Page 16 of Embers

I stare at him, shocked and confused and brutally disappointed.

“Sorry. Gotta do a shit.” He strides out of the house.

He’s lying. I know it. He’s only crude like that with me when he wants to be left alone.

I put the lotion up and wash my hands and brush my teeth and get into bed.

It’s a long time before Cal comes back.

* * *

I learn my lesson after that. No more imagining him naked or lingering lotion rubdowns. His reaction to me wasn’t merely crushing. It also makes me feel guilty. Like I should never have been thinking about him that way.

He’s probably right. He’s my dead boyfriend’s father. Surely it’s not normal or right to want to see him naked or rub my hands all over his body. Poor Derek feels a long way away from me now, but I know for sure he’d be horrified.

I’m going to do better.

Bebetter.

Maybe because I make this resolution, I’m able to act like usual for the next few days, and it’s not long before Cal relaxes and goes back to normal too.

I’m relieved. Almost proud of myself. That I’ve managed to handle a weird situation without messing everything up between us or ruining my entire life.

At the end of the week, I decide it’s time to do another major housecleaning, so I tell Cal and we get to work early the next morning. We clean the curtains and bedding. Push the furniture around so we can sweep out underneath it. Dust and wipe down all the shelves and furniture. And scrub the windows and floors.

I actually enjoy cleaning as long as it’s my only real job for the day. I like making our house look and feel nicer. So I’m in a good mood as we work, chatting with Cal and singing every pop song I can remember the words to.

He doesn’t do a lot of talking, but that’s just his way. He feels like he’s in a good mood too. He even chuckles sometimes when I really get into the songs.

So I’m happy that afternoon. As happy as I can ever remember being. Sure, the world is shitty, but it wasn’t all that great for a lot of us even before Impact. Cal and I have this little house where we’re comfortable and basically safe. The air and sunlight and even the growth in the woods and our garden are starting to improve. That asteroid might have blown a gaping hole into the planet, but it didn’t destroy it completely. It’s coming back.

I’ve got worthwhile work to do every day, and I go to bed tired every night so I really sleep. I never used to feel that way, but I do now.

And I have Cal. I need him—no question about that—but it feels like he needs me too. He’s a lot happier now than he used to be, and I’m sure that’s mostly because of me. As long as I’m smart enough not to act on random impulses that upset him, then we can keep doing life together.

That’s what I want.

By late afternoon, it’s hot and humid. We’ve got the windows and door open, but there’s not much in the way of breeze today. We’re both on our hands and knees, scrubbing down the wood floor with soap and water. It’s the last stage of our housecleaning. Everything else is already done.

I’m searching my mind for another song to sing. I used to know hundreds—every word and every beat—but it’s funny the way they fade away from consciousness. I haven’t heard any sort of music, other than my own voice and the twittering of occasional birds, in more than three years.

When we work on the floors, Cal and I always start on opposite sides of the room and eventually meet in the middle. We’re almost there now. He’s only a few feet away from me when I glance over.

I can’t help but like the sight of him. His big body on hands and knees. His skin and hair and the back of his shirt damp from sweat. The way his ass curves tautly into thick thighs. His expression is so serious—like he’s trying to conquer the housecleaning the way he would vanquish an enemy. He’s so focused on his scrubbing that he doesn’t even know I’m looking at him.

For no good reason, that intent concentration is a challenge I can’t resist. Without questioning the impulse, I take a handful of suds from my bucket and fling them over at him. Right in his face.

He makes a gruffly indignant sound and straightens up onto his knees, turning his head to glare at me.

There are soapsuds on his cheek and in his beard.

I giggle. I really can’t help it.

With absolute sobriety, he reaches into his own bucket and flings soap and water at me. He throws a lot more than I did, so I’m hit with a surprising splash of water on my face and down my chest.

“Hey!” I rub at my face with both hands. “That was unfair retaliation! I only used a few suds.”

“What the fuck gave you the idea I’d ever fight fair?” There’s a glint in his eyes although he still hasn’t cracked a smile.

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