Page 41 of On Dry Land

“Yeah,” Spencer says, and I’m impressed he’s admitting it at all. “But I recognize that this is a bit of a strange situation, and you might not be comfortable.”

I raise an eyebrow, taking a sip of coffee. Me being the one uncomfortable?

“How so?” I ask.

“Well…because I’m homeless, I guess. There’s not exactly a line of people slobbering for the opportunity to be with me.”

“I’ll take you to the vet for a checkup. Get all those vaccinations up to date.”

Spencer makes a choking noise, coughing slightly. I probably should have waited for when he wasn’t taking a drink.

“More stray dog jokes?” he asks. “Really?”

“If the collar fits.”

Sighing, he shakes his head and holds his mug out to me. I stare at it. He widens his eyes, waiting for me to take it from him. When I do, he fishes his cell phone out of his pocket and taps away at it.

“Here.” Taking back his coffee, he replaces the mug in my hand with his phone. I glance at the screen as he explains. “Lab results. I don’t want hepatitis or anything else any more than I want to pass it around.”

I look at the lab information at the top of the screen, noting the date and location.

“Community centers will occasionally partner with healthcare providers to offer low-income or free services,” Spencer explains unnecessarily. “That’s my most recent. But nobody has, nor will, come in contact with my bodily fluids, so the possibility of me passing anything along is pretty slim. Also, I’m on PrEP.”

I glance up at him over the phone. Perhaps I’ve misunderstood the flirtations. I had thought we were discussing the exchange of bodily fluids. Handing his phone back, I stand and retreat to the kitchen to fetch my own. In the spirit of sharing, I bring up my testing and pass it over.

“Thirty-five years old,” he notes.

“Impressive mathematics,” I deadpan, making him snort.

“Yours are more recent than mine.” He hands my phone back, and I toss it down onto the glass coffee table.

“I do it after every time I sleep with someone.” I pause, thinking about the two years I spent with Shiloh and the number of times I visited the clinic. “And I, too, am on PrEP.”

Spencer looks at me, quietly contemplating the insinuation behind that statement and utilizing those math skills to figure out exactly when the last time I had sex was.

“Thanks for showing me,” he says. I shrug, drinking the last of my coffee and looking across the room toward the kitchen, wishing for more but unwilling to get up and fix it myself.

“In my divorce, I got the boat and gonorrhea. I’m eager not to relive the experience.”

“Sounds like there’s a story there.”

“Another time.” Deciding I want the coffee more than I want to be lazy, I rise and turn my back to him.

I’d really rather not talk about Dylan. There’s something incredibly humiliating in how our marriage unraveled and what was revealed when light was shined into our dark corners. It’s a series of events I prefer to keep to myself. In fact, I never even told Shiloh I was ever married. Why I’ve done so just now with Spencer is anybody’s guess, and I frown down at the espresso machine as I contemplate it. I’m a little too comfortable with him. A little too eager to fall into the liquid brown of his eyes and drown.

Coffee made, I rejoin Spencer on the couch, unable to help but notice that the cushion between us is now half of one. Adjusting the fabric of my sweatpants, I bring a leg up onto the couch and remove that final sliver. We’re mirror images now, facing one another. Spencer, elbow on the back of the couch, has a cheek resting on his fist and his mug in the other hand.

“Explain what you meant about bodily fluids,” I request, earning a wide smile, complete with chipped tooth.

“You said that with a straight face,” he muses wonderingly.

“I’m thirty-five years old, as you pointed out. I’m far beyond the age where talking about sex is embarrassing.”

“Well, I meant exactly what I said. I don’t ever…share my bodily fluids.” Spencer scrunches up his nose a bit, as though not liking how that sentence came out. Neither do I, to be honest. I still don’t understand.

“So you wear a condom,” I fill in, unsure why he didn’t just say that to begin with.

“No, I mean… I never know the right way to explain this. And, honestly, I rarely have to.” He trails off, nose still wrinkled as he scowls. I refuse to acknowledge how cute an expression it is. “I don’t like sex being done to me, so I don’t…participate in that way.”