“So, now that we’re in the car, and I don’t know how to turn on the radio in this thing,” I said, as he directed me to turn right on Burnside, “maybe you could show off your singing skills.”
As we made the turn, the truck bounced and creaked under the weight of the soil and gardening supplies in the back. I tried not to imagine the glossy wood creaking and splintering as they packed dirt on top of Junior’s tiny coffin.
I once tried explaining my disgust with these morbid thoughts I so often had to my primary doctor. He explained most people had a dangerous misconception that thoughts could be controlled. He said thoughts could not be controlled, only understood.
What could be controlled, he said, was our actions, and our actions affected our thoughts. Then he referred me to a cognitive behavioral therapist, with whom I never made an appointment. Jack and I both shared a fear of saying too much, though the secrets we would confess would probably be quite different.
After a brief meltdown last year — about a year after my PTSD-induced hospitalization — I downed an entire bottle of ibuprofen and was placed on a 72-hour psychiatric hold. The problem was that I didn’t take the pills in an attempt to commit suicide. I had a terrible migraine and couldn’t find my migraine medicine.
But after I took the first four ibuprofen pills, I realized it wouldn’t be enough. I honestly thought the only way to make the headache — and the grief that had caused the headache — go away, was to take another pill, and another one, and another one, until eventually the bottle was empty and I fell asleep.
The only good thing that came out of my 72-hour stint in a psych ward was that I quickly learned what I needed to say to get out, and to never be put in there again.
Dylan reached for the stereo to turn it on, but I reached for his hand to stop him.
“Come on,” I begged. “I saw you watching singing lessons on YouTube in the breakroom.”
He slowly removed his hand from underneath mine. “No way. I’m not singing for you. That’s totally embarrassing.”
Coming to a stop at a red light, I was about to continue pleading with him, but I could see something had shifted. There was no trace of a smile on his face as he stared straight ahead. Dylan was no longer in a joking mood.
“Is everything okay?” I asked.
He nodded, keeping his attention on the road in front of us. “It’s just that… I got a degree in music, but I haven’t been able to do anything with it because… Now, don’t laugh, but…” He sighed as he slumped in his seat. “My mom doesn’t trust anyone but me to help her at the store. I finally convinced her to hire someone so I could start taking singing lessons. I knew if I started taking a singing class, my mom would let me have some time off, and maybe even hire someone to replace me. You see, my mom… she loves my singing voice. It’s kind of creepy, honestly.”
I chuckled. “I never did anything with my degree, either. And liking your kid’s singing voice is not creepy,” I said, remembering how much I loved Junior’s cooing and ahhh-ing. “Have you told your mom you need some time off?”
He shook his head. “I don’t need time off. I need to move out of my mom’s house and get another job, where I can use my degree and be myself.”
Suddenly, bits of information I’d gleaned from our previous conversations began to resurface, coming together to form a larger picture. But I couldn’t say anything until I was absolutely certain. I knew the only way to make Dylan feel safe enough to open up to me was if I opened up to him first.
I drew in a deep breath, summoning courage from a reserve tank that was running on fumes. “Um…” My breath was shaky as I steeled myself for the words I was about to speak. “My… My mom and my baby were killed two years ago… inside my home.”
I stared straight ahead as I gripped the steering wheel. All I could think was that I would have to pick up a bottle of wine on the way back to the house today.
“Wow… I… didn’t know that. I’m sorry,” Dylan said. “Now my problems feel kind of stupid.”
“Your problems are not stupid,” I replied fiercely, still keeping my eyes focused on the road. “I just wanted to tell you, because I know what it’s like… to meet someone new and all you can do is think of that one thing… that secret part of you that defines you, but is too personal to share with just anyone. How you wish you didn’t even have a secret part of you that you needed to hide.”
He sighed. “I didn’t realize I was that obvious.”
“You’re not!” I insisted. “I’m just sort of sensitive to this kind of stuff now. I feel like I notice more things than I care to, honestly. So, if you don’t mind me asking, are you just afraid to tell people, or is it something else?”
