The Truth about Us (7 page)

The thing is, she doesn't know what I'm like anymore. My insides ache, remembering how we used to have open conversations about everything. She used to err on the side of too much information. She made me squirm, talking openly about sex and drugs and alcohol. But things changed.

“Carol must have had a fit,” Mom finally says.

“She has a new boyfriend.” My way of evading that question.

She frowns. “Nance has gone through some hard times,” she says. “With the divorce. She went through some hard times when she was younger. Marking up her arms.” She shakes her head.

Nance doesn't talk about it, but she doesn't hide the marks. Instead, she pretends they mean nothing and she has everything together. Of course, I do too. Then I remember Nance trying to open up a little and the way I evaded her. Maybe she's more upset than she lets on. Maybe that has something to do with why she's avoiding my calls. Maybe she's mad. For sure, it's the reason she likes vodka coolers. It's an easy way to forget her parents have checked out of her life too.

I'm surprised my heart aches for Nance, and I acknowledge that maybe I haven't been a very good friend to her. I haven't tried to listen. She has feelings too, and I should ask more questions. We should talk about things.

But she's not even calling me back.

“What happened with you and Penny?” Mom asks softly.

I inhale quickly. “Penny? I guess we grew apart.” It's not the right time to talk about it. I don't want to push too far. Things are still wobbly.

“It's too bad,” Mom finally says. “She was a good friend. I miss my friends sometimes. I don't see them anymore.”

I struggle to find something to say. We walk in silence. A row of apple trees stretches above the meridian almost like they're leaning over, waiting to hear more. A huge flock of birds flies out of a tree when we walk past. I watch them scatter, scrambling to find their place in the group.

“Your dad thinks everyone should be able to change things by sheer willpower. I used to think the same thing. But I can't seem to pull myself out of this.”

I open my mouth, but she keeps going.

“He wants me fixed. Your dad. It's frustrating for him. I should be better by now.”

I bite my bottom lip. I don't know what to say to make things better. “No,” I say softly. “There's no timetable. You're doing okay.”

She laughs. “Not so great, actually.” She waves a hand in front of herself. “Look at me.”

I stop and take a deep breath, studying her face, remembering how many colors it was when she was in the hospital. Purple swollen-shut slits for eyes. Bright red puffer-fish lips. Green and yellow bruises.

“I hate what happened to you,” I tell her and then feel terrible. “I'm sorry. I don't mean to bring up bad memories.” Dad would kill me for saying this. I'm not supposed to say anything.

“It's okay. We tiptoe around what happened so much. Like if we don't talk about it, it will go away. It can't be healthy.” She tries to pass it off as a light comment, but then she closes her eyes and stops walking. She wraps her arms around herself as if she's suddenly cold.

I reach for her hand and squeeze it. She'd been the strongest person I knew. Eating challenges for breakfast. Then she was lying in the hospital bed. Tiny. Breakable. She had a concussion. They had to keep her jaw shut so it could heal. She stayed in the hospital for weeks. When she came home, she seemed to have shrunk. Gotten smaller. Even after the scars were gone, the damage didn't disappear. She changed. Of course she did. It makes me sick and afraid, scared to imagine anyone hitting me so hard that my skin bruised. Never mind three men hitting me over and over and over.

I wonder what she was thinking while the attack was happening. If she thought she was going to die. If she wanted to. To make it stop.

She breathes out deeply.

“I'm sorry,” I tell her.

“I know. Me too.” She lets my hand go. There's so much I want to ask her. What does she think about when she's locked away in her room? Do the drugs the doctors gave her make her forget? Does she take a little bit too much on purpose so they'll knock her out like that?

Her whole body deflates as if someone let the air out of her. “I should get home,” she says.

I hold in new tears and watch as the birds return to their tree. A dog barks as we walk by Dayton Denton's house. Penny, Allie, and I used to play with him when were little. His black Scottish terrier is lying at the end of the lawn. I remember bringing him treats so we could hide on their lawn during hide-and-seek without him giving us away.

“I'm sorry,” she says, watching the little dog bark at us. “That you don't have Penny anymore.”

