pulls back, leaving his hands rested on my waist as he stares down into my no doubt shocked and confused expression. His mouth opens ever so slightly, and I find myself hanging by a thread for his words, but he snaps his lips closed and looks over his shoulder at the open door instead, huffing. Cool air taunts me as he steps away to shut us in, the loss of the closeness I never knew I was seeking so sudden and confronting.
“Can we talk?” He appears so unsure of himself, as though the idea that I would want to converse with him is ludicrous.
“Of course.”
You’d think I just gifted him a puppy with the way his eyes light up. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
I kick the pile of dirty denim at our feet to the side, clearing a space for us both to sit. He watches as I fold my legs, and then reach up take his hand and tug it, coaxing him down to join me.
Seeing him contort his broad and tall frame into a pretzel is entertaining to say the least. God only knows how, but he manages it.
“Where did you go?” I ask.
He looks … rough. Given the guy isn’t exactly the clean-shaven and well pressed type to begin with. But his eyes are dark and haunted, his complexion paler than I remember. He seems tired.
“It doesn’t matter,” he answers, dropping his head against the wall.
“Tell me what does then?”
He rolls his head my way, pinning me with a confused stare.
“Something’s clearly upset you,” I elaborate. “So something matters right now, otherwise you wouldn’t have come barreling in here seeking comfort.”
I swear if his face wasn’t covered with that beard I would have seen him blush. “I, uh …” He lifts a hand to rub at the back of his neck, the chain attached to one of his leather cuffs jingling as he does. “That behavior isn’t usual for me.”
I point to the washer across from us. “Neither is this for me.”
He laughs, and I vow then and there to stay with the Aces for as long as I can keep getting him to do so. It’s a beautiful sound, and one I suspect isn’t heard as much as it should be.