Page 18 of The Two of Us

And it dawns on me that I don’t know which tragic event she’s referring to.

“Your father is a great man. Here, take these. Free of charge.” She begins shoving an array of plants into my arms before grabbing a nearby cart and filling it up. She starts toward the parking lot before I have a chance to decline the offer.

You’d think by the sorrow on her face that she’s the one with the dying father. I thank her for the plants, not having the heart to tell her I lack a green thumb. But I figure I can use the gardening to replace eye stalking Ambrose through windows.

The afternoon drags. Speck Lake is boring enough when you have friends but when you don’t, it’s downright torture. I miss the ability to walk out my door without a destination in mind and get lost among a sea of people swarming the sidewalks. My one desire in life is to fly under the radar, and Speck Lake makes me feel like I’ve been thrust back under a magnifying glass. I scratch my cheek, picturing the bottles of wine I stuck in the fridge. I want a glass to take the edge off, but it’s too early in the day to start drinking, even for me. I’ll save the liquid gold for tonight when my body evades sleep.

When I get home, I remove the plants from the trunk and haul them into the backyard. The next twenty minutes consist of pitiful Google searches on how to properly dig holes for plants and before I know it, I have thirty tabs pulled up with answers to my novice questions. How do I decide where to put the plant? Will I need to water it every day or does the rain take care of that?

I’m rummaging through my dad’s toolbox for something called a hand trowel when my peripheral catches movement. I look up, squinting at Old Maple, but nothing seems out of the ordinary. I turn back around slowly, keeping my eyes trained on the tree house in a way that isn’t obvious. The second movement is barely discernible, but I see it. Someone’s up there.

“Hello?”

Nothing.

I harden my voice. “I know you’re up there. This isn’t a spot for squatters. It’s my home, so if you don’t come down, I’m going to call the cops.”

I pray the stranger doesn’t call my bluff. David Lang’s still the town sheriff and is notorious for being perpetually slow to the scene. I tighten my clutch on the hand trowel, ready to use it as a weapon if need be.

“Please don’t call the cops. I’m too young to go to jail!”

A kid?

I haven’t seen any kids on this street, so the admission surprises me. Where did he come from? And what’s he doing in my tree house? I’m in no rush to go back to gardening and unfortunately for the boy, I decide to have a little fun at his expense.

“Fine. Come down right now and I’ll make sure you don’t wear an orange jumpsuit for the rest of your life.”

I should be ashamed of myself, instilling the fear of God in a child, but it’s the most entertained I’ve been all day, so I relish in the moment. A small body climbs down the old ladder at lightning speed, taking my threat of prison time a little too seriously. I bite my cheek to stop my chuckling. When his feet make contact with the grass, he turns fully toward me, eyes wide with fear, clearly begging for mercy. His carrottopped hair sticks out in all different directions, his face home to a constellation of freckles. He can’t be older than six years old. Big brown eyes flicker from me to the street and I can tell he’s thinking about making a run for it, so I ease up.

“What’s your name?”

“Matty!” a voice bellows from behind us.

The boy smacks a hand to his forehead. “Crap.”

I don’t have to turn around to know who it is. Ambrose’s long strides swallow the distance between us and he halts at my side, glaring at the scrawny boy.

“Matty, where have you been? I’ve been looking for you for over an hour!”

It’s the type of panic that fills a parent’s voice when they can’t find their child and unease washes over me at the idea that I might be looking at Ambrose’s kid. I search for the answer on his face, but he avoids my eyes. He doesn’t look as good as the day I saw him in the grocery store.

He looks better.

Serves me right.

The olive T-shirt stretched across his chest pales in comparison to his eyes under direct sunlight and his jeans hang viciously low on his hips. I quickly remove my gaze from his ass, ignoring the smell of fresh linen dancing off his skin. I can’t believe I’m checking him out in front of a six-year-old.

“Sorry. I was just playing in Old Maple,” Matty says, his head hung low.

Wait a minute.

“How do you know…”

Ambrose doesn’t meet my eyes when he chimes in. “It’s my fault, Mara. Your dad’s been letting Matty play in the tree house for a while, but I forgot to tell him it was off-limits now that you’re back.”

It shouldn’t, but the fact that Ambrose won’t even look at me feels like a knife to the side.

“Matty, you can’t play here anymore. Let’s go,” he says, reaching out his hand.

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