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“No worries. She’s sensitive.”
“How’s the stomach? If you need me to pull over . . .”
“Just a weird moment back there. I’m okay.”
He glances over at me, and I nod my head in assurance.
Robin drives right past my place and parks outside his. “Since you’re feeling better, come in for a bit.”
Something’s up. He’s tense, and he’s brought me here for a reason.
He doesn’t wait for my answer but climbs out of the truck and heads for his front door.
Inside, he puts on the kettle while I slide onto a chair at the dining table and watch. He keeps letting out long, deep breaths, as if he wants to say something but can’t get it out. He moves to the windowsill where he’s put Dusky’s enclosure and crouches down to stare at the skink. The bubbling of the kettle fills the silence between us.
On the one hand, I want it to keep boiling and boiling. I have no idea what to say to him. I might not really be sick, but there’s a greasy, heavy feeling inside when I replay the day.
On the other hand, I want the kettle to finish boiling because maybe it’ll make him speak. Say whatever it is he’s preparing himself to say.
The bubbling wanes, and the only sounds left are our breathing and the shift of Robin’s feet over the floor as he moves to make us some peppermint tea.
“Honey?”
I startle at the endearment, then register the jar of honey he’s lifting down from the cupboard. Of course. He and Lyle are a thing now. “That’d be great.”
The cat patters into the room and smooches around my ankles, and I use the distraction, petting and lifting him to my lap. I ruffle his fur, waiting for Robin to tell me.
My stomach rolls.
Robin grips both cups of tea. “It’s too warm in here. Let’s take these outside.” He turns to the back door and laughs as he realises he can’t carry both teas and unlock the door at the same time. “Would you?”
I swallow back my excuse to leave and open the door.
Robin sets my tea on the table on the deck outside. With a small sip of his drink, he wanders into the backyard. I pick up my tea and follow him to the fir.
“What do you want to say?” I croak out when we’re both sitting, staring at it.
“How’d you know I wanted to say something?”
“Why else would you bring me here?”
He laughs, but it’s the nervous kind. “I want it to be a magical Christmas this year,” he says, picking up a piece of stray bark and thumbing the rough edges.
I sip my tea, waiting. I can sense the truth hovering on his lips.
“Lyle wants to be with me,” he says softly. “Romantically, I mean.”
That queasy feeling slithers around in my stomach some more. “Is that right?”
He looks at me out the corner of his eye. “Do I come across as gay?”
What?
It shouldn’t be, but it’s the last question I’m expecting. Somehow, in all my imaginings over the past months, I never questioned his orientation.
I’m an idiot for making assumptions.
Robin continues, “Maybe I gave him some unintended signals?”
My gut churns, heavy, syrupy. Now I really do feel sick. I stare at the fir. “What’d you tell him?”
“That I want us to stay friends.”
I close my eyes at the pang Lyle must also have felt. Is everything he dreamed of now slowly choking him to tears?
My throat squeezes. I pick myself up off the ground and drain my tea. “My stomach’s playing up again. Wouldn’t want you to catch it.”
Robin knocks over his cup as he hurries to stand, and tea chugs out onto the grass. He eyes me and then glances at the now-empty cup in my hand. He nods kindly. “Feel better soon.”
Somehow, I don’t think that will be the case.
Chapter Nine
Early Sunday morning, I’m about to sneak off to transplant the next fir when the persistent buzzing of my ancient doorbell provokes my volatile calm. “All right, all right. Hold your horses, would you?”
Cold, tired, with one boot on and my jacket slung over my shoulder, I clomp every second step to the front door. I’d been planning to leave via the back, where I stash all my tools.
That damned bell.
I yank open the door, fully prepared to unleash my wrath on whatever power company representative or person wanting to tell me about Jesus is on the other side of it—
It’s Lyle.
On my porch, in a beam of morning light, cradling a box of lemons. His hazel gaze rakes over me. Whatever he sees, his conclusion is to shake his head. “Where are you off to so early on a Sunday?”
“If it’s so early, what are you doing here?” I plunk my duffel bag onto the floor and lean against the doorjamb.
