Page 31 of This Reckless Home

She heaves a sigh. “I’ve known you since you were knee high to a grasshopper. Also, I know what your Da’s behaviour does to you. Opening old wounds every time he leaves.” She tuts as my eyes sting at being seen so completely. “But those boys, and the way they look at you? They’re not going anywhere yet. Not even thinking about leaving if I had to guess. And you know I’m always right.”

“You really think so?” My voice is small, hopeful and her creased face softens, her weathered hand coming out to cup my cheek.

“I’m never wrong, lass.” She strokes my cheek. “You spend so much time looking after others, making sure everyone else gets what they need. When are you going to let yourself have something just because you want it?”

I sniff, my throat tight. “I’m scared.”

“I know dearie. But being scared of something doesn’t mean you shouldn’t do it.”

I take a shuddering inhale, giving a little nod. “Okay. Thanks Tina.”

“Anytime, lass. Now, go get your hands dirty. The garden always helps you to think straight.”

I give her a grateful smile, getting up and wrapping my arms around her stout frame. “Love you, Tina.”

“Love you back, lassie. Now begone with you!”

I laugh as I put my mug in the dishwasher — I’ll save the muffin for later — before heading out into the garden because she’s right, it’s my happy place. I make my way to the shed, grabbing some gardening gloves then gaze around at what needs doing. The old plum tree gets my attention. It didn’t survive the winter, no leaves whatsoever, and is quite clearly dead. I’ve been meaning to dig it up for a while, then we can dig over the spot it was in for a new raspberry patch. Those kids eat their weight in berries. Plus it’ll be a good distraction from my swirling thoughts, and help me think through what Tina said.

I choose the tools I’ll need, a fork and spade, plus my saw, swap out my sneakers for my gardening boots, then walk towards it.

With a satisfying sound I begin to dig around it, loosening the soil.

“Gosh these roots go deep,” I mutter, sweat starting to form along my spine under my cotton t-shirt.

I poke the fork into the earth, then grab the saw and get to work reducing it down to just the trunk. We can use the wood in our fire pit come autumn, so I pile it up to make it easier to take it to the woodshed later.

“Right.”

I give it a shove and… nothing. Huffing a breath, and picking up the spade I dig around it more, then wedge the shovel underneath it and… again, nothing.

With a little growl I try again, throwing my weight into it but the bastard thing won’t even budge a little.

I keep digging, keep shoving and pushing, the sun moving across the sky but it. Just. Won’t. Budge.

“Aaahhhh! Fucking thing just move!”

Tears fill my eyes, and I tell myself it’s just the effort I’m having to put into getting this blasted tree out. Why is it so hard? Why can nothing just be easy?

I give one more desperate heave, the effort making me sound like some kind of banshee and—nothing.

“Arsehole!”

“I FOUND” BY AMBER RUN

ANATOLE

“Arsehole!”

The enraged feminine yell has me sprinting through the gate and down the garden path, heart pounding only to find Blossom, slumped over a spade, tears and dirt streaking her pretty face as she digs in the soil like her life depends on it. It would be endearing, cute as fuck, if she didn’t look genuinely upset. The look of desperation on her face catches in my chest, and I’m jogging over before I’ve thought it through.

She looks up, her entire face changing, softening as relief floods it.

“You’re home!”

Her words hit like a sucker punch to my solar plexus, and I’m surprised a grunt doesn’t fall from my lips. She’s glad to see me. She needs me, and she called it home. Not back, home. Like we belong here. Like this is where we're supposed to be.

“What’d that tree do to deserve being called an asshole?” I tease, already taking off my check shirt, laying it down on a nearby bench and grabbing the fork.