With a sigh, I go to the bedroom and change out of the fancy dress clothes I put on for dinner and into a pair of shorts and a T-shirt. It’s predictably warm for July, and the only thing worse than being stood up for my own anniversary dinner would be doing it while wearing a shirt and tie. Screw that.
I’ve always enjoyed tinkering and remain incapable of using downtime for things like TV or books. Instead, I like the satisfaction that comes from making something and working with my hands. With Emery spending so much of her time at work, I channeled that energy into our house. The bedroom is a perfect example, where I replicated the exposed wood beams in the main living space and installed them on the ceilings in here.
I walk through the house, noticing everything I’ve touched, thinking about what else I want to renovate—the bathroom (awful), the hallway flooring (outdated), the linen closets (microscopic). I pass Emery’s office without bothering to look inside—I long ago stopped going in there. But outside, I’m reminded that no area has seen more change than the backyard, a long stretch of grass and raised beds bursting with vegetables, trees, and flowers. Switching on the outdoor lights, I proudly survey the space: the patio decorated with brightly colored flowerpots, the pergola I built myself, with vibrant wisteria and strands of lights illuminating the garden. The Adirondack chairs we bought for our two-year anniversary and have lounged in together only a handful of times. It’s such an incredible space, but I’m usually the only one who ever enjoys it.
Whatever. I remind myself I’m not stuck; I have options. I’m dealing with it.
I cross to the garden shed, grabbing my toolbox. Kneeling by the side of the house, I work to reattach the rain gutter that’s recently pulled away from the exterior wall.
“Hey.”
I look up at the sound of Crash’s voice and lift my chin in greeting. My best friend reaches over the fence, unlatching the gate and letting himself into the backyard the way he always does.
Since we were kids, only the state of California and his mother have ever called Crash by his real name: Crispin Coppola Barnett.
Crash walks to where I’m working and sets down a black case. “Why are you home?”
“Em’s still at work.”
“Isn’t tonight your—”
“Yep.”
He looks at his watch, eyebrows rising. “Nothing screams ‘celebrating our love’ like fixing a rain gutter.”
“I know.” I turn back to the gutter, tightening the brace around the bottom before leaning back on my heels. He’s not wrong, but there’s relief in repairs; something broken can be fixed. It’s a shame marriage doesn’t work that way. “What are you doing here anyway?”
Crash points to the box. “Brought back the Dremel. Was just going to put it in the shed.”
Standing, I swipe the dirt from my hands and knees. “You could have just brought it in the morning.”
“I know, but I had a feeling you might be here alone.”
Huffing out a dry laugh, I nod. “Yeah.” We sit on the patio and look out at the darkening sky, at the lights coming on in the houses around us.
Ours is the kind of easy silence you can only have with someone you’ve known forever. We met in the fourth grade when my family moved from Turin, Italy, to San Diego. I was a quiet, shy kid, and Crash was the only one who hadn’t continually made fun of my heavily accented, limited English, or yelledspaghetti, pepperoni, orarrivederciwhenever I stepped foot on the playground.
Instead, we’d share comics or climb the jungle gym while Crash pointed to things around us. I’d say the word in Italian, Crash would tell me the word in English, and I’d repeat the word after him. Eventually my accent softened, and both of us could tell those guys to fuck off in two languages.
Twenty years later, we share a thriving landscaping business. He was the best man at my wedding, is still my best friend, and we see each other every day.
“Just finished up at the Anderson place a little while ago.” Crash reaches up, scratching his jaw. He has a cluster of California tattoos littering his body, including Saddleback Mountain across his shoulders, a cluster of poppies on his right forearm, and his born and raised in San Diego mom’s name on his left bicep. “Julie was topless in the backyard.”
“Again?” I lean forward, resting my elbows on my thighs as I look back at him. “Didn’t she know you were coming?”
“Dude, she was the one who buzzed me in the gate.”
“I can work their place next time and make it clear that sort of thing isn’t acceptable.”
“Oh, I wasn’t complaining.” At my wary look, Crash laughs. “Listen, I just keep my eyes on the grass. Doug has that navy veteran flag out front and a huge NRA bumper sticker on his truck. I like breasts as much as the next guy, but I’m not stupid.”
A pointed throat clearing precedes a shaky voice asking, “How are you today, Luca?”
Both of us glance over to the fence that separates my yard from the neighbor’s, where Mrs. Caldwell’s gray hair and bespectacled watery blue eyes peek over the top.
She can’t be more than five feet tall and, given that the fence is six, I got her a stepladder last summer so she’d stop standing on one of her patio chairs when she wants to talk, since apparently not invading our privacy at all hours isn’t an option. She lives alone, after all. The last thing I want is for her to fall and hurt herself.
“I’m doing good, Betty,” I say, and Crash and I stand to move closer to the fence. My mother would kill me for referring to a woman Betty’s age by her first name, but Betty has told me no fewer than ten times to not be so formal. “How about you? Anything interesting happen today?”
