He was almost too beautiful.

   And then I remembered the tattoo. I leaned over him quietly, craned my neck trying to get a better view. It was a name. It was partially hidden by his pillow, but the letters dy were very clearly inscribed within an intricate black-ink armband. I wondered who she was, who had been so important to him that he’d gone through the pain and hassle and expense of having her name permanently drilled onto his body. And I braced myself for the ordeal of having to see it staring back at me every time he was naked…

   “Don’t worry, Tess.”

   His voice startled me so badly I nearly fell off the bed. He grabbed my arm just in time and pulled me to safety. I would’ve been more grateful if he wasn’t laughing so hard. He made sure I was situated securely before he let go of me. Then he turned his arm slightly so I could see the whole name.

   Wendy.

   I nodded, still clueless.

   “Wendy was my mom’s name.”

   “Ah.” Then I smiled. “You know…that’s really sweet.”

   He grimaced. Manly men do not like being called sweet.

   “Nice? Thoughtful? Kind?”

   Nope.

   “Studly?”

   He rolled his eyes and opened his mouth to speak, but whatever the words were going to be died on his lips. Because that’s when we heard the kitchen door slam shut. He bolted out of bed towards the door and I took a brief moment to admire his naked ass before I covered myself with a sheet. He cracked open the door, peeked out and hollered, “That you, Rach?”

   “Duh. Who else has a key to this fucking pig hole?”

   He groaned, grabbed a pair of jeans from a pile on top of his dresser and threw them on.

   “I’ll see if I can get rid of her.” Then he jogged out the door, slamming it behind him. I knew my cover was blown when I heard Rachel cackling a few moments later, but I still waited for him to come back in and break it to me.

   “I don’t know how she knew it was you.”

   “Maybe because she’s not an idiot.”

   He smiled, almost shyly, and that’s when I knew the answer to the question that New Mills had debated for years: He’d been celibate, not discreet. All those years and…no one; not until Rachel moved out. Even with a town filled with willing women. I wasn’t sure if that was sad or sweet. It was probably a little of both. Just like the tattoo.

   I rummaged through his pile of fortunately clean laundry, picked out a t-shirt that could have been a dress and a pair of sweatpants. I had to roll each leg up five times before I could walk. Then I followed him into the kitchen. Rachel was busy at the stove, cooking bacon and eggs. She snickered when she saw my ensemble. I ignored her and headed for the bathroom. I did my business, washed my hands, surveyed my reflection, then stared at his medicine cabinet. Studied the hinges. They looked old; like they might squeak. I ran my tongue over my teeth and decided it was worth the risk. I flushed the toilet again, to cover any noise, slowly opened the cabinet door, and I found what I’d been hoping for: an extra toothbrush. It was brand new, still in the package. Red handle, medium bristle. And I tried not to wonder why he had an extra one lying around.

   By the time I finished up in the bathroom breakfast was ready. I poured myself a glass of orange juice and jellied a slice of toast. Brian dove right in, shoveling food into his mouth like he hadn’t eaten for days. I had to avert my eyes when he dipped the corner of his own toast into a glob of runny egg yolk. Rachel shook her head.

   “You’re not a vegetarian, are you?” She made it sound like the worst of all possible offenses.

   “No.”

   Brian laughed. “Then why don’t you eat meat?”

   “I eat chicken and turkey. And fish.”

   “That’s not meat.”

   “Please tell me I’m not getting nutritional advice from the man whose cupboards are filled with Chef Boyardee.”

   The phone rang before he could answer. He looked over at it, then down at his half-finished breakfast. Ring number two. He gave a big sigh. Then: inspiration. He piled what was left of his egg and two strips of bacon onto his remaining piece of toast, folded it over and jogged to the phone. He answered it with a, “Yeah?” then stuffed half the sandwich into his mouth. He chewed noisily, away from the mouthpiece, swallowed and closed his eyes. When he opened them again he gave Rachel an angry stare, then turned away from her, still silent. Still listening.

   Whatever her transgression was, she didn’t seem phased by his wrath. But she probably was. I took a quick peek at her eyes. They were clear. But it was only nine-thirty.

   “You’re not trying to impress him by not eating a lot are you?”

   I smiled. I knew this game.

   “No. Why, does that impress him?”

   “Nope.”

   “Good.”

   She twisted her hair into a tight loop at the nape of her neck, then let it go. It spun wildly and finally came to a rest over her right shoulder. “It sure took you long enough to finally get your shit together.”

   “Excuse me?”

   “He’s been following you around like a puppy dog since you first moved in here. I’ve been waiting for the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign to pop up on the door here for weeks. I figured you thought he wasn’t good enough for you or something.”

   “Why would you think that?”

   “I don’t know. Maybe because he’s in construction. Or something like that. But he’s a real smart guy. He’d be doing something else if...he’s smart enough to be doing something else.”

