Page 39 of The Man in the Cottage

Travis

I change my shirt three times.

The first one is too casual. The second one is too formal. The third one is the same as the first one, which I put back on because I'm losing my mind and need to stop before I make it worse.

It's just dinner. It's just Kelly. The same Kelly I've been having coffee with for weeks, the same Kelly who laughed at my jokes and listened to my problems and kissed me last night like she meant it.

Except now she knows who I am. And she's still here. And I have no idea what to do with that.

I check the time. Six forty-five. I told her seven, which means I should leave in about ten minutes, which means I have ten minutes to stand in my cottage and panic quietly.

The restaurant is a place I found a few months ago, back when I first got to Longshore and needed somewhere to eat that wasn't the gas station. It's small, Italian, run by a couple who moved here from New Jersey twenty years ago and never left. The food is good and the lighting is dim and the owner, Maria, doesn't watch hockey. She has no idea who I am. She just knows me as the quiet guy who comes in on Tuesday nights and orders the same thing every time.

I called this morning to make a reservation. Valentine's Day, last minute, probably impossible. But Maria said she'd find me a table, and she did, because that's the kind of place it is. The kind of place where people take care of each other.

I want to take care of Kelly like that. I want to be someone who shows up for her, who makes things easier instead of harder. I've been trying to do that since she got here—fixing things, helping out, being useful—but tonight is different. Tonight I'm not the handyman. I'm the guy taking her on a date.

I don't know how to be that guy. I haven't been that guy in a long time.

My phone buzzes. Dave, again. I've been ignoring his calls all week, but he's persistent. The team wants an answer. The suspension is almost over. I need to decide what I'm doing with the rest of my life.

I silence the phone and shove it in my pocket. That's a problem for tomorrow. Tonight is about Kelly.

At six fifty-five, I walk across the yard to the main house. The night is cold and clear, stars scattered across the sky like someone spilled them there. I can see my breath in the air, little clouds that disappear as soon as they form. The main house is lit up, warm light spilling from the windows, and I think about all the nights I've looked at those windows from the cottage, wondering what Kelly was doing inside.

Now I know. Now I'm part of it.

I climb the porch steps and knock on the door.

She opens it almost immediately, like she was waiting on the other side. And for a second, I forget how to breathe.

She's wearing something black and silky that catches the light when she moves. Her hair is down, falling in loose curls around her shoulders. There's lipstick on her mouth, darker than her usual, and her eyes look bigger somehow, softer.

"Hi," she says.

"Hi." I'm staring. I know I'm staring. I can't stop. "You look..."

"I look what?"

"Incredible." The word comes out rougher than I intended. "You look incredible."

She smiles, and I see a hint of the nervousness she's been hiding. "You don't look so bad yourself."

I glance down at my shirt—the first one, the one I put on twice—and shrug. "I changed three times."

"Only three? I lost count."

That makes me laugh, and some of the tension drains out of my shoulders. This is still Kelly. This is still us. The only thing that's changed is that now we're doing it on purpose.

"Ready?" I ask.

"Ready."

The restaurant is twenty minutes away, on the edge of a town even smaller than Longshore. Kelly watches out the window as we drive, the dark fields and bare trees rolling past, and I try not to be too aware of how close she is. The cab of the truck feels smaller than usual. Every time she shifts, I catch a hint of her perfume—something warm and floral that I've never noticed before.

"So where are we going?" she asks.

"I told you. It's a surprise."