Page 59 of Muscle Cub

“No, but I’d love to see it.” His eyes lit up. “We should go.”

“Okay.” I wasn’t sure how serious he was, but thinking about us taking a trip in the future left me flustered.

If he’d noticed, he didn’t let on. He leaned in toward the print, hands behind his back as if he were in a museum. “It looks so good in an actual frame and everything. Mine’s kind of a raggedy mess. I’ve had it since high school. It was one of the only things I brought from home when I left for college. It’s been in every dorm room and shitty apartment I’ve lived in since. And it’s always been stuck on the wall with double-sided tape. I’m such a tacky bastard. But no matter where I live, not counting the bunkhouse, that poster is the one thing that makes me feel at home.” He turned his dark eyes on me and smiled like I’d hung it there as a gift for him.

His presence in my house was ordinary but also surreal. A week ago, I hadn’t even known he existed. “I’ve had mine since high school too. It wasn’t always in that frame. The first time Charles—that’s my ex—saw it on the wall in my dorm room freshman year, he called it juvenile.”

Austin pulled a face. “He kinda sounds like a dick.”

“Oh, he’s definitely a dick.”

With my advance from The Boy Who Didn’t Come Back, I’d put a down payment on a modern, new-build condo Charles had fallen in love with. I’d had the print framed, but Charles insisted the image simply didn’t go anywhere. Neither had I.

We’d had our own dressing rooms in parallel wings on either side of the en suite bathroom, enormous walk-in closets with windows, skylights, and cedar-paneled walls. Since it was the only space with anything remotely resembling cozy woodwork and since it was bigger than any bedroom or office I’d ever had, I put a small desk and Chesterfield armchair in mine, and I hung the print where Charles would never have to see it. He’d had few reasons to come into my dressing room, and it became my sanctuary.

I’d been ashamed for anyone to know that a closet was my only space in a property I’d paid for with my own money.

Later, when I’d first peeked in through the front windows of this house before the realtor had arrived to let me in, I saw the mantel and envisioned The Starry Night there. The day I’d moved in, I’d hung it right away before I’d carried in the first box of my other possessions.

I didn’t have to defend loving it to Austin. “What a crazy synchronicity.”

I let Austin wander wherever he wanted and followed him. He commented on architectural details—which pleased me, considering how much expense, effort, and thoughtfulness had gone into them—and he complimented the decor, which I humbly accepted. My furniture was mostly practical and a little on the sparse side.

He also noticed unique items among my favorite things—an Eveready flashlight from the 1920s, the elevation maps of local mountain ranges hanging in the dining room, the Amish table and matching hutch. He even pointed out the dovetails and box joints.

Surprised and excited by his frame of reference, I started to babble, sharing stories about where I’d discovered certain treasures, how in some cases I’d rescued them from thrift shops and garage sales, paying small token amounts that made them all the more precious.

When we reached the kitchen, I offered him something to drink, and we stood sipping bottles of water with the island between us.

Austin looked around and sighed. “If somebody could build the dream home in my head, it’d be just like this. You have stories about your things. It’s like your life is an ongoing treasure hunt, and your house is your own personal museum.” Austin picked at the label on his water bottle. “I’d love to have a place like this someday. I thought I would’ve been a little closer by now.”

His view of my life humbled me. “You’ll get there. I’ve had a bit more time to work on it.”

“Still, I bet when you were my age, you had your shit figured out.”

I huffed. “By the time I was your age—God, I can’t believe I just said that—I’d already been living with Charles for years. We were never technically married but close enough. When I look back on that time, it feels like I wasted my twenties. I definitely didn’t have my shit figured out. I still don’t. I didn’t really start putting any of this together until after we’d broken up. This house was the first major asset that was mine alone. I shared the renovation work with Ben—platonically and professionally, of course—but this was my first project without any input from Charles. Now I’m the one talking about an ex,” I muttered. “If it makes you feel any better, I bought this place in my midthirties. I had a mattress on the floor, one set of plain white CorningWare dishes I’d bought at a big box store, the Van Gogh print, my books, and my clothes.”

“At least you already had a career.” Austin walked over to my office door and leaned against the frame, peering into the room as if he sensed it was haunted. My daily dread and feelings of failure must have started to linger like the stench of cigarette butts in an ashtray.

With more windows than walls, the office had originally been a small sunroom. It was austerely furnished with a Shaker desk and hanging baskets of philodendron. The usual clutter found in offices and studies that most people considered charmingly professory gave me anxiety. I couldn’t stand the distracting visual chaos of overstuffed bookcases, and I didn’t want anyone’s work—including my own—taunting me while I tried to write. I’d hung covers of my novels, along with my degrees, in my office on campus where they could impress those who would be impressed by such things. No one would have ever seen them here anyway.

Austin wouldn’t find any evidence of my doctorate to undermine his nickname for me. If he found out, he’d undoubtedly start calling me Doc, and I wasn’t sure I could endure that. I preferred students address me as Professor instead of Doctor.

Austin nodded toward the open laptop on my desk. “How’s the new book coming?”

I joined him at the door, mirroring his pose, leaning in and looking around as if I might miraculously spot an answer on the floor like a forgotten wad of paper. “Who are you, my agent?”

Austin shifted position to face me, his weight on one leg, the other hip cocked. “I bet I’d make a killer agent. You said yourself I’m good at motivating people, and I’m even better at harassing them.”

I rolled my eyes. “I believe it.”

“I could specialize in working with surly male authors.” He laughed at my glare. “Jody Summers was kind of a crabby old bitch, but he loved me. He was always asking Jim to send me to his place to do random chores.”

“I’ll bet he was.”

“Nah, it really wasn’t like that. Most of the time, he wanted somebody to listen to him. He made a lot of diva demands, but I could usually convince him he didn’t want whatever it was he thought he did. I was the only one on staff who thought he was funny. He’d go off on a rant, and everybody’d avoid making eye contact with him and try to scurry away. I just laughed at him. He pretended to be offended, but he loved it.”

Who wouldn’t have loved it?