Page 80 of Back for More
I give her a little nod, and she steps in to give me a hug. I hold my paintbrush away from her and kiss the top of her head, inhaling the sweet scent of her shampoo.
“You guys need any help?”
“Nah,” my dad says. “I was just saying Wes needs to take a break.”
“Well, maybe Wes can show me what I can do in the garden. I need to stay active! I gotta do something!” She bounces up and down, tits jiggling, ponytail swinging.
Jesus, the two-year age difference between us has always seemed significant to me, but I’m starting to wonder is she really is a succubus from hell, come to seduce me and steal my vigor.
I close up the bucket of waterproofing sealant and rest my paintbrush across the top of it. “What exactly did you have in mind? I think my dad pretty much stays on top of the gardening.”
“Well, I’ll cut some flowers, then. To take for Mrs. Naylor.”
“Okay,” I laugh. “Let’s go grab some shears from the shed.”
We don’t walk hand-in-hand, but she keeps bumping her shoulder against my arm, and it’s so cute. I never imagined we could be so happy together. I had never even tried to imagine what Lily would be like if she were happy. I wanted this vague concept of happiness for her, but I didn’t expect to see her smile so much.
When I open the door to the shed, she says, “Remember that time we kissed in here?”
“I definitely remember kissing a girl in here. Was that you?”
I get an arm swat for that, but I quickly pull her in for a long kiss that subdues her.
“You smell like varnish,” she says.
“You smell like pretentious theater people.”
That cracks her up. “Oh really—what do pretentious theater people smell like, exactly?”
I grab a couple of pairs of garden shears, gloves, and a bucket. “Musty old Shakespeare books, teen spirit, and inevitable poverty.”
“Ouch. Low blow. But so true… I think I’d rather be poor and happy doing theater, though.”
“Really?” I follow her outside.
“I mean, not in New York or LA. But here?” She shrugs. “Clean air and good theater is good for the soul.”
“That’s easy to say when you’ve got a trust fund.”
“I don’t exactly have it yet.”
I stop to turn on the hose and add water to the bucket. “Your dad gets back from Seattle today?”
She blinks like the question takes her by surprise. “Oh yeah, I guess he does.”
“You heard from him at all since he’s been gone?”
“Nope. Oh wait, he did cc me on an email to Vicky about adding ground flax seed to the grocery list because he was reading about how important fiber is. So that was sweet.”
I can’t help but chuckle at that. “That is kind of sweet, actually.”
She has a pained expression on her face. “That’s easy to say when you have an amazing dad.”
Goddammit, it still stuns me that we’re having actual conversations now. Breaks my heart a little every time she opens her mouth and lets out a sentence that isn’t laced with sarcasm. Part of me is afraid this is just an impossibly beautiful but brief bloom period. That perfect week in spring when it’s like you’re living in a fairy tale version of your neighborhood and then a week later you’re slipping on wet blossoms all over the sidewalk.
I don’t even know what to say to that, because it’s true. “What do you want to take for Mrs. Naylor? Calla lilies?”
“Of course. And roses. The roses are ready to be cut, right?”
