Connor opens the door to his beautifully renovated cabin and steps aside to let me walk in first. As I stride into the open concept living room and kitchen with a huge loft overseeing the main floor, I can’t help but feel proud of him for how much he’s changed this place. I remember when this was old man Lou’s “haunted” shack. He was a legendary recluse who only came into town a couple of times of year to buy some food and supplies to make moonshine. As a kid, we all heard crazy stories about Lou. Some were tame, like that he was running from the law and trying to keep a low profile, others were crazy, like that he was some kind of modern day witch from Hansel and Gretel, participating in cannibalism as he ate the children he’d steal away in the night. Of course, no one ever knew of a child being kidnapped. Not firsthand. Always some distant cousin, twice removed on their mother’s side.

Anyway, I remember seeing this place in all of its “glory” and by glory, I mean its decrepit, run-down, borderline forced eviction status back when Lou was alive. My father worked for a charity that delivered Christmas hampers to people and Lou was the last stop on our drive. I cowered in the car as Dad took him the food. When he returned, I asked him why he gave him any. I was a bit angry. Didn’t everyone know what kind of monster Lou was?

 

Dad said, “Lou isn’t a monster, but he fights them. When you get older, you’ll understand that monsters aren’t scary creatures in the closet, they’re demons we fight from our past. Some people win the battle and some are consumed.” He set his jaw and we drove home in silence as I thought over his words.

 

“Want a beer?” Connor interrupts my thoughts and I spring back into the present.

“No!” The word forcefully blurts out of my mouth like a sharp slap on the wrist of a child who was only looking at a cookie.

I turn away, my cheeks blazing at my overreaction and try to fight my instinct to rub my hand over my belly.

Searching the room for a distraction, my eyes fall on his books haphazardly strewn on the shelves of his bookcase. I glaze over the titles I’d expect Connor to be interested in, American Psycho, Revolutionary Road, stopping to stare at the odd book out. It reminds me of that old Sesame Street tune, “One of these things is not like the others. One of these things just doesn't belong. Can you tell which thing is not like the others, by the time I finish my song?”

“Charlotte’s Web?” I look over my shoulder with a cocked eyebrow and don’t wait for an explanation before I cross the room and pluck the curious selection from the shelf.

“It was a gift. More of a joke, really,” Connor grabs his beer and lets the fridge door slam shut, following me across the room. I flip open the cover and admire the beautifully handwritten inscription:

           

Connor,

Just remember, you can be the most “Terrific” pig in the world, but at the end of the day, you’re still just a pig.

           Cynthia

“Who’s Cynthia?” I snap the cover closed as jealousy burns over the back of my neck.

“No one,” he laughs, but the noise dries in his throat when he meets my eyes. “Well, not ‘no one,’ but not what you’re thinking. She was a military clerk I knew. She always called me a pig, but I figured she had the hots for me. So, when she gave me a Christmas present I was sure she was finally admitting her feelings, but, as you can see,” he sweeps his hand to the book in my grasp, “that wasn’t the case. I thought it was funny, so I kept it,” he shrugs.

My tense shoulders slump with relief as I put the book back down. Why am I feeling so worked up anyway? It’s not like Connor is mine. And even if he was, he had a life before me. That’s not exactly a surprise. Even when I was a little girl, I noticed how he had a different piece of flaky arm candy dangling from him every week.

A leopard doesn’t change his spots, my brother’s voice echoes in my mind.

I clear my throat, “I didn’t take you for the sentimental type, I guess.” I finally let myself look into his eyes and am suddenly lost in a jungle of green.

“Oh no?” Connor steps toward me, and I can feel that buzz of electricity spark between us that I’ve ached for. A current races over my skin making my nipples taut and my pussy slick. I can smell the faint trace of beer on his breath mixed with the natural, woodsy musk he’s picked up by living out here in the forest. If raw, feral, rip-your-clothes-off man had a bottled scent, it would be him.

He moves in closer, his lips inching toward mine and I let my worries, the ones that haunt me about his past and my future, all float away as I let my eyelids slide shut and wait to feel the warmth of his mouth on mine.

“Then how would you explain this?” He lifts an old-fashioned photo album, covered in colorful hot air balloons, from the shelf.

“I haven’t looked at a photo album since Mom died. She loved scrapbooking and putting old pictures in. She would say ‘it’s a shame to let anything collect dust, but especially the blessings life gives each of us.’ Then she’d tell me the stories behind every single picture. I was always amazed at how much detail she remembered,” I run my hand over the cover and feel a pang in my gut as I wish I could listen to her tell me just one more of those tales.

“I’m sorry about your parents, Charlotte,” Connor squeezes my shoulder with his broad hand and I fight back tears I haven’t cried in years.

“Me too,” I swallow hard and blink quickly. “So, what stories are you holding onto? What memories are you making sure don’t collect dust?”