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She shakes her head and turns away, starting up the chainsaw.
There’s a tightening sensation in my throat. It feels a lot like guilt, and I don’t like it.
‘Hey,’ I call.
She looks tiredly in my direction.
‘Thank you.’ Two words. Two words that are so hard for me to say.
She stares at me a long moment, then turns the chainsaw off. ‘Do you want some soup?’
That’s not the response I was expecting.
‘What?’
‘Mum made a batch of soup to last the week. The sooner we get through it, the sooner I get to eat something else.’
She got the cornflakes box out of the cupboard, so she likely knows there’s no food in the house. ‘I don’t need your Christian charity.’
‘It’s not charity, you idiot. I’m being neighbourly.’
My eyebrows lift. ‘Are you allowed to say idiot?’
She shrugs. ‘It’s in the Bible.’
I look away so she doesn’t see my almost smile. She might be weird, but she’s also occasionally funny.
I want to say no, but Dad probably needs some proper food in him. ‘Fine. I’ll take the soup.’
She sets the chainsaw down. ‘Wait there.’
I watch her climb the slope, watch her until she’s out of sight. I’ve been doing that a lot lately. I don’t quite understand the draw. Yes, she’s attractive, but so are other girls at our school, and I rarely look twice at any of them.
When she reappears, I make my way down to the water so she doesn’t have to walk up the hill on this side. Tupperware container in hand, she navigates the railroad tie bridge with ease, then raises those pretty amber eyes to me as she steps off it. I ignore the lift in my chest.
She hands me the container before turning slightly and pointing above us. ‘See that large branch that stretches out across the water?’
I look up. ‘Yeah.’
‘It’s perfect for a rope swing.’ Her eyes return to me. ‘Every winter my dad used to announce that he was going to put one there in summer. Then summer would come and go. The year he finally bought the rope for the project, Bridget told him we were too old for swings.’ She gives me a weak smile. ‘And I didn’t want to contradict her.’
The Tupperware container is almost too hot to hold. I pass it back and forth between my hands. ‘How old were you when she said that?’
‘Eleven.’
Of course Annie still liked swings at age eleven.
I hold up the container, trying to see its contents. ‘What kind of soup is this?’
‘Pea and ham.’ Her expression is apologetic.
‘The worst flavour ever invented.’
‘Why do you think I’m giving it away?’
My eyes move between hers, and there’s that damn feeling in my chest again.
‘You can just return the container to me at school tomorrow,’ she says. When I freeze, she smiles. ‘That was a joke.’
