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“I don’t get it,” he says. “You said he’s not gay. Who cares if he knows you are?”
What if he figures out I like him? What if things get weird? What if we don’t stay friends?
It worked with him and Lyle, but . . . “I’ll tell him when I’m ready.”
Scott’s gaze flickers over my shoulder. “Um . . .”
I whisk around.
Robin stands behind us, hands in his pockets, listening. His expression is unreadable, but when I step towards him, he steps back, twists, and walks away.
I follow him all the way out to the fir.
He swings around. His hands meet my chest but stop short of shoving me. He drops them.
I brace myself. He’s confused. Hurt.
Tool bounds between us with a bark, like he feels the tension.
Robin strokes him absently. His fingers dig into the soft fur and tease all the way up to the tip of Tool’s ear. He repeats the caress on the other ear and then scratches under his collar.
His shoulders droop until he’s almost eye level with the tip of the fir.
Tool nudges my leg and I work my fingers through his coat as well. I want to stretch mine down the back of his head until I brush Robin’s. I want to slide my fingers through his and squeeze.
And I want him to squeeze back.
I slam my eyes shut. “I’m sorry I never said anything earlier. I didn’t want things to get awkward between us.”
“Or for me to freak out and act differently around you, right?”
How did this evening end up like this? It was supposed to be fun and relaxed. We should’ve had a lovely soup together with freshly baked bread while I slyly fished for when would be best to sneak over for the next fir transplant. We should’ve all ended the evening content and ready for a good night’s sleep, where I would’ve dreamed of . . .
I sigh. “I’m sorry.”
He stares at the fir and the edges of his eyes are wet.
My chest squeezes tight. “It has nothing to do with not trusting you, not thinking we were friends.” I haul in an uneven breath, and step closer.
He lifts sad eyes.
I swallow. “I . . . I like you.”
He blinks, surprised, and glances away. “Oh.”
I pick up a stray piece of bark and toss it to the base of the fir, chest twisting painfully.
He clears his throat and rocks back on his heels. “I mean, it’s cool. I’m flattered.”
My stomach plummets to my feet, making each step away from him heavy.
“Jase.”
I keep walking.
“You’re a great guy.”
Just not that way.
I stumble back towards the house. “Sure. I’m a great guy. I know.”
“Can we forget about all this and get back to dinner?”
Scott’s inside, I can’t grab him and leave. “Sure. Don’t worry, I’ll get over it.”
“This doesn’t have to change anything,” he says at the door.
But it will. It already has.
Scott still gets up at the crack of dawn the next morning for Dawn Patrol. I climb into the truck and drive wearily to Mr Cole’s, then return to Robin’s.
I plant the next fir with stinging eyes.
Scott leaves the next week, and I barely see Robin during it. I want to go over there and fix the weirdness between us, but excuses on both sides get in the way. And after three weeks, then four, then five, it feels too late to pick up what we once had. The daffodils come and go in the little garden of my run-down rental just a few curves down from Robin’s house. The tulips push their wide blades and long stems up through the chamomile out the front, a riot of colours under the curved row of roses all budding up white. I keep the weeds under control and cut the grass and think sometimes about how I’m tending a garden someone else planted, and tended, and ultimately had to leave behind.
I stare at a picture of a guy surfing on the front of a cereal box. The surfer has his back turned, and for a moment I imagine it’s Robin. A shopping cart bumps into my backside, bringing me sharply back to reality. Fluorescent lights, shiny floors with rubber scuffmarks, squealing shopping carts, shelves and shelves of food—and none of it entices me.
I have to fill my near-empty fridge though; a few heavy yard jobs are coming up, and Mr Cole has told me to stock up on my strength.
I push my trolley to the frozen section and stack two dozen meals into it.
It’s too easy eating crap, living alone. Cooking for one. I veer back through throngs of shoppers to the fresh produce.
Apples. Kiwifruit. Melon—
Across from the melons, picking up a container of pre-cut fruit, is Robin. The light shines on his hair, illuminating the strawberry in his strawberry blond. He wears a long-sleeved maroon T-shirt that has stray bits of cat fur on the arms.