   Fair enough.

   “I scrub shit outta toilets for a living, Rachel. Do you really think I’m gonna be put off by a guy because he swings a hammer? Besides, I know it takes a lot of brains to run a business.”

   She poured herself a glass of juice. “What does your husband do?”

   “My ex-husband teaches high school. English literature.”

   “So he’s pretty smart, then?”

   “Well...” I hesitated. “He’s smart about English literature.”

   I finally got a laugh out of her. It faded when Brian slammed the phone down. He stormed back into the kitchen, sat back down, chucked the remnants of his sandwich onto his plate, and glared at her. She glared right back.

   “You were suspended for two days without pay?”

   She shrugged.

   “You go into work fucked up just one more time and Zeke’s gonna shitcan your ass.”

   “He already told me that. He didn’t need to bug you with it.”

   “Well, he did. Don’t you get it, Rach? At all? The only reason you still have a job is because he likes you. Because he knows you’re not really a fuck up. And you’re not. So quit acting like one.”

   He waited for her to say something. She didn’t. He cleared his throat and finished his lecture with:

   “I told him it’s not gonna fucking happen again. And it sure as hell better not.” He gave her eyes the same once over I had. Then his gaze dropped to her inner arms.

   She pulled them back. “I’m not doing any of that shit. Jesus, I just smoke a little pot every once in awhile.”

   “A little.”

   “It’s not like you’re perfect, you know.”

   “I haven’t done any of that kinda shit in a long time. And I never went to work that way, Rachel. Never.”

   She didn’t have an answer for that. He shook his head, looked at her with frantic eyes that said: I love you. Don’t screw up your life.

   She was looking at her fingernails.

   “What are you doing today?”

   She shrugged.

   “Wanna hang out here with us? We could rent a movie or--”

   “Nope.”

   “--we could take off for the day and go to--”

   “I said no.”

   “How come?”

   “I’m going out.”

  “Where?”

   “To see a movie.”

   “Who with?”

   “With some friends.” He gave her a suspicious scowl and she smirked. “Why? You lookin’ to score?”

   “Fuck you, Rachel. Quit treating this like it’s a joke.”

   She stood up and shoved her chair under the table. It honked in protest.

   “Wait. Who are you going to the movies with?”

   Her hand was on the doorknob. “I told you. With. A. Friend.”

   “You said some friends.”

   “Goodbye Brian.”

   The door slammed behind her.

   He glared at his plate. I knew he was itching to chuck it at the wall. I’d seen that look on a different face. I cleared my throat. “She wants you to know what she’s up to. That’s why she goes to work that way.”

   He looked up at me and sighed. “I know. And she wanted me to yell at her. That’s why she came over here.”

   I nodded.

   He nodded back. “Well, I guess that’s settled.”

   Except that it wasn’t, of course. But what can you do?

   He had an idea. “Let’s walk to the lake.”

   “The lake?”

   “Yeah. It’s less than a mile and it’s warm out today.”

   We held hands as we walked down the road. The water was beautiful. Cold, dark blue--Prussian Blue. The spot he took me to was hidden from the road by thick clusters of newly-budding maples and white birches and filled in with lovely green grass. We spread out an old blanket and lay underneath the shadow of the trees.

   We were silent for a little while, but it couldn’t last. I was glad it didn’t, because I’d already learned to love the sound of his voice. He didn’t talk about Rachel, he talked about the lake. Not about its beauty, because he didn’t have to. It was too obvious a thing to have to say. Instead he talked about endings. Only two more weeks before the summer people came to take over the town. Soon the lake would be overrun with jet skis and motor boats. And that meant No Trespassing. He was wistful. Resigned. About the lake. And about the other thing.

   So I wasn’t surprised when he pulled me on top of him and kissed me. Long and deep and full of need. A need that wasn’t just sex, although it was that, too.

   Because what is sex, really?

   Sometimes it’s making love. Hearts bursting with fragile emotion, two souls touching, closer than two bodies ever could. Sometimes it’s fucking; passion and fun and wild release. Sometimes just an urge. Or an itch. A means to an end. A compulsion.

   But whatever it is, it’s really always the same, mechanically. Sex is taking another person’s body inside of yours, or giving yours to them. Even when that’s not all it is; that’s what it is. And sometimes that’s the real need. To be inside, to hold inside, to be a part of someone else, to be connected to them. That’s what he needed. And it’s what I needed; but I needed something more than that, too. I rolled us over a few times. Off of the blanket. Onto the ground…

   I rocked on top of him. Gentle, slow, deliberate. The grass was damp underneath my knees and underneath his body. And underneath the grass and the dirt, inside the ground, were the roots of the trees that hovered above us. They were connected to the lake, too. Fed off of it. Part of it. The breeze rustled through the leaves of the maples and birches so that even the wind became a part of everything. The lake. The trees. The ground…

   …and part of Brian and me.