The three of us keep talking as we pull weeds and drink our gross tea. Nathaniel tells us stories about his time working at the WNC Nature Center, particularly about a cougar they used to have—Jonesy—who loved fresh pears.
“You know,” Nathaniel says thoughtfully, “I love pears too.”
“Who doesn’t?” I ask, grinning at Cormac.
“As long as it’s a good one,” Cormac says seriously. “There’s an art to the perfect pear.”
“Oh, do enlighten us.”
His smile suggests he knows I’m teasing him and doesn’t care much. “Not too ripe, and not too firm. You want it a little tart, a little sweet, and a little firm.”
Nathaniel snaps. “I’ve got just the thing.” And he darts through the back door into the kitchen.
“Do you think he’s going to come back with a pear?” I ask Cormac in an undertone. “I vote that it’ll be something completely different.”
He laughs. “Of course he’s getting a pear. But will it be the perfect pear?”
“Want to put money on it?” I ask.
“All right. A hundred bucks that it’s a subpar pear.”
I shake my head. “Nah, I don’t want your money. I want…”
I consider, then land on what I really want.
I’d like to know why he kept that note from high school. It’s stayed in the back of my mind, tugging my attention away from other things.
“I want you to answer a question honestly.”
“I’d do that for free.”
He would, at that.
“But you might not want to answer this particular question.”
He studies me before nodding. “All right.”
So I’m disappointed when Nathaniel finally comes out with a package of pears he dehydrated himself. No offense to him, but dried fruit is not where it’s at. Technically, theyaresubpar pears.
“I win,” Cormac says. Then his forehead wrinkles. “But what was I supposed to get for winning?”
“I guess you get to ask me any question you’d like, and I have to answer honestly.”
He appraises me, his gray eyes serious. “I’m going to have to think this through.”
“I don’t have any idea what y’all are talking about,” Nathaniel says. “What do you say we smoke a blunt and enjoy the feeling of the sun against our skin?”
We turn him down. Cormac says weed makes him paranoid, and I don’t like feeling out of control. After we help Nathaniel arrange the bags of weeds along the side of the road for street pickup, he pats us both on our sweaty backs, thanks us, and heads inside.
“Wait right here,” Cormac says, and before I can say a word, he runs back to the garden.
“Are you getting me drugs?” I shout back at him, before realizing…yeah, I probably shouldn’t have shouted that.
He doesn’t turn around, but I can see his shoulders shaking with laughter just before he slips out of sight into the garden. When he comes back, he’s holding a bunch of flowers.
He shrugs, his expression self-conscious as he hands them to me. “For my secret fake girlfriend. I found some pretty weeds while we were working.”
“Thank you.” I clear my suddenly thick throat, then crack a joke. “Are any of them going to get me high?”
