she’s got the bottle. “Not in here, though. Let’s sit out there.”
I just stare at her, trying to figure out what that means.
“I think this room…” She looks around at the pictures of my dad and me. “Depresses you.” I can’t even move, that’s how much these words affect me. “Maybe depress is the wrong word.” She offers me a small smile. “Maybe it just… makes you think too much.”
“Yeah,” I grumble out, then clear my throat and try again. “Yeah, it does. My dad died a couple years ago.” I look up at the closest picture and the memories flood in. “We did everything together.”
“I can tell. Lots of good times on these walls. Let’s drink out there.”
She doesn’t wait for me, just turns and walks over to the couch, sits down and sets the bottle on the coffee table. I walk over and sit down next to her, but not close enough to touch. I pour us each a drink and she clinks her glass to mine. “To dads.”
“To dads,” I repeat. “Drink it slow,” I say softly. “It’s very special. It should be enjoyed, not consumed in a rush the way I did it last night.” She nods and takes a small sip, makes a face, and takes another one. She holds in a cough and that makes me happy for some reason. It satisfies me in a way I can’t explain.
“I’m not a whiskey girl,” she says after taking one more sip and setting the glass down. “But it does seem special.” I smile big at that. She catches it and scowls. “You’re a weird guy, Ford.”
I take a bigger sip this time. “Tell me something new, Ashleigh.”
“New, as in you want to know something about me? Or new as in you already know you’re weird?”
“Both,” I say, leaning back and slumping down a little, my drink perched on my thigh, my bare feet kicked up on the coffee table. I pick at the strings from a hole in my jeans and she leans back too, but then the largeness of the couch clashes with the smallness of her body and she has to tuck her feet underneath her to get comfortable. I take another drink of my Scotch as she begins to talk.
“Hmmm. Something new about me… I’m in Colorado with a very attractive jerk. I’ve thought about him almost constantly since he appeared at my car window, and I’m not sure why he’s doing all this, so I’ve spent the entire day imagining him as a serial killer trying to lower my keen defenses so I’ll fall for his unorthodox charm and then beg him to kill me during kinky sex.”
I spit out my fucking whiskey, that’s how funny that is. “Oh, shit.” I just shake my head. “You’re the strange one, Ashleigh, not me.”
“Sorry,” she says as she takes another sip, grimacing as she forces it down. “Sometimes I say things I should bury deep inside.”
“So, you think I’m a hot serial killer? And you’re still here because… it’s OK to be a serial killer as long as I’m eye-candy?”
She smiles, but looks down like she’s embarrassed.
“Or you know I’m not a serial killer and you trust me?”
“That,” she says, swallowing more alcohol. “I know you’re not a serial killer because you called your mom last night to let her know you were OK. You’re drinking because you miss your dad. You have friends who are worried about you because you ran away from some bizarre love triangle. And you’re not a guy who likes to talk about his feelings, so you were very mean to them when they wanted answers.” She lets out a long breath. “Serial killers are loners. And Dexter doesn’t count, he’s fake. So you’re not a serial killer, just a very attractive jerk who wants to be left alone so you can deal with your relationship issues in private.”
“Hmmm. Well, I guess you nailed it. Now it’s my turn.” She gives me a sideways glance that says bring it, so I don’t hold back. “You’re running from something, too. Maybe someone, but not the guy who gave you that ring. You love him, even if it is over, because you have it stamped on a dog tag. And
I just stare at her, trying to figure out what that means.
“I think this room…” She looks around at the pictures of my dad and me. “Depresses you.” I can’t even move, that’s how much these words affect me. “Maybe depress is the wrong word.” She offers me a small smile. “Maybe it just… makes you think too much.”
“Yeah,” I grumble out, then clear my throat and try again. “Yeah, it does. My dad died a couple years ago.” I look up at the closest picture and the memories flood in. “We did everything together.”
“I can tell. Lots of good times on these walls. Let’s drink out there.”
She doesn’t wait for me, just turns and walks over to the couch, sits down and sets the bottle on the coffee table. I walk over and sit down next to her, but not close enough to touch. I pour us each a drink and she clinks her glass to mine. “To dads.”
“To dads,” I repeat. “Drink it slow,” I say softly. “It’s very special. It should be enjoyed, not consumed in a rush the way I did it last night.” She nods and takes a small sip, makes a face, and takes another one. She holds in a cough and that makes me happy for some reason. It satisfies me in a way I can’t explain.
“I’m not a whiskey girl,” she says after taking one more sip and setting the glass down. “But it does seem special.” I smile big at that. She catches it and scowls. “You’re a weird guy, Ford.”
I take a bigger sip this time. “Tell me something new, Ashleigh.”
“New, as in you want to know something about me? Or new as in you already know you’re weird?”
“Both,” I say, leaning back and slumping down a little, my drink perched on my thigh, my bare feet kicked up on the coffee table. I pick at the strings from a hole in my jeans and she leans back too, but then the largeness of the couch clashes with the smallness of her body and she has to tuck her feet underneath her to get comfortable. I take another drink of my Scotch as she begins to talk.
“Hmmm. Something new about me… I’m in Colorado with a very attractive jerk. I’ve thought about him almost constantly since he appeared at my car window, and I’m not sure why he’s doing all this, so I’ve spent the entire day imagining him as a serial killer trying to lower my keen defenses so I’ll fall for his unorthodox charm and then beg him to kill me during kinky sex.”
I spit out my fucking whiskey, that’s how funny that is. “Oh, shit.” I just shake my head. “You’re the strange one, Ashleigh, not me.”
“Sorry,” she says as she takes another sip, grimacing as she forces it down. “Sometimes I say things I should bury deep inside.”
“So, you think I’m a hot serial killer? And you’re still here because… it’s OK to be a serial killer as long as I’m eye-candy?”
She smiles, but looks down like she’s embarrassed.
“Or you know I’m not a serial killer and you trust me?”
“That,” she says, swallowing more alcohol. “I know you’re not a serial killer because you called your mom last night to let her know you were OK. You’re drinking because you miss your dad. You have friends who are worried about you because you ran away from some bizarre love triangle. And you’re not a guy who likes to talk about his feelings, so you were very mean to them when they wanted answers.” She lets out a long breath. “Serial killers are loners. And Dexter doesn’t count, he’s fake. So you’re not a serial killer, just a very attractive jerk who wants to be left alone so you can deal with your relationship issues in private.”
“Hmmm. Well, I guess you nailed it. Now it’s my turn.” She gives me a sideways glance that says bring it, so I don’t hold back. “You’re running from something, too. Maybe someone, but not the guy who gave you that ring. You love him, even if it is over, because you have it stamped on a dog tag. And
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