AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“You’re a needy thing,” I tell it, dropping one hand to scratch behind its ear as I use the other to finish typing.
The calf is only a couple of weeks old, having been one of the last births of the season. The mom’s close by, but this guy’s been on my tail all day.
With frozen fingers, I send off the text and pocket my phone before shoving my hands back into my gloves.
Me: Nothing as fun as you, apparently. I worked on a truck that’s not much more than rusted parts that belong in a dump yard until I went to bed.
From the chaotic, misspelled texts I received from her last night, I knew she was either drunk or suddenly half-blind. I wasn’t expecting to see a text come in from her at all, but I was actually relieved when it did. It saved me from having to be the one to reach out, whenever I worked up the nerve to.
Even though I wanted to, I most likely wouldn’t have. Maybe that would have been a mistake.
With a final pat to the calf’s head, I head back to the shed. Each step has my legs tingling, the cold seeping into my bones the longer I’m outside. The snowstorm is supposed to slow soon, but it hit us hard last night in another unforgiving dump.
The wind howls when I slip inside the barn and blow out a clouded breath. Pulling my hands out of my pockets, I press them to my lips and wait for them to stop burning before pulling my phone back out.
Banana: Do you like working on trucks?
The question surprises me. I don’t remember the last time someone asked me that. Long before I left town, maybe. Now, the only time someone mentions mechanics to me is when they inform me of something having gone wrong on one of the machines.
Me: I love it. Last night was the first time I’ve worked on something just because I wanted to in a really long time.
Banana: That’s sad. You should make yourself a priority more often. I hear it’s good for the heart.
I bark a laugh, shaking my head.
Me: Where’d you hear that? A fortune cookie?
Banana: And what if I did?
Me: I’d say that I need to buy them in bulk.
The typing bubbles appear for a few beats before her next message comes through.
Banana: I had a pretty shitty evening yesterday. Wound up trying to drink my problems away.
Me: Did it work?
It didn’t for me. Turns out it’s a bit difficult to hold a wrench steady when you’ve nursed a bottle of whiskey for a couple of hours.
Banana: Maybe. I don’t remember much of the night. I paid for my choices this morning.
Me: Anytime you want to talk, try me before the alcohol. Your head will appreciate it the next morning.
Banana: That’s a bit forward.
My throat clogs. Was it? Jesus Christ, of course it was.
I begin typing an apology when she texts again.
Banana: I like it. Consider yourself my new therapist.
Me: Do I get a certificate or something?
Banana: No, but you can offer me the same job in exchange.
I chew on the inside of my cheek, contemplating the offer. Is that something I’m willing to do? Give a stranger access to all of my problems when I don’t so much as share them with so much as Caleb, my best friend.
Maybe that’s the safer thing to do. She doesn’t know who I am. There’s nothing she can do with my secrets besides listen to them and maybe judge me for them in secret.
