Page 10 of Deep Gap

“Okay, so—We find a tree and you work out whatever aggression you have on it to see if it makes you feel better.”

“That’s it?”

“That is it. For what it’s worth, I’m sorry I didn’t pick up on the fact that you weren’t a fan of cars.”

“I can sit in one.” Sort of. The ride he gave me home was quick and easy with the dogs as a distraction. This trek to the mountains was a stretch. I haven’t traveled as far since I was a teenager. “Don’t offer to teach me to drive.”

It’s non-negotiable. I will never be responsible for getting behind the wheel of a four thousand pound machine ever again.

“Duly noted.” Byron nods. He rubs his palms together, then points up an incline. “Start looking over there? I’m not sure about you, but I feel like the sooner we get a tree, the faster we can find some grub. Between cleaning and the ride out here, those few swallows of coffee aren’t cutting it for me.”

“How long does it take to chop one down?” I shrug, unable to admit I’m hungry, too.

“Seeing as you have pent-up aggression to work off, less time than it will take to secure it to the roof.”

We make our way up the hill. Byron touches the boughs of trees that are about his size. Six feet or so. He wants my opinion. The ones I chose are shorter and slimmer.

He picks up a fallen branch. “Imagine this with one red bulb dangling off. Jovie could have brought me this in my backyard.”

I roll my eyes. “I get your point. No Charlie Brown trees.”

We stroll a little further and I suggest one that’s squat, but full. Byron agrees and I unsnap the ax’s leather blade cover. He pushes up the boughs and gives me the Boy Scout version of how to create a wedge with the blade.

One strike later, I have to tighten my grip on the handle. The second blow chips off bark. The third whack and the ax gets stuck. I have to shimmy it out.

“This is harder than it seems.”

“Most things in life are. You’re doing fine. Once we have it started on this side, I’ll move to the other and bring it down.”

“Teamwork.”

“It’s the word of today.” Byron smiles unabashedly.

It’s only because we’re both squatting down that I notice his lower front teeth are slightly crooked. All the others line up perfectly. His eyes are brown with the same fleck of gold and red that make up his perpetual five o’clock shadow. That hadn’t passed me by before, but at the moment, it seems to matter more.

There’s an odd whooshing in my ears like the drum of the laundromat washer’s first slushy spin cycle rotations. With my left hand, I push at flyaway hairs, smoothing them behind my back. There’s something wrong with me. I’ve gone from the breeze blowing through my new-to-me cable-knit sweater to wanting to yank the collar for the heat to escape before I pass out.

Steadying my breathing, I take several more swings at the trunk. Byron and I stand and he shoos me to the side. I tuck my hands under my armpits. Hearing two knocks of the ax and a crackling snap, the tree lands tip to my toes. I jump back a little, feeling girlie for doing so. And by that I mean, the old school don’t-get-your-dress-dirty kind, not the new butt-kicking female superheroes that became the norm when I took a hiatus from pop culture.

Byron ignores the abundance of femininity and we drag the tree back toward the car to be wrapped and tied to the hood.

The whole time I’m hauling, rolling, and hoisting; doing exactly what I’d do if I were chopping down my own Christmas tree alone, I’m bothered by my reaction to the tree playing spin the bottle with me… And what my reaction would really be if Byron paid attention to me the way a man does a woman.

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5

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It was naive of me not to recognize Greer might have a problem with cars. Not having been in any motor vehicle accidents myself, that didn’t click in an instant the way the hair on the back of my neck prickles hearing a gun cock when entering the shooting range. I also still brace myself the night of the Fourth of July when fireworks go off. So had I considered what it’s taken to deal with my own triggers—no pun intended—I would have cued into hers right away.

I’d wanted to make up for causing her any distress and suggested lunch at a little restaurant I’d seen coming into town. She said she was happy with fast food and ordered off the value menu, refusing to let me cover the tab for both our meals. That bugged me because this trip was my brainchild. But I guess Greer is independent, and I hadn’t wanted to push her since she was still rather quiet on the car ride there and quick to get her seat belt off when we arrived.

I half expected her to bag out on going to the bee shop entirely, which was the whole reason for getting her out here. However, after she white-knuckled while I parallel parked on the street about a block down from the store, Greer suddenly had a spring in her step. One I haven’t even seen when she runs off at work to take care of something for Karen, Mac, or any other employee who needs her help.

The inside of the shop is rustic. Repurposed barn timbers are used as shelving to hold honey in all its sweet and glorious golden forms, and pretty bee knicknacks are housed under domed cloches. There are soaps inside enormous glass jars with glass lids like you’d see in a penny candy store. Each one has a hand-lettered tent card beside it with the scent and list of ingredients written in calligraphy. I wander between the lotion, shaving, and beard oil displays that are all situated on waist-height vintage electrical wire spools. The wood surface is scratched and dented, adding to the naturalistic appeal.

I watch Greer out of the corner of my eye. She hesitates to touch anything at first, but the excitement slowly builds. After a while, she’s picking up bars of soap and delicately examining carved and hollowed soap dishes and the cardboard packaging surrounding sample gift sets. She places a particularly large one down with a grimace and moves onto bottles of salves and lip balms.

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