Page 23 of Sleepover

Chapter 10

Sawyer

“What are you doing?”

Elle is standing in front of me, hands on hips, eyeing me quizzically over a stack of old, mostly rotted boards, the remains of our side fence.

I put Jonah on the bus an hour ago, with Madden at his side. I think Jonah would have pretty much gone to the moon as long as Madden was going to be on the spaceship. Plus, I felt a whole lot better about sending Jonah to a new school knowing someone has his back.

I thought about not sending him till next September, but I think it might be easier for him to start now so that in the fall, he knows at least a few kids already.

As soon as the bus door clanged shut behind him, I dug into my fence project—the one Elle is currently staring at suspiciously. Hell. No one warned her that I was going to rehab the fence.

“Oh, God, I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking. The Snyders asked me to fence—I assumed they’d asked you. I’m really sorry.”

Her expression softens. Her hair is down. It’s wavy today, like a wheat field seen from a distance. I know how smooth it is to the touch, how good it feels between my fingers, in my fist.

I wish I didn’t. It’s distracting.

“No. No. That actually sounds—it makes sense. That thing was—” She hesitates.

“A pile of shit?”

She smiles. Her teeth are small and even and very white, and they were smooth under my tongue that night at Maeve’s.

So distracting.

“I was just—surprised. I looked out here, and you were ripping down the fence and I got worried about my flowers, and—I’m sorry, too. I shouldn’t have been so short with you.”

I wave her apology off.

“So, um, what’s the new fence gonna be like?”

“Simple cedar pickets. Really straightforward, like the old one. But this one will be reclaimed cedar.”

She tilts her head. “What’s reclaimed cedar?”

“It means it’s been used before, in another project. This is from a fence that used to run along the line between two farms in eastern Washington. I don’t use new lumber. Not for my furniture, not for my handyman projects.”

Her eyes widen. “You make furniture?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Wow. That’s—cool. Why don’t use use new lumber?”

“It’s better for the earth. But I also love handling old things. They have history. Other people have touched and loved them. And when I build with old lumber, that history becomes part of what I’m building.”

When I said I don’t talk much, there are a couple of exceptions. Like when I start talking about my projects.

“That’s really cool. Do you know anything about the farms that the fence came from?”

“A little bit. This fence separated a dairy farm from a huge wheat farm. Kept the milk out of the cereal.”

She laughs. “That sounds like a much more important job than keeping my weeds out of your backyard.”

“It’s my weeds that are running rampant.” I gesture at the jungle formerly known as landscaping on the Snyders’ property. “Sorry about the mess. I’ll get it under control soon.”

“Ah, no worries,” she says, waving a hand. “Mine only looks as good as it does because I use Trevor’s money to hire a landscaper every two weeks in the growing season.”

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