4. October 15 - Savannah

Mom won't be able to complain that I'm not trying. Not that she would. I haven't even talked to her since I left last night. Apparently, Mom hooked up at the event and ended up taking her own beau home. Part of me hopes it was the older gentleman I met who sat across from Mom and engaged her in conversation. He was handsome, and I wonder if part of why she was so sad at the end of the event is that she liked him and didn't want to talk to anyone else.

I push the thought of Mom from my mind since I have my own issues, and I really don't want to think about Mom hooking up.

I'm having dinner tonight with a real human man that's handsome and sexy and causes my stomach to do things that remind me of fireworks and swooping birds. I came home last night and got in the shower to cool myself off. The heat from his arm and the way his eyes were hooded and dark makes me think he'll devour me if we were ever intimate. I can't recall ever having these feelings about a man.

But it's just dinner, right? I'm sure not the kind to jump into bed with someone, even if he does things to my body just by being in the same coffee shop. I've always been awkward around men, so the idea of him being a date for a few events over the next few months is perfect.

Even so, I take care in getting ready tonight. I don't want him to think I'm one of those women that gets dressed up for a first date and then breaks out the ponytails and sweatpants on the second.

Everyone knows that's third date stuff.

The skirt I put on is a little too tight, but it pairs well with my black, strappy Mary Jane heels and silky green blouse. I pair it all with the black jacket from last night, and take care with my makeup, even considering the fake lashes my mother put in my stocking last Christmas. I've never had an occasion to wear them, and I consider them until the tiny glue tube is too much for me to maneuver. Part of me worries I'll glue my eyes shut, and I toss the tube into my bathroom trashcan. Mascara will have to do.

His motorcycle is in the Chinese Pagoda parking lot, and I park next to it. Prompt. Checking my watch, I'm three minutes early, and he beat me here. Maybe we don't have a lot in common, but he's not rude, and he seems to like me in return. That alone will likely get us through a few movies or lunches.

He gets out of the booth and stands as I approach. My heart pounds against my rib cage as I look him up and down, appreciating the black motorcycle boots that are untied at the top, the dark jeans, and the long-sleeved dress shirt that's open at the neck. The look is stockbroker that rides his bike to work.

"Hi, Savannah," he says, doing the same up and down look without trying to make it obvious. "Good to see you."

Heat darkens my cheeks under his gaze, and I have the sudden urge to stare at his crotch again. Why do I keep wanting to do that?

He gets his phone out and sets it on the table at the same time that the waiter fills our water glasses and sets menus and wrapped silverware in front of us. "I need to get your phone number," Wilder says as the waiter walks away.

"Oh, sure." I put my hand out for the phone, and he unlocks the screen and passes it across the table.

That's weird. His phone contacts are up, and I press the plus sign to add my name and phone number. I can't help to notice that he has years in his contact list. There's a 2017, 2018, 2019, 2020, 2021, and 2022. Maybe he uses his contact list to keep track of something and remember numbers. My friend, Melissa, uses her contact list to keep track of passwords where nobody will suspect. He may do something similar.

I hand him his phone, he types, and my phone pings in my purse. "There, now you have my number."

We make small talk about the hockey game on the TV across the bar until we give our orders, and I mentally note his go-to Chinese order is sweet and sour chicken. It's not until the waiter places a plate of eggroll appetizers in front of us that my heart reaches a steady rhythm. I reach for one and notice my hands are still shaking.

"Savannah, I'd like to talk about cuffing season," he says, dipping an eggroll in soy sauce.

"Oh, thank God," I begin. "Do you have any Halloween parties or holiday parties you need a date for? I'm happy to go. We can do that thing where we pretend we've been together for a long time. My library has a small holiday thing, and…"

He puts up his hand, interrupting me with one gesture. "Did you just want me for parties and events?" He frowns and squints, his forehead creasing with the movement. And I suddenly feel like the world's biggest asshole.

