GRETA
It’s my own fault,but I wasn’ttryingto look at his phone. I was reaching for the lid to the plastic container for the sandwiches, and his phone screen was justthere.
I can’t help it if I’ve been trained to read screens over people’s shoulders. If you don’t do that as a matter of course in a seventh grade classroom, what’s to stop your kids from watchingSuper Mario Loganon YouTube instead of learning about sedimentation?
I should have just kept my mouth shut about what I’d seen.
And she’s not my biggest fan.
It’s embarrassing to admit it, but it stings. Because he’s obviously always talking shit about me.
She reminds me of a Bitmoji throwing a tantrum.
Is it any wonder I’m not his biggest fan?
Today hasn’t sucked as hard as I expected it to, and maybe that’s why I couldn’t keep the accusation to myself. Because we haven’t been arguing and sniping at each other, he lulled me into a false sense of security.
“Who’s not your biggest fan? Are you talking about me?”
It only takes a second for me to regret it. Because Zach goes completely red.
And I thought he was already completely red.
Well, copper, anyway.
“Um—” He scrambles to his feet and shoves his phone in his back pocket. He shakes his head, clearly agitated and starts helping me pick up our lunch things. “My buddies were just being stupid.”
I should let it go. Is it an invasion of his privacy if I press him on why he was talking to his friends about me?
Even with acres of space, our living conditions haven’t allowed for much privacy.
The memory of my Shark-Week-Midnight-Toilet-Trauma rolls over me like a wave. It’s been two weeks and the thought still makes me want to fall into a crater.
And fuck him. Because if I can’t have privacy on the toilet, why should he have privacy on his phone?
Instead of caving to the impulse to confirm that I’m not, in fact, a fan, I hike the insulated lunch box over my shoulder and stalk back to the truck.
As soon as I step out of the shade, heat bears down on me like a loaded barbell. I swear, the temperature must have soared while we ate lunch. The last thing I want to do right now is pick up that auger with him and keep drilling holes. I stare down at the property line. The next twenty or so stakes are in full sun. And the heat index is easily in triple digits.
But I don’t say anything. I refuse to let Zach—or even Josh—think I’m not a full-fledged partner, capable of doing whatever they can do.
We get to work, which is only bearable because we’re not talking any more than muttering things likeReady?andYep,and balancing the auger means I don’t even have to make eye contact with Zach.
But after about five holes, the sandwich I ate for lunch sits in my gut like a sack of sand. Weighing me down and maybe even cutting off circulation to my legs. Or my head.
I can’t really tell.
After another four holes, we lift the auger out on three, and my grip slips, but Zach steadies it before the giant bit impales either one of us in the foot.
“Whoa.You okay?”
I nod but brace my hands on my thighs. Black spots soak my vision. And with just enough warning to turn away from him, I puke my guts out.
“Jesus!” Zach leaps out of the splash zone.
I heave a second time, and it’s like my body belongs to someone else. How else can I explain this full-scale betrayal?
“Fuck” I croak and then spit. My eyes and nose are streaming. I’m shaking all over.
