Page 27 of Feathers From the Sky

“It means a lot that you asked me about my preferences.” I stop walking when I notice the trail marker.

“What?”

“You know, about dinner? The fact that you asked is nice.”

“Jesus, Gwyn, how low is your bar? Is it in hell?” I laugh, and the lines around his eyes crinkle as he grabs my hand in his, leading me forward. “Why wouldn’t I want you to enjoy dinner?

I don’t answer as we maneuver around the chain blocking off the path. I’m grateful for the shoes I wear. The loud squelch of mud suctioning to my boot is the only warning I get before almost losing my balance. Roman grabs me and steadies me, pulling me against him. My hand slips beneath his shirt, and I feel coarse hair over a stomach I want to cuddle into.

“Careful,” he admonishes, and gently releases me.

This trail splits into two sections, and one is far more likely to be underwater at this time of year. But that’s the one I want. It’s dangerous, but so is the reward I have in mind.

We take the easier path first, which is only a small circle through the marsh, and I prod him for information, wondering what he’s willing to share.

“What do you do for a living?” He slows his gait so I can keep up with him without me asking. I do my best not to look into it.

I know by now that he is different from other men, but different doesn’t always mean better.

“I’m a private contractor,” he says as he extends his hand. I take it and step over the chain, grateful for the balance it brings me. “Right now, I’m working as an investment analyst for my father’s company.”

He steps easily over the chain, and when I start walking, he doesn’t drop my hand.

“I don’t even know what that means. I assume it’s different for each business you work with?”

He nods, directing me around the deeper puddles so I don’t step in them. “My dad has a shit ton of investment properties in Chicago. He’s always looking for ways to expand, so he has me look into different properties, market trends, potential opportunities… Things like that to find what will make him the most money.”

It’s a more technical job than I would have expected from him. “I would have thought you were a mechanic,” I say.

He chuckles. “Most people don’t expect what I do. As for cars, I’ve always been a car guy. My uncle and I used to work on them together all the time.”

The admission makes me smile, and I try to picture Roman as a boy, gangly and awkward as he grows into those long limbs.

“My dad was only a car guy in theory until he bought the Chevelle,” I say. Roman laughs, and it’s loud enough a bird startles from a nearby tree and takes flight. “We worked on it together.”

“He’d never worked on a car before and he started withthat?” His open-mouthed astonishment brings a lightness to my heart. Practically no one talks about my dad, even the people closest to me. Any accidental mentions of him by me or anyone else get treated like a curse. As if by uttering his name, we have broken some sacred vow. Every time I mention him, it seems like Sasha would rather I not speak of him. It’s a source of contention between us. Even though my dad was a father figure to her, Sasha’s birth father is still living, still part of her life. She doesn’t understand.

Roman didn’t know my dad, but giving me the voice to talk about him is a gift. Perhaps it’s easier for him to discuss loss because it’s not so new and raw for him as it is for us.

“Nope,” I say. “Mom was pissed when the tow truck showed up, bringing it into our driveway. It didn’t even run.”

Roman is laughing to himself as he steps over a giant puddle and turns to help me without breaking stride. “Well, he did a beautiful job on it. You did too,” he adds, smile sobering as he looks at me.

My gaze goes to the ground, suddenly overwhelmed. My want for him has turned into this viscous thing. It fills the spaces and adheres to parts of me I barely understand. Roman is the biggest risk I’ve taken in the past year, and the odds of it blowing up in my face are high. And yet, I still want him. The realization that he is the first thing I’ve truly wanted in a long time is startling.

It’s frightening and feels wrong.

I clear my throat and bring the subject back to something easier.

“Do you like it? Your job I mean?”

“Pays the bills,” he grunts, stopping at a small sign that lists facts about the local wildlife.

“Why aren’t you in Chicago?” I ask, picking up a long stick before drawing a smiley face in the mud. This is easier. Safe. Not too deep.

“Needed some space after what he did,” he explains, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Had a friend who used to live here a while back, and I decided to check it out.”

“Well, I’m glad you did.”

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