He shook his head. “My mom’s not a bad person, she’s just really religious. She doesn’t believe that being gay is a bad thing. It’s that she doesn’t think being gay is even a thing. She thinks it’s just adolescent confusion, or some kind of mental illness that can be cured.”
I stopped at a red light again. “I guess it’s a good thing conversion therapy is illegal in Oregon.”
“I don’t think she would do that to me if she knew.”
“She doesn’t even suspect?”
He tilted his head. “Are you saying I’m very obviously gay?”
My mouth dropped open. “I’m sorry. That was super insensitive of me. I’m a total asshole.”
He laughed. “I was only kidding. I think my mom is the only one who hasn’t noticed, and I’m almost one hundred percent certain she’s just pretending. Make a right up there, right before the Lutheran church.”
I sighed. “I’m sorry you’re dealing with that. I wish there was some way I could help. I mean… well… If you need to quit your job, I could offer you a place to stay in Portland while you look for another one. I inherited my mom’s house in Southeast after she died. That’s where I’m staying, but there are two unused bedrooms.”
My stomach ached at the thought of someone sleeping in my mother’s bedroom, smothering the traces of her scent she’d left behind.
He shook his head as we pulled up to the location of our first delivery, an elementary school. “Thanks, but I’ll figure something out on my own.”
Our last delivery of the day was to Isaac. I couldn’t believe how nervous I felt. Dylan’s words kept echoing in my mind: I think Isaac likes you.
If Dylan was right, that could complicate my neighborly relationship with Isaac. I didn’t want him to think that, just because Jack and I were separated, I was open to dating other men. I had no interest in dating anyone, and I would probably die of a broken heart if I found out Jack wanted to date other women.
“Hi, Isaac,” I said as I exited the truck.
My voice sounded much lower and more masculine than I had intended as I reached out my hand to him. My mind flashed to the brief moment we met last week, when I spilled cookies all over his walkway in our very awkward introduction.
Isaac reached out to take my hand. “Nice to see you again… ma’am.”
His hand was calloused and he didn’t seem to understand how strong he was, as his grasp on my hand was a bit too tight. He kept his confident gaze focused on my eyes.
“Dylan mentioned you live sort of off the grid? Is that why you’re always working outside?” I said, my voice now sounding way too high-pitched.
I just couldn’t seem to get it right around this guy. Something about him intimidated me. It wasn’t the tattoos. Jack had a few when we met, and he got an enormous tattoo of angel wings on his chest after Junior passed.
I think it was the dirt.
There were smudges of dirt all over Isaac’s clothes and skin. And the wild way his golden hair stuck out of the edges of his backward-facing baseball cap. He looked like the kind of guy I’d steer clear of. But with a chiseled face and bulging muscles, it worked. The man was undeniably sexy.
“I do. I have some solar panels up there,” he said, nodding toward his roof. “I’ve got a backup generator and
rainwater collection tank, with underground water treatment and filtration. Nice cozy fireplace to keep me warm. Within the confines of what the city will allow me to get away with, I’ve got pretty much everything I need to survive right here… Well, almost everything.”
He tilted his head back a little, one eyebrow slightly cocked as he looked down at me with a confident smile.
I cleared my throat, fully aware that if I made a habit of this nervous tic, I would soon turn into Trudy. “Well, that… sounds… like a really nice setup,” I replied, crossing my arms over my chest.
He chuckled softly. “It would be nicer if I’d gotten a property near a water source, like a river or a creek. But the rain collector does okay for now.”
When he said “creek” in that regional accent I couldn’t quite place, it sounded like he was saying “crick.” It wasn’t a Southern drawl, but it was definitely charming.
Chapter 13
Isaac
Laurel didn’t look like the tourists I usually picked up on Saturday nights at the hotel bars downtown. I normally liked a girl with a bit more meat on her bones, a little cushion for pushin’, if you will.