"Look, I like you. In fact, I like you a lot," I say, my voice husky, and I hate myself for it. "But I'm just not in a place where I can have a serious thing. I thought we'd be a good fit for holiday parties and maybe a few movies or lunches."

He settles against the back of the booth and drapes his arms over the seat. "Right," he whispers.

"I-it's just that t-this is cuffing s-season," I stutter and inhale sharply, trying to build up courage. "It's not meant to be a long-term thing."

He brightens and leans forward. "I wanted to talk about that. I totally agree."

"You do? It just seemed like you were disappointed."

He shrugs. "Only with one little detail."

"What detail?"

He waffles his head back and forth and opens his mouth to speak just as the waiter arrives with our food. I unwrap my cutlery, but I don't thank the waiter or even look at him. I'm focused on Wilder.

"What disappoints you about me?"

He takes a bite of food and chews. He doesn't answer until he swallows and takes a sip of water. "Nothing disappoints me about you. You're fucking gorgeous, and any man would walk over hot coals to spend five months with you."

"What is it then?"

"I want more out of this arrangement."

Oh, shit. This is going to be about sex. He's going to want to have sex with me. Not that I'm averse to sex with him. Lord knows he's sexy, and my mother would probably throw a new car on the deal if she thinks I'm getting regular dick. But I'm so inexperienced, and he's…definitely not. The fact that he's been around the block a few times practically oozes from his pores. What if I fuck up? What if I move wrong or do something wrong in bed? Will he initiate sex, or will I have to do some intricate thing with my underwear I don't know about? Fuck, why don't I know these things?

"What do you want?" Damn, why did I have to bat my eyes and whisper when I said that?

He takes a sip of the beer in front of him. "I want companionship."

"You want sex." It just comes out of my mouth.

"I wouldn't decline a night in your bed, but I was thinking of other companionship."

I tilt my head, utterly confused.

"I want to live with you for cuffing season."

I drop my fork, and my mouth opens in shock. "Live with me?" I ask like I didn't understand the words that came from his mouth. Hell, maybe I didn't. I thought he just said he wanted to live with me.

"If you're uncomfortable, I can stay on the couch or a guest room or something."

I guess I didn't imagine that. "What about your apartment? Don't you have rent or mortgage?"

He blushes and looks away. "I told you that I like to move around."

My eyes dart around the table as my mind works out what he's saying. When the puzzle pieces click into place, my eyes widen. "Holy shit, are you homeless? Did you want a cuffing season date to sponge off my apartment?"

Fuck, how did this date go from good to terrible in such a short amount of time? Am I being used?

"Nothing like that," he says, waving his hand like he's being attacked by bees. "Besides, you need me just as much as I need you. I assume you still want your mother off your back."

It's not just that. I look down at my meal. It's a meal I wouldn't normally order unless I had a Groupon. It's not that I expect him to pay for our date, but I was splurging way more than I'm used to. I close my eyes and only see dollar signs. Loans. The new car or routine maintenance ahead of me. The fact that I haven't been forthcoming with Wilder either. After all, I didn't tell him about the deal with my mother.

I need him just as much as he needs me, and I'm going to use him the same as he uses me. Sure, I can blame this on myself for not spacing out my degree so its affordable or making the decision to live alone without a roommate. I also have a guest room that's empty and a lock on my bedroom door.

I put my head in my hands and think. He doesn't nag. He doesn't push. In fact, he chews his food across from me, and all I can think about is how he chews with his mouth closed and without annoying clicking noises, unlike many men I know. Would he be such a bad roommate?

"Where do you live now?" I ask, suddenly needing to know how he looks clean, put together, and functional.

He shrugs. "I told you that I like to camp."

"Do you live in a tent?"

"I live at campsites around the state. I have a post office box for mail. I have a gym membership at the YMCA that allows me to go to any YMCA so I can shower if I'm at a campsite that doesn't have one. Most do, though."

I stare at him, trying to think of something he hasn't covered. "What about food?"

