“Would you like a glass of wine?” I offer, holding up mine. The bottle sits beside me on the grass, and I’ll need to retrieve a glass for him from the house. Without a word, Zack boldly takes my glass from me and sips. I see where his children have learned their sense of propriety and manners.
He tips his head back and closes his eyes to the dark sky overhead. Releasing a deep sigh, he relaxes only slightly.
“That was my glass,” I mutter, directing my gaze forward toward the dark yard.
“Oh, I thought we were sharing.” A tease that wasn’t present in our first meeting laces his tone.
“Wine stealer,” I mumble, and his head sharply turns in my direction. Side-eyeing him, I notice his eyes narrow at the side of my face.
“So, what are you apologizing for again?” I need to understand better what he’s doing here, and I give in to the pull to look at him.
“I came off a little strong earlier, and I’m sorry. The boys . . . they elude me sometimes. I’m a terrible father.”
The words almost break me as they’re said with such honesty and regret. Perhaps he needs to apologize to them for being so harsh.
“Why would you say such a thing?”
“So many reasons.” He gazes forward, staring off toward the house next door.
“You’re full of vagueness,” I tease, bumping his shoulder with mine as we remain so close to one another.
“I’m just not a very involved dad, I guess, and now, I have them full time.”
The wording surprises me. “Are you divorced?” Please be divorced and not a widower. I can’t handle if both of us are struggling with the eternal loss of someone.
“Recently divorced. Does it show?” He turns his attention back to me, and we gaze at one another. Our faces are close. Our noses could touch. His eyes are more of a silver color than the dark molten appearance of earlier. It’s a strange combination with his lighter hair but striking like the rest of him.
“Divorce looks good on you,” I flirt. Although I shouldn’t be flirting. You’re so forward, my mother would say. Honesty never hurt anyone, my grandfather would correct. Zack’s eyes sparkle a bit in the dim light cloaking our dark location.
“I wasn’t a very good husband either.” His eyes shift away from me, and I clear my throat. Not flirting. No to flirting.
“I’m sorry. You loved her?” A question lingers with my desire for clarification.
“I didn’t.” He tips his head forward, swirling the glass of wine in his hand.
“Ah.” I nod to accept his answer. While it stings to think he didn’t love his wife, maybe she didn’t love him either, and that was the reason for his melancholy tone. There’s always more to the story.
“I also wanted to apologize for noticing you sitting in the sun . . . you know.” He side-eyes me without turning his head.
“Naked?” I teasingly clarify for him, and he closes his lids.
“I really didn’t mean to look.”
“Your eyes just accidentally wandered,” I jest, tipping up a brow while keeping my tone light.
He huffs in answer, and I consider he’s sincere enough. I actually blush as though he’d caught me in a compromising position, which he did in a sense, but I’m not ashamed of my body. Also, it’s my yard. Assuming I am well protected by the overgrown shrubbery around the place, I have the liberty to do as I please over here. A solid wall of arborvitae lines the south side of the property, marking the boundary between where he’s staying and where I live. An ugly metal fence is on my side of the trees. Behind us is a solid six-foot wooden barrier built by my other neighbor. It clearly says to stay out.
“I accept your apology,” I say, reaching out to pat his thigh. Instantly, I realize what I’m doing and withdraw my hand, but he catches it and crushes my fingers a moment. Then he flattens his palm over the back of my hand and presses it to his thigh. A magnetic tension crackles between us, but I can’t seem to pull away. Heat seeps through his jeans and warms my skin. His fingers wrap around my hand, which is high on his leg, just to the side of his zipper region. My pinky twitches, and I faintly brush a sensitive area, feeling something I shouldn’t beneath the denim. I jerk my hand underneath his, but Zack tightens his hold and takes another sip from my wineglass.
It’s all rather forward, considering his earlier demeanor, but I can’t find the warning that should be in my head, telling me to pull away from him.
We relax in silence a while, soaking up the quietness of the dark evening. The breeze from the lake rustling the leaves on the trees is a natural soundtrack that soothes the soul. I reach for the bottle of wine on the grass and take a pull directly from it. Then I refill the glass Zack still holds.
“Thanks.” He doesn’t bat an eye at my drinking from the bottle but takes another sip from the wineglass he stole from me. “How long have you lived here?” His eyes focus on the back of my house.
“Not long. I inherited the place.”
“Really?” His attention shifts from the house to me. Our shoulders touch. Our forearms cross. Our hands are still together against his thigh. It’s an intimate position, considering he’s a stranger, but he isn’t flinching. “Care to clarify.”
It’s a strange request from a man who baffles me. “My husband died.” It wasn’t entirely the truth, but it’s the best explanation I’m willing to give a man I don’t know. His eyes lower for my left hand, finding it absent of a ring.
“Oh,” Zack whispers, pausing on the sound. “I’m sorry for your loss.” He waits another beat before repeating my words. “You loved him.”
My shoulders sag. “In my own way, yes. I’ll always be grateful to him, but I suppose gratitude and love are not the same things.” I glance back at the house. A year ago, I felt selfish for accepting the offer left to me. It didn’t seem right. Being a decent human being didn’t warrant this kind of gift. But Quincy’s children are assholes. They never came to visit him and didn’t communicate with their father. They didn’t want to listen. Then they showed up like vultures ready to devour his estate once he passed.
“One of my best friends died a month ago.”
Quickly, I turn back to Zack. This loss is different than losing his wife. Heartbreak fills his tone. My grandfather had been one of my best friends, and I lost him, so I understood the tear through Zack’s heart.
He juts his head in the direction of the house next door.
“I haven’t met them yet,” I say, speaking of my neighbors. We wave or smile, but we haven’t officially introduced ourselves. I stare at the side of the house, cloaked in darkness. “I’m so sorry.” Assuming his friend was his age, his friend’s young death feels even sadder. At least, Quincy had lived a long life.
Zack’s gaze returns to the side of my face, but I don’t look back at him. Instead, I lift the bottle of wine I’ve been holding on my lap and take another hearty drink.
“What’s it like inside?” Assuming the direction of his question, I glance back at my house.
“In need of TLC, like a lot of things.” The comment turns my head toward him. He could potentially use a little rebuilding, though it’s not his body but his spirit that needs restoration. Or is it rejuvenation? His voice hints at the disappointment in himself in both fatherhood and marriage. It explains a lot about his behavior earlier in the day.