Page 80 of We Redeemed the Rain

We had chairs on the porch in the past, but they were old and decrepit. Tossed them a long time ago, which meant the only remaining seat was the porch swing. I swallowed again wondering what I’d gotten myself into with her. I almost requested my dinner to go, but one glance at the food and I knew I didn’t have the heart.

She’d taken time to serve piles of spaghetti, broccoli, and garlic bread. Arranged the items nicely on each plate. Almost looked fancy.

I eased into the seat. “This smells delicious. Been a long time since I’ve had spaghetti.”

“You could put anything on noodles and I’d eat them.”

“Have to agree. Noodles are great.”

“Too bad they’re chock full of carbs. Why are all the delicious things bad for you?”

I was thinking the exact same thing, but not about the noodles.

When she sat next to me, I caught that honey scent again. Stronger than before.

My goodness.

It had to be her shampoo.

She picked up her plate and gave me an encouraging nod. “Well, go ahead.”

I obeyed. When I lifted the fork, Bea and I bumped elbows.

She laughed. “I keep forgetting you’re a leftie.”

“Sorry.”

Thirty seconds later, we did it again and simultaneously responded by awkwardly laughing and scooting away from each other.

I didn’t mind bumping elbows. Part of me kind of liked it. But I dutifully offered, as any proper leftie would, “We could switch places if you want.”

“Oh, sure!”

Bea popped out of her seat, and I slid down. When she sat, shewas a touch closer than before, our non-dominant arms only a few inches apart.

We fell into silence as we ate. It was comfortable, but expectant. This tentative friendship existed on a precipice, teetering between comfortable communication and awkward silence. Each of us waited for the other to take a sledgehammer to the side of the dam. Once we startedreallytalking, catching-up—would we ever stop?

As I finished off my plate, Bea gave the dam one, hard blow.

“Tag, can I ask you a question?”

I gave one nod in answer.

“What happened to the ranch?” Bea drug her fork through a puddle of sauce on her plate, moving it back and forth like a windshield wiper. “Jesse said it was eighty acres, but didn’t Meadowbrook used to be thousands?”

Without meaning to, I huffed.

“Long story?”

“Asadstory.”

She put her empty plate on the wicker table, turned to face me, and tucked her knee up onto the swing between us. Her actions said what her words didn’t:I’m ready for story time.I glanced over to find her round brown eyes studying me. Truth be told, I’d carried a lot of shame for the ways Meadowbrook had spun out of control.

But, I wanted to tell her. I wanted to tellsomebody. Sometimes it felt like each part of my story was locked, trapped inside. Buried so deep within me it would take a miracle to free it. But as much as I wanted to open up to her, I didn’t have experience in vulnerability. I’d practiced holding it all in, swallowing the pain, and suffering in private. I knew this behavior was calledsuppressing,but it was the only way I could function day to day.

Pages were the one place I could be real. And I gave up on those a long time ago.

A tap on my knee jerked my attention back to Bea. She lowered her voice. “Tell me a sad story.”

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