"I eat a lot of things hikers eat. There's also nothing like food cooked over a campfire. I'm a cast-iron pan stew connoisseur."

"You're a mechanic. How do you have a job if you move around?"

He smiles. "I work in one place during the winter months if I can find a…roommate." He coughs into his fist and smiles. "I do odd jobs in the summer. Oil changes. Fixing bikes. Sometimes, I work as a mover. It pays the bills, and I don't have many since I live pretty cheaply. By the way, dinner's on me tonight."

"Entertainment?" I ask, fascinated by his unusual lifestyle. I ignore the dinner payment comment, completely focused on digging deeper and understanding why he lives the way he does.

"Netflix and a mobile hot spot or campsite wi-fi. I also hike a lot."

"What about bad weather? Storms in this part of the country?" I don't know why I'm asking, testing him.

"I watch the weather and go to my friend's house if I need to," he shrugs. "Gus usually lets me sleep on the couch for a night. If there's a bad heat wave, I'll stay for a few days and be on my way."

"So, you need a warm place to sleep for the winter, and you thought this would be a good idea?"

"You have to admit, it's beneficial to both of us. I get a warm place to stay for the winter, you get your mother off your case, and we have someone to cuddle up to for cuffing season. I'll go to that work party you mentioned."

"Why do I feel like I'm at a car dealership, negotiating a sale?"

He holds his index finger up and drops his fork. "I'm glad you mentioned that," he says, punching something into his phone. "I took the liberty of drafting something up."

"Excuse me?"

"It's just a little document I'll text to you. It basically outlines what we want. Here," he says, swiping up and down and then tapping into his phone. He taps for a good minute until he turns the phone around. "I added a clause that I go to your work holiday party with you. What would the sleeping arrangements be?"

"Uh…well, I have a guest room." I can't believe I'm even considering this.

He taps against his phone, thinking. "What are the bathroom arrangements?"

"I only have one bathroom."

"Any rules?" he asks, pausing over the phone. "I'm a night showerer, so let me know if that's going to be…"

I hold up my hands. "I can't believe this is real. Are you really thinking you can move in with me? Just like that?" I ask, snapping my fingers.

He shrugs and puts his phone down. "Hey, it's fine if you're not into this whole cuffing season thing. When I'm in, I'm in. I won't bring other girls around or cause you any problems. I thought we were on the same page, but it's cool. We can go our separate ways after tonight, and we can..."

"Stop!" I interrupt, my mind spinning. I can't let him call this off. I need that money, and I need my mother to stand down from my dating life. "I didn't say that I don't want to do this. It's just that, well, it's a little shocking."

"I can admit that it's different."

"You could be an axe murderer, for fuck's sake."

He picks up his phone again and taps at it. "What are you doing?" I ask.

He flips his phone around, and I see the familiar sex offender registry for our state. It's familiar because I check it, religiously keeping tabs on the offenders in my area. "Not on it. Also, not on any arrest records," he says, scrolling to a screen that shows criminal records for the state. I see nothing under his name except some speeding tickets and a violation for an expired license plate a couple years ago.

"I can add something to the contract that you get to lock your bedroom door, and I don't get a key to the apartment in case you get mad at me and want me to leave immediately."

I cannot believe I'm even entertaining this. "I want two forms of ID so I know your name is real, and I want you to cover your own groceries."

"Done," he says, reaching into his wallet. He plops his driver's license in front of me and searches for another form of ID. "I have credit cards, gym card, and a library card with my name on it, but I don't have any work IDs or anything with a picture. Will those do?"

"I thought you said you don't like books. Why do you have a library card? What else are you lying to me about?" I ask, squinting.

He laughs and swallows a piece of eggroll. "You should know libraries are more than books. I can watch documentaries and stuff on the movie app."

"For fuck's sake," I mutter, putting my head in my hands and glancing at the driver's license from between my fingers. It's him. He looks exactly the same as the guy sitting in front of me and casually chewing like none of this is a big deal. "I can't believe this is happening."

