I sigh. “Okay. But I want to help him.”
Greta nods, and at least this is one thing we’re in agreement about. “Then just act like this is no big deal. That if he needs a few days with a lighter load, we can handle it.” She finally takes her hand off mine, and I have to stop myself from rubbing away her heat signature. “I think part of the issue is worrying about the scope of this project. He puts it all on his shoulders and gets overwhelmed. If he can see that we can pick up the slack when he’s not a hundred percent, it might reassure him that this is all going to be okay.”
I make myself nod. But is it?
Is it all going to be okay?
I’m going to have to spend all day beside Greta. Working in the heat. Inches away from her.
For the first time since we moved out here, I’m dreading the day ahead.
* * *
Two hours later,I’m scratching my head.
It just doesn’t make sense.
I fully expected the post-hole digging to be a lot slower with Greta. And, I swear on my balls, I do not mean this in any kind of sexist way—I’m just talking physics here. Josh is smaller than me, and Greta’s smaller than him. By a lot.
So it defies all logic, but we’re movingfasterthan Josh and I did together.
Significantly faster.
Josh and I did manage to finish the north side of the fence yesterday. But in just a couple of hours, Greta and I are a third of the way done with the east-facing fence. At this rate, we’ll finish this side before two o’clock.
Maybe it’s the music.
When we pulled the truck up to the first stake, Russell jumped out of the cab only to circle behind the truck and duck under the shade of the open tailgate. I took the auger from the bed, Greta set her little Bluetooth speaker on the tailgate and started blasting Depeche Mode. I, for one, would not have thought eighties synth rock would have been optimum background music for churning out holes in hard-packed, root-riddled earth, but I can admit when I’m wrong.
Sometimes.
We dug two holes with machine-like precision during “Personal Jesus” alone.
“We need to stop for a refill,” Greta says when we make it to the tree line on the slope that aims away from the pond. She pulls her water bottle out of the runner’s fuel belt around her waist and shakes it to show it’s empty.
She’s been reminding us to drink about every thirty minutes. And I have to admit, I feel better than I have the other three days Josh and I have been at it. Is that why we’re moving faster? Because we’re staying hydrated?
We walk back to the truck and the Gatorade coolers. Greta made a point of filling them all up and stowing them in the truck since she didn't want Josh to have to do it later. I think she wanted to spare him the sight of her taking his place.
She also packed us lunch.
I don’t know why it bugs me to admit it, but she’s thoughtful.
At the truck, she puts her back to the tailgate and then hops up with surprising ease before heading to the cooler in the bed’s corner. Even though she’s moving around above him, Russell can’t be bothered to get up and investigate.
Laziest dog ever.
When Greta said she’d be working out here with me today, I fully expected her to be wearing the short-short, tank top uniform she’s had on since temps have been in the nineties. But she’s not. She’s got on this ice blue, moisture-wicking long-sleeved shirt that has an SPF stamp on the hem and light gray sport leggings.
It’s only when “How Soon is Now” by The Smiths comes on that I realize I’m staring at her legs.
I cough, and dig my phone out of my pocket while she fills her bottle.
“I am human, and I need to be loved. Just. Like. Everybody else does.”
I shift my weight from one foot to the other.
“This is taking forever.” Greta shakes the cooler, rattling the ice inside. “I think ice is blocking the spout.”