Laurel had dark shadows in the hollows of her cheeks and desperation in her brown eyes. Her straight blonde hair draped over her slight shoulders, her skinny jeans clung to her hip bones.
But just like the first time I saw her last week, there was something about her I couldn’t quite put my finger on. Something that sparked a deep curiosity in me. And the way she seemed to get so nervous around me just stoked the flame.
“We should unload the truck,” Dylan said, cutting through the silence.
I was about to express my agreement, when my eye caught a bit of movement in the distance, just beyond the beat up muscle car parked in the driveway in front of my truck.
“Boomer! Come here!” I shouted at my German shepherd as he tried to sneak up on a cat perched on the fence post.
The cat snapped its head toward the sound of my voice, then scurried off toward the back of the property. Boomer chased after it, letting out a deep, growling bark.
“Boomer, come!” I shouted again.
He finally turned around and galloped toward us, maneuvering through the space between my truck and the old Mustang I’d been working on all summer. I motioned with my hand for him to heel and he walked around me, coming to a sitting position at my right side.
I scratched his head as he gazed up at me, his long, pink tongue lolling to the side in a goofy grin. “Good boy. Good heel.”
“Wow,” Laurel remarked. “He looks like he’s pretty well trained.”
“He used to be a bomb-sniffing dog,” Dylan said proudly, and I tried not to roll my eyes at his eagerness to share the details of my life with my new neighbor, who was still very much a stranger. A sexy stranger, but a stranger nonetheless.
Laurel’s eyes widened. “Really?” She turned to me with a plea in her eyes. “Can I pet him?”
Before I could respond, Dylan replied for me, again. “You can’t pet him. He’s a service dog.”
I wanted to tell him to stop ruining Boomer’s attempts to impress Laurel, but I bit my tongue. Didn’t want to scare her off.
Laurel looked taken aback. “Oh, is he still a bomb dog?”
I sighed. “Dylan is just giving Boomer more credit than he deserves. He’s not a bomb-sniffer anymore. He’s just a big ol’ goof now.”
Dylan opened his mouth to contradict me, but I shot him a severe look that quieted him real quick. “You want me to back the truck in to make it easier to unload?” he asked instead.
I nodded and stepped back as Dylan got in the truck. “Break,” I said to Boomer and he sprung to his feet, tail wagging as he began sniffing the grass behind me. “You gonna unload that truck all by yourself?”
“Ha-ha. Very funny. What is it Make Fun of the Skinny Girl Day?”
Her response troubled me, as if people making fun of her weight was a common occurrence. “I apologize. I meant no offense. Just speculating as to why a pretty girl like you would want such a physical job.”
She rolled her eyes. “I’m trying to bulk up,” she replied, and I couldn’t help but wonder if that was a phrase she’d learned from her husband.
Nonetheless, it was obvious she did not want to talk about her weight.
I laughed at her bulking up joke. “Point taken. I’ll let it go.”
“Thanks.”
Dylan and I unloaded the large bags of soil and fertilizer, while Laurel unloaded the small stuff, like a few flats of potted herbs, a few rolls of galvanized netting, and some packs of claws to secure the netting in the ground, for keeping critters away from my precious fruits and vegetables. Maybe I should offer some of this stuff to Laurel, for her mom’s garden.
I’d be lying if I didn’t acknowledge to myself that one of the things that intrigued me the most about Laurel was that she was Beth’s daughter. Beth taught me damn near everything I knew about gardening. I moved out here to Portland two and a half years ago without a clue in the world what I was going to do with my life. All I knew was that I wanted to disappear.
Beth took it upon herself to teach me this stuff, even when I insisted I didn’t need help. She thrust her knowledge and humor — and friendship — into my life at a time when I needed it most. To say I was utterly shocked and saddened by her death would be an understatement.
But here was her daughter, obviously trying to make right some kind of wrong she thinks she’s inflicted on her mother’s garden. It reminded me of one of the many times Beth spoke about Laurel.