He taps a few more things on his phone. Every once in a while, he stops chewing, looks off into the distance, and adds more things. Eventually, he sets his phone back on the table, and my phone dings in my purse again.

"Is that you?" I ask.

"Yep. Check it out. I think it's fair, but I can add something if you need it."

I reach into my purse and look at the text message with a link to a Google document. Christ, the contract is long, almost five pages of something that looks like a trained lawyer drew it up. I take a few bites of food and chew while I read the first part. "It says here that this contract ends on February fifteenth."

"It's the day after Valentine's Day. We dissolve our contract then. I move out, your mom's off your back, and I go to Gus's for a couple of weeks until the weather warms up enough to camp again."

I read down the list of helpful bullet points about arrangements. It says that he provides his own food and toiletries unless we're having a date night. Then, food will be negotiated. He even agreed to pay the water and gas bills. Sure, those are usually small for my apartment, coming to about a hundred bucks in the winter, but it's still a hundred bucks I don't have to pay that can go into savings.

He's thought of everything. He does his own dishes and laundry, and he even agrees to vacuum once a week for the duration of cuffing season. He's included a blurb on replacing the toilet paper roll in an over and down position and agrees to use the fan and air freshener. There's even a section on birth control that says if we have relations, and he actually uses that term, he'll use condoms. He agrees to take turns picking what's on TV.

"I'm very well-behaved. I put the seat back down after I pee, I shower once a day, and I'll work. Don't think I'll be on the couch the whole time. I do smoke, but I won't in the apartment, and I'll brush my teeth after. I drink, but we can discuss that as needed. I wasn't sure how much you drink."

"Something tells me I'll be drinking a lot more," I mumble, cradling my head which suddenly hurts.

"I'd still like to go out with Gus. You should also know that if we're not going to have a sexual relationship or you don't want a real relationship, I may not come home every so often, if you get my meaning. That's in the contract."

The waiter brings our check, setting it down in the middle of the table, obviously used to identifying couples on early dates. Wilder swipes it toward him before I can get my hand on it. "I'm paying. I sprung this on you."

He gets a wad of cash out of his wallet, and I mentally scroll back to when he said he does odd jobs in the summer. People have obviously paid him under the table. Does this guy even do taxes?

I shake my head, jolting myself out of tax questions. I need to focus on the issue at hand. Can I agree to live with a man I've only known for twenty-four hours?

He doesn't have a criminal record. He seems clean enough and showers every night. He does dishes and vacuums. He even sets the toilet paper roll in the proper position. I could fall in love with a man after months of dating and not get that type of deal. Melissa's horror stories of men she's lived with not moving from the couch and constantly asking for sandwiches comes to mind.

In addition to not having loans, that hundred bucks for bills can go toward getting my car back on its maintenance schedule to make it last until my degree is in hand. I scroll through the document as Wilder pays and makes small talk with the waiter. He's thought of everything in this document, even down to what time we break up on the fifteenth of February.

"Why noon on the day after Valentine's Day?" I ask after the waiter leaves. "Why do we need a time?"

"If things get a little wild, we can sleep in and enjoy a nice breakfast. Personally, I don't like being pushed out the door with an apple or granola bar any time I leave a place. I prefer to take my time."

My eyebrows push together with such intensity that they almost touch. "Wilder, how long did it take you to draft this? Did you do it last night?"

He bites his lip, and his cheeks darken. Tilting his head to the side, he reaches for my hand. His thumb strokes my palm and makes a leisurely circle that makes me want to melt into a puddle of butter. "Of course, I did it last night. I just couldn't sleep last night after I met you. I want this to be perfect."

I chew on the inside of my cheek and think. But I can't concentrate when his thumb is circling the heel of my hand like that…like he knows exactly how to circle his thumb over other body parts.

"You can shower, but don't touch my bubble bath. I want that added."