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Sage glowered at him as she did the dishes.
Why was he so nice?
He hadn’t asked her to do them. Hadn’t asked her for anything. She’d been resting on the couch when he started clearing the table, and she’d scrambled up fast, catching the oversized robe as it gaped open across her heavy breasts. He’d suddenly found the ceiling fascinating. She’d snapped, sharper than she meant, “Sit down, okay? I can help… I’m not handicapped.”
He’d just nodded thoughtfully—which somehow made her even more irritated—and stayed quiet while she cleared everything and started washing. It wasn’t only about helping. She needed something to do with her hands. The alternative was sitting there watching him move around his own kitchen with that unhurried, deliberate grace that made her feel simultaneously safe and completely out of place.
The sink was deep and the water got hot fast — genuinely hot - the speed was not something she was familiar with.
Or having hot water for that matter.
She found the dish soap under the counter. Started with the glasses.
"You don't have to do that," he said, from somewhere behind her.
"I know," she said, and kept going.
A pause. Then the sound of him refilling his mug. She could feel him deciding not to push it, and the not-pushing felt like its own kind of kindness — the understanding that she needed to do this, that having something useful to do with her hands was the difference between holding it together and not.
She washed the pan he'd cooked her eggs on. The plate. The spatula. She was reaching for the mug he'd left on the counter when she said, without quite planning to, "My Jeep."
A slight pause.
"Yeah."
The single syllable told her everything. She set the mug down in the rinse water and looked at it, her shoulders sagging.
"How… bad?"
He was quiet for a moment.
"Head gasket's blown. Possibly the block. Heater core's been dead a while — but you knew that." A pause. "It was a '98, Sage."
She nodded. She'd known. Had known somewhere around Wyoming but hadn't let herself finish the thought because finishing the thought had meant admitting she was running out of options. She kept washing the mug. The soap made small, temporary rainbows in the steam.
"Okay," she said.
"I had it towed to Mack's garage. He'll give it a fair look but—"
"Okay," she said again. Firmer. The way you said a thing when you needed it to stop being said.
He let it stop.
Who cares, it's just a dumb broken car.
Like me.
She finished the dishes. Dried her hands on the towel hanging from the oven handle — even the damn dish towel was thick, soft, and luxurious like everything else. Not ostentatious just…well made.
She turned around.
He was leaning against the island looking at the floor. His huge muscular arms were crossed, filling that white shirt obscenely as she stared up at him. His skin had the tan of someone who liked being outdoors, and his hair was slightly damp.
"So," he said breaking into her thoughts. "Where were you heading?" He asked it like it was a casual question. Like the answer wouldn't change anything.
She looked at him.
"Nowhere specific." She pulled the robe tighter. "Just. Away."
