Today's Reading
He watches my face fall. "I'm heading south," he says. "I can drop you off anywhere from here to Grey Tusk Village."
I hesitate, doing mental math. What would I owe him? "I'm in Pendleton. I can give you gas money."
"It won't cost me anything to take you."
"And it wouldn't cost you anything to leave me here, either. Take the money, McHuge."
Am I imagining the way his lips curve ever so slightly upward again?
I feel a rush of lightness, a tug in my skin that makes me want to see whether he has room inside his oversize fleece for one more person.
And I remember something else I used to do that made me feel steady—that is, before I turned thirty and decided I'd better try to have a grown-up relationship. When I wanted companionship but didn't want to roll the dice on love, I'd find someone like me who was looking for a night of warmhearted fun and nothing more.
Hookup math was simple: give as good as you get; leave someone at least as happy as you found them. I got good at avoiding people who were only in it for themselves and even better at gently turning away those whose eyes said they wanted my tomorrows.
It wasn't as good as partnered sex, but there was an equilibrium to it. I gave some, they gave some, repeat. I'd try this, they'd redirect me to that, the pleasure dulled a little by the effort of making sure everyone got their fair share. Nothing I loved was lost when it ended, because it was supposed to end.
I need something to bring me back to myself. After being an ER doc during the pandemic, then getting run out of the hospital by my so-called work family, I can't weather any more loss.
And I'd very much like to forget that this afternoon, going through boxes of my stuff my ex-girlfriend left at Liz's house, I pulled out an unfamiliar pair of bikini underwear with sweet and sour written across the ass.
Not my size. Not hers, either.
I realize I've been staring at McHuge's fleece too long when he strips it off and drapes it over my shoulders. It feels so good against my bare arms. This guy runs so hot, his jacket is warm on the outside, for fuck's sake. It smells like a mountain rescue: honeyed tea and laundry warm from the dryer. The burst of comfort triggers a wrenching shiver.
"Ready to go?" He raises his eyebrows. One of them is crooked, a white line running through the ginger, the two halves meeting slightly off-kilter. Oh, I like his face—the straight nose that says he's never been in a fight, the eyebrow that says he has. I think he's not who he pretends to be.
What I should do is go back to my too-expensive vacation rental, stand in the shower until I feel 50 percent sure I won't die of cold, then sleep until it's time to head to the airport for my flight back to Brittle Rock, the far north mining town where I'm the locum doctor.
What I'm going to do is see whether I'd like to hook up with a guy named McHuge.
Step one: I ask him to give me something. Not a fleece, no matter how amazing it is. He's given his clothes to a lot of people today, so a fleece isn't special. I need something specific. Something I choose.
I catch up to him to walk alongside. "What's your name, McHuge?"
"You just said it."
"Not your professional wrestling name. Your real name."
"I could argue professional wrestling names turn into real names, given enough time."
"You're funny." I keep my tone light. I asked, he refused, done. I'll give him directions to the rental place.
He looks down at me, brows drawn together. Again, I have the disconcerting feeling he senses what I'm thinking. This might be why people are afraid of gingers, and their forest eyes, and their miles of muscles that would go on and on underneath your fingers.
"It's Lyle. Lyle McHugh."
Huh. Didn't see that coming. "What's your middle name, Lyle?"
"Planning to steal my identity?" He cocks that crooked brow.
"Yes. It's because we look so much alike."
"In that case, it's Quillen."
My middle name has made me lightning fast at calculating the humiliating permutations of names and initials. "Your parents named you Lyle Q. McHugh? Were they reading too much Dr. Seuss?"
"I think by the time they got to the fifth kid, they were too tired to think it through." He doesn't look embarrassed. I don't think anything unnerves Lyle Q. McHugh.
"Meh, I've heard worse."
...
