Page 39 of To Save Him

 

 

 

Chapter Thirteen

 

THE OLDER I got, the less bitchy I became.  I think it was because, as I aged, I realized most things weren’t worth the effort of angry, stressed out emotions.  One exception was when it involved my kids.  If, for instance, one of my kids had been bullied at school, I was a fucking mama bear.  Watch out.

But the kind of spit and fire I’d had in my youth, the girl who’d been willing to argue over something I’d consider stupid in my forties—all that was gone.  Most things weren’t worth the effort passionate anger demanded.

Or so I’d thought.

I apparently still had a raving lunatic bitch lying dormant inside along with the sexual vixen.  Ah, the surprises I’d been discovering since Brandon had entered my life.  I wasn’t quite dead yet—not by a long shot—but six months earlier, I might have told you otherwise.

I didn’t notice it at first, but it soon became apparent that I was snappy and mean in the backyard that afternoon.  And, really, it was nothing Brandon had done or deserved.  He might have thought at first that it was because of Mel, and that would have been a fair assumption, but that was not the cause of my anger at all.  Sublimating my yearnings wasn’t working anymore.  I was desirous and denying myself the one and only thing I wanted and felt like I needed—and I was taking my frustrations out on the poor young man, the object of my desires.  Yes, this man who was trying to help me.  And he was feeling the full force of my wrath.

It wasn’t that what we were doing didn’t deserve a little anger.  The lawnmower, which had always been a piece of shit, was being even more so.  We couldn’t get it to start.  Brandon had bought a gallon of gas and poured it in the tank, but the old girl just wasn’t firing up.  She’d sputter a little, but it wasn’t even close.

“I’m not sure what to do, Kimberly.  I can try troubleshooting a little, but…”

“Hold on.”  I went to the shed and opened one of the two toolboxes there.  Those damned boxes were full of implements I’d never know how to use or even discover what they were originally meant for.  All I knew was that if I tossed them or gave them away, that would be the time I’d need them.  I rifled through the big black one and at the back, behind a plumber’s wrench, was the little tool I was looking for.  I didn’t even know what the hell it was called, but it was aluminum in the shape of a short pipe with a rounded head, and inside were wiry bristles.  It was good for one thing and one thing only—for cleaning corrosion off things that were its size.  Think battery terminal and spark plugs…including the one on the goddamned mower.

Part of my problem was I didn’t know the terminology to properly communicate what I was doing, why I needed to do it, or what the fucking purpose was—and because Brandon was no more mechanically inclined than I, it was a losing battle.  I trudged back to the edge of the grassy area where that lifeless beast hulked and pulled the cap off the spark plug.  And then I remembered I was confusing what I’d had to do on the mower with car battery problems…which only made me angrier.  I was confusing things, and where the hell was Gabriel when I needed him?  I was on the verge of tears, because even though I could maintain my household on my income, I most certainly couldn’t afford big ticket items.  I’d have to save up for something like a lawnmower or slap it on my credit card.

A new spark plug, right?  That was what I needed.  I thought I had a spare one or two in the toolbox because of the last time I’d had mower problems.  I dug through the toolbox and then through the red one and found a spark plug still in its packaging.  I huffed back again and nearly swallowed my heart.  Brandon had taken off that black tank top and tucked it in the back pocket of his jeans.  Sweet Jesus, have mercy.  I almost swallowed my tongue seeing all that inked flesh in front of me.  I felt a new flare of anger at the mower that clearly didn’t deserve my wrath and it was merely a response to all the sexual tension I’d been holding in.  And then Brandon had gone and made it worse…which made me feel utter rage.  He was leaning over the mower, having dropped the rake, and looking as sweet as could be.  As kind, as gentle, as helpful…as fucking hot.  I was going to lose my mind.  He asked, “What can I do to help?”

The angry part of me almost growled,Stay out of my way, but I just shook my head.  He got the message and backed off, but he was at the ready.

The old spark plug was stuck.  I sensed Brandon behind me, the urge to help me strong, but I was getting even more pissed.  Out of all the things I’d ever been in my life, a damsel in distress was not one of them.  I didn’t want or need to be rescued, and sensing that he felt the pull to try made me all the more furious.  I gripped the plug and my fingers slipped, so I decided to grab a pair of pliers.  I stormed back to the shed and, by the time I returned, Brandon had put on some gloves and was pulling dried weeds out of the flower bed on the east side of the house.

He was avoiding me and with good reason.  My mood was sour.

I gripped that stupid spark plug and twisted and turned and it wouldn’t budge.  I was holding the pliers so hard that when the whole thing slipped, I hit the side of the mower with enough force to break the skin on my hand.  “Son of a bitch,” I muttered.  Only in the backyard, it sounded loud, even to my ears.  I stood, sucking in a violent breath through my nose, and stomped off toward the house.

Once in the kitchen, I walked over to the sink and turned on a little cool water.  As I rinsed off the grime and blood, I grabbed the bottle of dish soap and dribbled a couple of drops on my finger and then sudsed it up.  I next dried off my finger and went to the bathroom, taking a bandage out of the medicine cabinet.

Before I walked out of the room, I looked myself in the eyes.  I needed to calm down, and I should apologize to Brandon as well.  I was out of control.

But when I got out there in the dimming light, he’d already replaced the spark plug and was trying to rev up the lawn mower again.  That pissed me off too, but it wasn’t his fault that I hadn’t been able to get it loose.  He looked up at me.  “I don’t think the spark plug’s the problem.”

“That’s obvious,” I snapped. Jesus.  I could see it on his face.  I was like a fucking monster.

“Maybe…it needs to be repaired.  I can, uh, just use the weed trimmer on the lawn until—”

I got ready to explode then, but his eyes…even though it was nearly dark out there by that point, I could see the bitch I’d become reflected in his beautiful eyes.  He’d paused mid thought and I paused mid asshole.  I walked closer to him and let out a cleansing breath, just like I might while doing yoga.

Yeah, I had a lot to learn.

I needed to just be honest with him.  I had to pray that it wouldn’t ruin our friendship, wouldn’t harm the sense of family between us, but telling the truth would set me free, right?  I almost placed my hand on his shoulders, which would have allowed me access to his lovely skin, his firm musculature, the gorgeous ink, but I knew that would be beyond dangerous at this point.  My volcano was on the verge of eruption and it would take him with it if I didn’t contain myself just a little longer.

So I held my hands out in front of me, palms down, as if telling someone to stay calm.  In effect, Iwassaying that.

To myself.

Before I could even begin talking, Brandon asked, “Are you okay?”

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