Page 56 of Years in the Making

She doesn’t answer right away, just stares out at where Pip and Daisy are chasing after a surprisingly speedy Yogurt. “On one hand, it would be nice to move forward. Neither of us is likely going to be out of this bubble anytime soon. We may as well make an effort. I did tell you I wanted to try the friend thing. And nothing forces two people to mend fences like a road trip.”

“Stuck in a car together, forced to entertain one another. I’ve also heard the same said for putting together Ikea furniture,” I add.

“Three years ago, the head librarian at the university decided that a fun team-building exercise would be to put together the new whiteboards for the meeting rooms.”

The thought of that being something to bring people together makes me laugh.

“That was also my reaction. I grew up with two parents who never fought. I didn’t even think they were capable of it. Then they bought me a bed from Ikea—you know, one of the ones with the drawers?” I nod. “Yeah, well, my dad slept in the guest room for a week after they finished.”

“My brother finds stuff like that relaxing,” I say, almost to myself.

“I’m sure both of my parents would have if they’d attempted it as a solo project, but for some reason, they thought it would be a good relationship activity. In the end, I was the only one who had a few good nights of sleep in a row.” She laughs, absently taking the stick Norman Barkwell offers her and tossing it. “Anyway, all of that is to say that I can’t see it ending with us worse off than we are now.”

“That’s the confidence I was looking for.” I smile over at her and notice as her eyes dip to my mouth and catch there for a few seconds. “We worked as friends once.”

She blinks a few times. “And that will be all we can work asgoing forward. If you can agree to that, then I don’t see a problem with any of this.”

So this is what a heart-sinking feels like, hope withering and dying in the center of my chest. I swallow the disappointment down. “They may never let us team up for a game night again.”

“Probably not.” She smirks at me.

“You can tell them, you know. What I did. I’m fine with being the bad guy because it’s the truth.”

Nellie looks down at her hands for a minute before answering. When she looks back up at me, it’s with the saddest eyes I’ve seen in a long time. “The thing is, Teddy, I’m not so sure anymore that you were or are a bad guy. But every time I see you, it’s like the wind gets knocked out of me again, and for the first little while, I feel nothing but the betrayal, anger, and sadness that I felt the day you said, ‘Guess not.’” Those two words take me back to that mountain parking lot in BC. The place where I hit send and blew up my life. “Before the end of this trip, the earlier the better, I want to know what made you go from the guy who showed up for me when I was sick, but wouldn’t even give me the chance to do the same when he faced the worst day of his life. I want to know why you couldn’t face this”—she gestures between us—“head on.”

“Deal,” I say as she stands and walks away from me.

It feels like we’ve just reached the end of a chapter, and I’m eager to turn the page and start a fresh one. Chapter Four, Teddy’s Redemption Begins.

TWENTY-TWO

NELLIE

“I don’t think I even have room for all these books, Dad,” I call from the living room where my parents have stacked boxes of ornithology books. Some my father wrote, but most are just gifts he’s received over his thirty-year career.

“You never know, chickadee, people may surprise you.” Mom walks in with yet another box. “Also, you’d be doing me a favor.”

I try again to use logic. “I have limited space. You’ve seen the trailer.”

“I thought you were taking Bennett’s pickup. Surely there is ample space in the… the…” She gestures wildly for the word.

“The bed?” I suggest.

“Yes. I know his employee is taking stuff for that shelter or whatever, but I’m sure you’ll still have plenty of room.”

After my parents expressed concern for the twelfth time that I was going to be driving into the wilds of the province to deliver books, alone, I told them that Bennett had asked if one of his employees could join me to do some outreach. I didn’t tellthem who the employee was. As far as they know, I haven’t heard from Teddy in over a decade.

“What about some ofyourbooks?” I ask my mom.

“I think one of these boxes has some copies of the early releases.” She starts rummaging through the boxes on the coffee table. “This one has some the publisher sent for other authors. Oh, and about six of mine.”

I peek in and see a few covers of scantily clad women and bare-chested men. “Those will be a nice break for the non-bird enthusiasts.”

Every single book in that box was written by my mother. She either has no idea or is in deep denial that I know she writes the steamier stuff under a pen name. When I was sixteen, I decided to take one off her shelf only to realize the hero was word for word the high school boyfriend she had recently told me about. I don’t think I’ve ever shut a book so fast. I’m fine with my mother writing steamy books; I just don’t feel the need to be in her imagination when it comes to that stuff. It’s just literally too close to home. The me pretending she doesn’t write it and her thinking I don’t know about it arrangement works well for our relationship.

My phone lights up beside me, and I have a moment of panic when I see it’s just Izzy.

Izzy

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