"Smart man, you want this table to last."
"Of course, you don't see fine furniture like this in houses anymore. Everything has to be so sturdy. What ever happened to rickety furniture and living through a meal with the threat of your food possibly kissing the floor at any point in time?"
"The horror," I joke.
He looks up at me. Some of his hair is still wet from his shower. Pointing his fork at me he says, "Are you ready to be schooled?"
"Schooled on what?" I take a bite of bacon and my stomach jumps in excitement for finally rewarding it for waking up early. All right, I will admit it, getting out of bed was a smart idea.
"It's Monday, babe. DJ Hot Cock has his song picked and ready to show you what real music is."
"When was my music taste ever questioned? I like good music."
"We'll see." He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone. I watch as he flips through it until he lands on the song he wants to introduce me to. He presses play and sets his phone on the table. The light pickings of a guitar fill the small dining room. I don't recognize the song, but I like the sound of it so far.
Just as I'm settling in to the sweet pickings of a guitar, the distinct voice of Zac Brown chimes in. I've known Tucker for loving EMO growing up, so his choice in a country song is very surprising to me, but when I look up at him, pure hometown country boy sitting across from me, it makes perfect sense.
And then the lyrics hit me. My Old Man. Zac sings about his father, hoping he's proud of the man he's become. I'm transported back to a dreary day in Whitney Point, where we grew up, when Sadie called me one Saturday morning. I was getting ready for the day. We were in middle school. Tucker's dad was killed by a head-on collision. He'd only recently reconnected with his dad, and had plans to move in with him to get away from his neglectful mom. Those next few days-and weeks-were a whirlwind of sorrow. Attending his funeral, my first ever funeral, seeing the look of devastation on Tucker's face, wondering what he might be feeling, trying to channel his hurt, it was so much to take on as a teenager.
Glancing up, I take in Tucker's expression. He's lost in the music, in the words, just like me. When the song ends, I lean over and place my hand on his; our eyes meet and there is an unspoken understanding between us. I don't have to say anything about his dad, about the tragedy he experienced so many years ago. We all felt his loss. It's all said between this silent exchange.
Clearing his throat, he asks, "What did you think?"
I take a moment to answer. "I think your taste in music has drastically changed. You actually impressed me with your selection."
"Yeah?" A slow smile spreads across his face. "Told you, DJ Hot Cock knows what he's doing." He looks down at his watch and cringes. "I have to get going. Think you can handle the dishes? I cook, you clean?" Good God, he eats fast. Shovels it right in there, doesn't he?
It's obvious he's trying to lighten the mood with his jokes, and I'll let him get away with it because there isn't enough time to get into why he chose that song, why he wanted to share it with me. "If I knew I was going to have to clean, I would have gotten up earlier to make you breakfast."
"Ha, yeah right. You barely dragged your carcass out of bed this morning. Nice try though, babe."
He stands from his folding chair which is entirely too small for his commanding body and pockets his phone. "Off to classes today?"
"Yup, all day, then clinicals, then studying. That's my life."
"All right, have a good day."
"You, too. Thanks for breakfast."
He walks out to the kitchen to the side door that is attached to the driveway. In the distance, I hear him say, "You're welcome," but it's drowned out by the shutting of the side door.
I look around the dining room and assess the space. The emptiness. It's . . . consuming. It really is a cute house, but the man needs to decorate terribly. I pick up our plates and mugs and do the dishes quickly before I head to the bathroom. I spend most of my time in my bedroom because honestly, it still feels weird staying in Tucker's house. Maybe it's the bare palette on the walls or the echo of each step that reverberates when you walk around the house, or the sterile feeling I get when I step outside of my bedroom. It might be a while before it feels like home.
Maybe with my short time here, I can help Tucker transform this shell of a house into a loving home for him. That is . . . if he will let me.
***
"Hand me another slice."