When you cut ties with your past and sever your future, Kennet thought, all you have is now.

The next few days of rest might be his last.

Now was now. He was clean, full, a little drunk. Secure in the company of his mates. Handsome and dashing in the eyes of a young widow.

“What are you thinking about?” she asked.

“Now,” he said, using the French word maintenant.

Main meaning hand. Tenant meaning holding.

Now was only what you could hold in your hand.

He wanted now. The muscles around his eyes tightened and his hands briefly went to fists, curling around the knowledge that he would fight for now. Fight harder than he did for a first turn at the hot water.

A telepathic understanding seemed to ripple along the chairs and benches. Everyone except Kennet and Jock shoved back and stood up. Exaggerated yawns and exuberant stretching. Thanks for the splendid meal were offered. Good nights and sweet dreams were wished. A few smirking glances from the threshold except for O’Hara—his look was a sniper rifle trained on Jock, who ignored him.

Then the kitchen door closed, leaving two men and two sisters.

In another minute, the kitchen was empty.

Goose Egg

“How was it?” Hook asked the next morning.

“Fish never tell tales out of school,” Kennet said, sorting out and organizing his pack. He meant to be glib, but the words came out curt and dismissive.

“Well pardon fucking me,” Hook said. “I didn’t ask the color of her underwear, just wondering if you had a good time.” He loped off, exhaling a plume of angry smoke over his shoulder.

Kennet stared after, pissed that his friend was pissed at him. And the piss appeared to be contagious: at the far end of the barnyard, Jock and O’Hara were having a heated discussion. Oddly, O’Hara seemed to be doing most of the talking while Jock stared at his boots, arms crossed tight over his chest and an unlit cigarette dangling from his bottom lip. O’Hara made a half-hearted motion, as if he were going to backhand his friend. Instead, he kicked a rock against a fence post and stormed off.

“What the hell crawled up everyone’s ass this morning,” Kennet muttered. He shoved things around, confused and out of sorts.

Something had gone wrong last night.

He’d followed Solange to her bed. They kissed and undressed and lay down but something was amiss. Kennet’s French was good for conversation, but useless in the bedroom. He didn’t know how to make love in this language. Clearly she wanted and he wanted but the want was lost in translation.