She said something like, “Laurel is everything good I’ve ever done, wrapped up in a beautiful package and tied with a fancy ribbon. She has so much to give to this world, but she doesn’t do anything anymore except spend her husband’s money and take care of her boy. I love that boy with all my heart and soul, maybe even more than I love Laurel. But I wish Laurel would remember who she was before she became a wife and mother.”
Instinct told me it wasn’t my place to share these words with Laurel. Beth would have done so if she wanted her daughter to know how she felt. Hell, maybe she did say all that stuff to Laurel.
But something told me that Laurel and her husband — the dude who stared me down with his icy eyes — were probably separated because of the same things Beth had been worried about. Maybe they were on their way toward a head on collision long before their boy was killed.
Either way, I was not about to let Laurel embark on her garden mission without a bit of her mother’s gospel. I was certain she’d been through enough lately. She didn’t need to take on such a Herculean task alone.
As Dylan closed up the back of the truck, Laurel smiled as she sidled up next to me.
“I’m not that old,” she said, as if I was supposed to know why she was saying this.
“I didn’t think you were,” I replied, watching Boomer attempt to eat a bee.
“You called me ma’am.”
I chuckled at her interpretation of my politeness. “I call every nice lady I meet ma’am.”
“Nice lady?” she repeated my words with disdain. “Now I feel like a little old lady you helped across the street.”
“No, you’re just the little old lady I helped get a job.”
This made her laugh and, boy, what a laugh it was. For someone as skinny as a twig, her laughter was rich and raspy, and sexy as all hell. But almost as soon as it began, it was over.
She almost looked guilty as she stared straight ahead. “Sorry. I probably shouldn’t laugh so hard at my misadventures in employment.” She crossed her arms over her chest, then she seemed to second-guess this move and settled on clasping her hands behind her back. “I should get going. I just wanted to thank you for helping me get the job at Sunny’s. I guess I’ll see you around.”
“Yes, ma’am, I’m sure you will,” I said, grinning as she narrowed her eyes at me.
As they drove away, I began setting aside some of the stuff they’d just deliv
ered. I had a feeling if I asked her whether or not she wanted it, she would politely refuse. I would just leave some of it on her back porch. And when she inevitably came to my house to thank me or insist I take it back, I would offer to help her with her project.
I prayed I wasn’t stepping into the middle of a bitter separation. I’d seen her husband driving away from the house last week, but I didn’t have a good view of the porch from where I was standing. I didn’t know if she’d invited him inside or if they kissed goodbye.
I should probably ask Laurel to clarify her marital situation, but it was none of my business. I’d just have to tread lightly, until I felt comfortable enough to broach the subject. In the meantime, I hoped I didn’t get Laurel or myself into any trouble.
Chapter 14
Jack
My phone pinged with a new text message. It was from Kent, informing me he’d landed in Tokyo and would call me tomorrow to let me know how the meeting with Akiko went. I leaned back in my desk chair and tried not to resent Laurel for deciding to leave me right as our company was considering opening a Tokyo office.
If it weren’t for my fear of missing a counseling session, I’d be the one landing in Japan right now. Other than me, Kent was the only other partner who was qualified to negotiate large deals like this. But it didn’t make sense to send Kent.
He was in his early fifties and didn’t drink. He wasn’t going to make the right impression on Akiko Hattori, the twenty-four-year-old founder of CXV Studios, one of the top five mobile app developers in Japan.
Japan had the largest market in the world for mobile apps, but their culture was not as Westernized as many believed. The Halo messaging app, and a few of its spin-offs, had only done mildly well there. It was clear we needed to partner with a Japanese developer to cater the products to their market.
Sending Kent to hobnob with a female tech genius half his age was a mistake I would probably regret.
I shot back a text thanking Kent for keeping me up to date. As I set the phone down on the glass desktop next to my laptop, a head of pixie-cut brown and lilac hair peeked through the crack in my office door.