“Isn’t letting something that was so incredible go to waste—”
“Incredibly vindictive and absolutely satisfying but ultimately quite juvenile? Yes, probably.” He pivots slowly. I have no idea what my face is doing until he rolls his eyes. “Don’t look so shocked. I’m not above admitting my flaws. And there are many.” His throat bobs as he swallows. “What would a man like me do with flowers?” That’s gentler and so, so raw. I don’t know why it makes my throat feel thick.
“What wouldn’t you do with them? They’re beautiful,” I say.
“What if they remind you of something you want to forget?”
“What do you want to forget?” I know he’s not going to tell me, but we’ve come this far. It’s a tense conversation. The kitchen is suddenly strung tight, and it feels like I left the gas running on the stove. Explosive.
“The things I never had.”
That slipped out. I can tell. His face now looks like the gross scale has rocked up to a twenty out of ten. I drop my eyes away from his because looking a feral beast in the eye isn’t a smart idea. I take in his all-black attire. It fits him well. He’s so freaking broad that it’s almost hard for me to grasp. He does look nice this morning, in thatI’m dressed in black, ready to complete the mission and fuck things upway.
I didn’t stand here and demand that he answer me. He volunteered that information, but I know better than to press on it.
“Would you mind if I went out there and spent some time cleaning things up? Sometimes, I need methodical work to take my mind off of other things. The more physically punishing, the better.” I ask his chest that question since I can’t meet his gaze.
“That’s fine.” He sounds dismissive. “Just don’t plant anything new. I’ll only let it die.”
He sets his mug in the sink and walks out of the kitchen. Walks. Not storms. I don’t think he’s angry. Not with me. But I do think he’s hurting.
Don’t get sappy. You’re not here to fix him. Even if you were, what could you accomplish in two weeks?
I hadn’t planned on planting anything. I understood the futility of that before I even tried. I’m no gardener. My parents had a small yard, and my mom did plant flowers in pots, but that was her thing, and I really didn’t help much with it. I just enjoyed all the pretty things she grew. At my apartment, I don’t even have a balcony. I have no houseplants. Maybe I should. Maybe I should get a fish so I wouldn’t have to name my footwear and give them personalities.
Don’t say my life is sad. Because it’s not sad. It’s just something I’ve always done for fun, and no, notthatkind of fun. I do know how to have real fun too.
I grasp the coffee mug and head over to the massive patio door at the far side of the kitchen. I’m surprised the backyard doesn’t have a pool or a tennis court since it’s big enough. Sadly, it doesn’t. It’s just an endless garden. Endless ruin and endless brown, twisted deadness.
Anything you plant out here, you can’t take with you anyway.
I know that. I freaking know.
You can’t take anything of that man with you either, so don’t even bother with that nonsense.
Maybe my footwear is wiser than I ever knew. Kidding. I really am kidding. It’s all me, just talking to myself in regular thought speech, however our thoughts sound. I guess it just sounds like my own speaking voice. Anyway, I’m right. I’m the wise one. It’s very, very good advice, and I’ll be sure to remember it when my chest feels like my ribs are getting smushed and stomped on over moldy bread, sour milk, and dead flowers.
Chapter five
Rick
She’s been out there all day.
I should be the kind of man who goes out and helps her. I almost did, a few times, when I heard the cursing and watched Aspen nearly stumble and fall over her feet more than a few times. But I held back. Since then, I’ve spent the better part of a few hours from the office upstairs watching her kick things around in her flip-flops, curse endlessly, shake her fists at inanimate objects, get into wrestling matches with dried-up old vines, and have a near screaming match with the tree she was trying to prune.
Aspen found the little garden shed with all the tools at the far end of the yard. Rakes, shears, shovels—they’re scattered all over back there. I went upstairs to the office as soon as she went outside. Cracking open a window shouldn’t have been as delightful as it ended up being, but I haven’t been able to concentrate on anything. It’s hard when you have someone cursing up such a creative storm outside.
“You farfing meatball brain of a fucksickle! If you don’t come down right now, I’m going to get the chainsaw and finish you off, I swear!”
I lean forward a few inches. She’s trying to prune one of the larger trees. It looks mostly dead, so cutting it down might not be such a bad idea. She’s really struggling since she’s standing on the ground and trying to cut some of the straggly limbs with a tool that looks like it would be better suited to medieval torture.
Do we even have a chainsaw? I don’t think so. And by we, I mean me. It’s just hard for me to think of this place as mine. I never wanted it. I still don’t. I can’t wait until the day I can get rid of it. Some days, I want to trash the whole thing, but that would be counterproductive to the sales aspect.
Aspen is spirited. I’ll give her that.
Alright, she’s beautiful.
And watching her discreetly from up here has made me have to adjust myself in my jeans three times already, and it’s only been a few hours. I’ve cycled between a dick so painfully hard that my jeans are crushing it to giving a stern lecture to myself that makes it go semi-hard, to shifting my gaze back to her lithe, fit little body with all those lovely curves attacking my backyard, which made me hard as steel again.