Chapter 2: The First Time
The gravel crunching under her tires sounded like breaking bones. Lisa’s knuckles were white on the steering wheel, her minivan a stupid, sensible ghost trailing Jake’s pickup down backroads she never knew existed. Every rational part of her screamed to turn around. To go home to the stainless-steel sink full of dishes, to the laundry basket, to the life that fit like a worn-out slipper.
She didn’t turn around.
The farmhouse appeared suddenly, a hulk of grey wood and regret at the end of a weed-choked lane. Jake killed his engine. The silence that followed was immense, broken only by the creak of settling timbers and the distant cry of a crow. She watched him get out, his movements economical, sure. He didn’t look back at her. He just walked up onto the sagging porch, its boards groaning under his weight, and pushed the front door open. It yawned into darkness.
He stood in the doorway, a silhouette. Waiting.
Lisa turned off the van. The silence pressed in. She got out, the cool air biting through her thin sweater. The smell hit her first: damp earth, rotting wood, the sharp tang of mildew. Underneath it, something else. Old smoke. Whiskey. Man.
She walked toward the porch, each step on the overgrown path feeling irrevocable. He didn’t smile. He just watched her climb the steps, his dark eyes tracking her every movement. Up close, the house was a disaster. Paint curled like dead skin. A cracked window held a faded No Trespassing sign, one corner flapping in the breeze.
“After you,” he said, his voice low.
She stepped past him, into the dim. The front room was a cavern of shadows and forgotten things. A shaft of late afternoon light cut through a broken board, illuminating a ballet of dust motes. There was a worn leather couch, a gutted armchair, a fireplace filled with ashes and empty bottles. The air was cold, but it felt alive.
“What is this place?” Her voice echoed slightly.
“Mine,” Jake said, closing the door. The daylight reduced to slivers. He moved past her, his shoulder brushing hers, and went to the fireplace. He knelt, striking a match. The kindling caught, flames licking up, painting his profile in gold and shadow. “Bought it for back taxes. Nobody wanted it.”
“I can’t imagine why,” Lisa said, but her sarcasm fell flat. There was a terrible beauty in the decay.
He stood, wiping his hands on his jeans. The fire crackled to life, pushing back the gloom, revealing more of the room. Old farming tools hung on one wall. A thick layer of dust coated every surface. It wasn’t a home. It was a hideout.
“This is where I come,” he said, staring into the flames, “when the world gets too fucking loud.”
Lisa understood. The noise of her world was different—the constant ping of notifications, the drone of the dishwasher, the endless, cheerful soundtrack of children’s shows. But it was noise. A static that drowned out everything else. Here, the only sound was the fire and their breathing.
“It’s quiet,” she said.
“It is now.” He turned to look at her. The firelight danced in his eyes. “You’re shaking.”
“I’m cold.”
“It’s not the cold.” He took a step toward her. Then another. He didn’t stop until he was right in front of her, close enough for her to feel the heat coming off him. He reached out, slowly, giving her every chance to pull away. His calloused fingers touched her chin, tilting her face up. His thumb brushed over her bottom lip. “You’re scared.”
She was. Terrified. But a wild, defiant heat was spreading from where his skin met hers, burning through the fear. “You said I needed a real man’s touch.”
“I did.”
“So?” The word was a challenge, barely more than a breath.
A ghost of a smile touched his mouth. It wasn’t gentle. It was hungry. “So, you have to decide if you meant it. Or if you just liked the idea of someone saying it to you in a parking lot.”
He dropped his hand, turning back to the fire as if dismissing her. The absence of his touch was a physical ache.
“Who are you?” she asked, her voice stronger.
“Jake.”
“That’s not what I mean. Sophie’s mom? A job? You just… appear at a school and start saying things that…”
“That what? That you’re unhappy? That you’re starving?” He picked up a half-empty whiskey bottle from the hearth, took a swig, offered it to her. She shook her head. “Sophie’s mom lives in Portland. We were never married. I build things. Custom furniture, mostly. Out of barn wood. Like this.” He knocked a fist against the wall. “And I say what I see. Most people can’t handle it.”
“I can handle it.”
He looked at her, a long, measuring look. “Prove it.”
“How?”
“Stay.” The single word hung in the dusty air. “It’s Friday. No school tomorrow. Tell that husband of yours you’re having a girls’ night. A movie. Whatever lie fits in your world. And stay here. With the quiet. With the noise. With me.”
It was madness. Reckless. Dangerous. Every responsible cell in her body shrieked in protest. But the other part, the part that had sat frozen in her minivan for years, was leaning forward. That part was already tasting the whiskey on his lips, feeling the scrape of his stubble, surrendering to the terrifying promise in his eyes.
The world outside, with its paved roads and playground rules, seemed like a faint, grey dream.
Here, in the rotting heart of this forgotten place, everything was violently, terrifyingly real.
Lisa reached for the whiskey bottle. Her fingers wrapped around the cool glass where his had been. She lifted it, took a burning swallow, and met his gaze over the rim.
“Okay,” she said.