Page 129 of Just Friends
In the front garden, Paulina and I worked our way up either side of the row of peas, swinging hoes and hacking apart the weeds that grew along the sides of the black plastic row cover. We’d been at it for hours; my whole body ached, and blisters welled up on my hands beneath my work gloves. But this was the last row that needed weeding, and we were almost done—and just in time for dinner, too, judging by how low the sun hung in the sky.
I stopped weeding just long enough to wipe the sweat from my brow. That’s when I noticed the faint droning of a car engine in the distance, past the tree-line and out-of-sight.
“Sounds like somebody’s comin’ up the road,” I said, getting right back to work before Paulina left me in her dust.
“Yup,” she agreed.
“Think that’s them?” I asked. They’d been out in the field all day long—surely, their work day was almost over, too.
But Paulina shook her head. “Doesn’t sound like Daddy’s truck.”
I took her word for it. After being away from country life for so long, you lose certain skills, like being able to identify cars a mile away just based on the sound. Or being able to swing a hoe for hours, barehanded, and without feeling like someone set your back muscles on fire.
“Darn,” I said. “Wonder who it is, then?”
But we’d have our answer soon enough—the sound of the engine grew louder as it made its way up our mile-long drive. Once it was a little bit closer, I had to agree with Paulina—that engine didn’t sound anywhere near big or burly enough to be Dad’s truck.
At last, a forest green SUV rounded the bend, the crunch of gravel beneath its tires as it came into view. I shielded my eyes to get a better look—it was a Mercedes. And judging by the sparkling forest green paint, it was brand new, too.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Paulina grumbled, swinging her hoe with barely-concealed ire. “You know who that is, Pip?”
I couldn’t say for sure. But there weren’t a whole lot of people around Whitefish who could afford brand new luxury cars, and also inspire such loathing from Paulina.
“No, but I could probably guess.”
She shot me a wry grin. “If you’re thinking of a major shit-bag loser, then you’d be right.”
I rolled my eyes. That told me all I needed to know.
The car pulled over on the gravel driveway to park closer to where we were working. The engine shut off, the driver door swung open and, sure enough, out stepped my very first boyfriend, Nate Bowers.
Great,I thought.
But then the passenger door opened, too, and out stepped a girl.
Paulina gasped. “No way. Did he seriously bring a girlfriend over here?”
“Heck, I hope he did. Might help keep him in line.”
We put our heads down and kept weeding. Nate and his female friend cut through the garden, hopping over the rows, until they neared us at last.
“Well, well, look who it is.” Nate said. “Piper Eaglestorm.” He stretched his arms out wide, almost as if he were expecting me to run over and tackle him with a hug. “Long time no see.”
He was dressed like he still worked alongside his dad: a long-sleeved flannel, blue jeans tucked into his cowboy boots, a John Deere hat. But that get-up felt more like a costume than anything worn out of necessity—we all knew Nate didn’t work outdoors anymore.
I planted my hoe into the ground and propped myself against it. “Hi, Nate. Been a while.”
“Sure has—what’s it been, six years now?” My skin crawled when he looked me up and down. “Man.You look like you haven’t aged a single day. Crazy.”
I couldn’t say the same for him. Back in the day, Nate was lean and wiry, but athletically built. But time had softened him—now his face looked puffy, his shoulders slumped, and the beginnings of a potbelly bulged beneath his pearl snap shirt.
“And how’s li’l sis?” he said, turning to Paulina.
“I’m not your sister, Nate,” Paulina retorted with sass. “And I never will be, either.”
He chuckled and kicked at a clump of dirt. “Feisty as ever, I see.”
Nate’s lady friend stood stiff as a board with her arms folded. She cleared her throat.
