Page 8 of Carver
My parents packed us up and moved back out here. They rented the house fully furnished. It meant that my dad had to give up his career, but he doesn’t see that as a sacrifice. Just a change.
Gabriel was eleven, I was nine, and Ginny was five. My mom had plenty on her hands making a big adjustment like that, learning to become a farm wife, and raising three kids, but she also nursed my grandpa in his final years. Unlike in Seattle, we didn’t go to school. My mom also homeschooled us. She wanted to be home as much as possible with my grandpa. Even if he couldn’t remember who we were exactly, it was important to her that we were in his life.
Having us at home also allowed us to learn the farm and help with the chores. My grandpa didn’t just farm the land. He had animals too.
We didn’t end up going to school for years. We loved homeschooling. My mom and dad were excellent teachers. They both have law degrees. Mom was about to go back to work when we moved to the farm, and Dad had to give up his job, but they’ll always have that education.
It was Dad who argued that Gabriel should go to school for grades ten, eleven, and twelve, so that it would be easier for him to get into college if he wanted to. And since Gabriel was going, that meant we had to go too. We didn’t really, but he put up such a fuss about it, that my parents caved and wouldn’t allow Ginny and I to be at home. Gabriel is a farm boy through and through. He says he’ll never go to college, but Dad always says that never is a dumb word and preparation never hurt anyone.
I remember the first day I ever saw Dominic Hale. I didn’t know then what he’d mean to me, but I swear I knew he was special.
Dominic was so quiet. He was a tall kid, but way too thin. He was obviously a loner. The school was just big enough that we didn’t have all our classes together, but I never saw him hang out with anyone. He didn’t appear to have friends. At lunch time, he ate alone.
He’d sit in the school’s lunchroom with a pile of books on the table in front of him. History, art, language, novels. He’d lose himself in them. When he wasn’t reading, he sketched in an old notebook. Since I was fascinated by him, entranced and enchanted after just a few days, I’d covertly observe him. He didn’t always have clean clothes, and he almost never had lunch. I wondered why no one noticed. I did.
It was a few weeks before I got up the courage to go and sit at his empty table one day. I’d packed a double lunch. I sat downand silently pushed it over to him. So he couldn’t make it about pride, I told him my name, said I thought he was interesting, and if I was being honest, hot, and then I touched him. My hand shot out and covered his, though covered isn’t the right word. Even back then, Dom’s hands were massive. I picked it up, told him it was beautiful, and then leaned forward all the way across the table and kissed his palm. I curled his hand tight around him so he could keep that with him always.
Yeah.
I didn’t exactly believe in being subtle.
Eleven years later, not much has changed. Here I am, ready to play the long game, trying to ignore the fact that I have to pee, and unless I get up soon to stretch out and pace, both my feet are going to go to sleep.
I finally give up, walk a few paces to stretch out the aching soreness in my muscles, then go and bang on the clubhouse door again.
No one answers. Big surprise.
I pack up my lawn chair and book, but only so that I can go and find a washroom in a convenience store a few blocks over. I buy a water because I feel terrible for just using their facilities, and head straight back.
I pop up the chair, get my book, and get ready to do this all night if I have to.
***
I don’t know how long I sit there reading, but it starts to get dark before I hear the first signs of life.
The big metal door clicks open, and clangs closed. I don’t leap up, but I do turn my head to see a tall, broad man come striding down the sidewalk. He’s the type of man that people could easily mistake for a god. His mane of ashy hair shot through with golden highlights, striking green eyes, chiseled jawline and high cheekbones give him that Hollywood, model-like air, but it’s definitely spoiled by his faded jeans, heavy black boots, and the black leather biker jacket. He wouldn’t be modelling anything unless it was some kind of badass streetwear brand.
He’s older than me, but not that old.
The guys who run this place probably sent him out here to chase me off.
If I could physically sit down any harder in this chair, I would. I don’t stand because it would be easier to grab me around the arm and kindly drag me off the property. Then again, this guy is muscular and so broad that he could probably easily lift me and the chair and set me right into the box of my truck without even taking a hard inhale.
I’m prepared to explain myself, but he knows exactly why I’m here.
“We were told a woman matching your description might come here and sit out on our lawn until we gave her the answers she was looking for. I’m afraid I can’t do that.” He shoves his hands in his pockets and looks almost… sorry. Honestly, he doesn’t look much like a biker at all. He has a kind face, and his eyes are soft. He seems to radiate goodness.
I tilt my face up like I’m physically a match for him. He’ll find that my stubbornness could outlast the end of the world. “Iguess we’re at a bit of an impasse then. I’m not leaving until you tell me where Dominic Hale is.”
He chuckles, the sound rich and warm, and shakes his head. “He said that you’d say that. Told us not to, under any circumstances, let you know where he’s staying.”
Why does that fill me with both elation and rage? It’s such a classic Dom thing to do. He thought of me, even when he was slamming up walls.
“I can’t give you the address,” he reiterates. “That would be a breach of privacy and trust.”
Honestly? While this is extremely annoying, I’m also glad that the man I love finally has people like this in his corner. He has the purest heart, the softest soul, the spirit of an artist. He’s so loyal. He always should have had friends who have his back. It was such a tragedy that he only ever had me and my family. Are they friends? Even if they’re not, they’re looking after him, giving him this opportunity, and for that, I’d fall forward and kiss this man’s boots if he demanded it.
He doesn’t.
