Wine, Venison, and Homecoming

With the sun’s last glow barely visible on the horizon, Matt pulled into the driveway and let the truck idle, his arm still around his girl while they watched the day bleed into evening.

“Are you coming in?” Angelina called from the porch.

“I’ve got a present for you,” he answered, circling the front of the truck to open T’mari’s door. Every woman in his life had been fiercely independent—none of them ever needed a man to open a door for them. But every single one would have roasted him alive if he hadn’t. That was just the way things worked when you are raised as a country boy.

“I hope it’s the deer and not the ruined shoes,” T’mari said with exasperation.

Angelina raised an eyebrow; she already knew there was a story. There always was when dead deer, trucks, and country boys collided. She had married a Texan after all. She, too, hoped the present was the deer and not the shoes. She would send someone to clean out the truck later.

Matt carried T’mari across the gravel and set her down carefully on the grass, the same shade as her skin. Angelina nearly laughed aloud. The man had brought home a wife who was being called the Alien Princess across half the internet—and here she was, barefoot and pregnant on a Missouri lawn. Once, Angelina had dreamed of writing trashy romance novels. This scene had never occurred to her imagination.

“Hey, Floyd! Strip the loins out of my two-lane trophy and you can have the rest,” Matt called as his farm boss, neighbor, and brother-from-another-mother came around the corner of the house. “Ange, I’m planning something special with the loins. I need mushrooms and fresh cream.” He sounded distracted, proving he was either suffering ADHD split or just a superior multitasker.

“Did you break the truck? Need a new one?” Floyd asked with a grin.

“I’d tell you just to wash the blood off, but I think the rain will take care of it in an hour,” Matt replied, shaking his hand. Floyd chuckled deep in his Texas chest while his wife looked on, amused.

“How did the trip go?” Angelina asked, sliding into a kitchen chair and casually pouring wine for herself and T’mari, as Matt, blood and pants free, stepped out of the mud room someone had thankfully left intact from the old house. The loose sweats must have been from the winter drawer. He was always ten or twenty pounds heavier by late January than in June, and these sweats threatened to slide off his hips.

While Matt worked over the sink with organ meat that had to be cooked tonight, Angelina eyed the bottle, then at him, and tipped it back for a long swig. She passed it to T’mari with a conspiratorial nod to finish it.

“He taught me to make grilled cheese,” T’mari said, polishing off what remained. “I told him I refused to be forever in his culinary debt.”

Matt fetched another bottle, poured himself a glass, tipped half the remainder into a bowl with the liver, and carried the rest to the table. “Might as well swill this before it goes bad,” he quipped, before returning to the sink with onions in hand.

“I don’t know how he does it,” Angelina admitted, watching him juggle three dishes at once and somehow keep the workspace clean. “But I do appreciate it. This kitchen has been my domain for years.”

“The view isn’t bad from this angle, either,” T’mari teased, sending wine through Angelina’s nose.

“Ready to go home, honey?” Floyd asked, sliding the container of loins down the counter. Matt caught it with a hand stuck casually behind him, as though by magic.

“Thought you’d never ask,” he said dryly, missing the wine disaster entirely but satisfied to know it happened. He waved over his shoulder. “See you tomorrow.”

“Oh, I didn’t know you were home,” T’monn said, startled as she came in the door, stopping so suddenly that L’tani ran into the back of her.

“We smelled food,” L’tani admitted, tired but truthful.