I nod. I suppose we're both sorry about lots of things.

Mom is in bed when I'm ready to go to work the next day, and I check in on her before I go. I stand at the door, my heart swelling, hoping I didn't push too hard. I hate whoever did this to her. I hate that they've never been caught. I'd like to make them pay. I imagine it must be how my dad feels. All the time. Sympathy for him surprises me. I tiptoe over to her side, kiss her on the forehead, tell her good-bye, and leave.

At work, I watch the clock, waiting for Flynn to come in, but soon lunch is over and it's another no-show day. I'm bummed and take my anger out on the tables I'm wiping down, scrubbing as hard as I can.

“Did you hear the joke about the roof?”

I glance up from the table. Wilf stands in front of me.

“What?”

“Never mind,” he continues. “It's over your head.”

I stand straight as I get the joke.

“Eyes rolling,” I tell him. “Mine.”

He grins. “They'll fall out. I warned you.” He glances around the dining room. It's cleaned up, and the volunteer who took his place during the lunch service has gone somewhere else.

“Did you miss me today?” he asks.

“You look tired,” I say instead of
yes
, because it's true. He does look tired. I throw my cloth toward a bucket of sudsy water at the work station beside me and miss it.

“Yeah? Well, you throw like a girl,” Wilf says.

“Tell that to Anne Donovan.”

“Who?”

With hands on my hips, I glare at him. “Only the best former female basketball player and U.S. Olympic coach.”

He shrugs. “I only pay attention to hockey and football.”

“That explains a lot,” I tell him and then smile. “I only know her name because my sister played basketball all through high school.” I walk over to the wash cloth, pick it up from the floor, and drop it in the soapy bucket. “I'm not a big sports fan.”

“I will forgive you,” Wilf says. “But admit it, you missed me today.”

“I'm ashamed,” I tell him. “I may have. You've crawled under my skin. Like a tick.”

His grin is contagious. My bad mood fades.

“I'm not nearly as irritating as a tick. Compare me to something nicer next time.” He spins on his heels and starts to walk away. Then he glances at me over his shoulder. “You coming to the greenhouse or not?”

I catch up to him, and we walk through the kitchen together. “Where were you?” I ask.

“Damn doctor's appointment. Doctor was running behind. Over an hour.” He shakes his head. “And of course I'm tired. There's a reason old men get grouchy and not being able to sleep is one of them.”

“I heard there's Viagra for the other reason,” I tell him.

Sunny is putting away dishes, and she shakes her head as we walk by.

Wilf nods at her and turns to me with a scowl. “Disrespectful. That's what you are.” He glares at me. “Aren't you about thirteen? You talk like a trucker.”

“Seventeen,” I say. Thirteen. Funny. Not. He holds the door outside open for me.

“Young enough not to talk to your elders like that.” He doesn't crack a smile, but I'm learning when he's grouchy for show or grouchy for real. So far so good.

“It's okay to like the ladies,” I tell him. “You're still kind of handsome, for an old guy. You've got some hair. And great glasses. A catch.”

“You never met my Rhea,” he says. “Or else you wouldn't even suggest that.”

We walk outside, and I close my mouth. Now he's serious. “Sorry. Teasing. I would have loved to have known her.” I reach out and touch his hand. The skin on his wrist is thin and spotted. “I didn't mean to offend you.”

“Humph,” he says as we walk toward the greenhouse. He clears his throat and side glances, as if deciding whether to forgive me or not. “I brought in some new azaleas of Rhea's. I put them inside the greenhouse yesterday. I want to see what you think. Maybe you can clean them up a little. You're good at that.”

“I'd love to,” I tell him and realize it's true. Besides, over the last while, I've learned he's not a natural gardener. He admitted he does it because it makes him feel closer to Rhea.

When we get inside the greenhouse, Wilf walks slowly down the middle row. His back is stooped. I wonder what he was like when he was young. It's hard to imagine him young.

“Here. These ones.” He points out the plants he wants me to look at. I walk closer and lean in and see a little bit of azalea gall. The leaves are curled and pale. I listen while Wilf tells me a story about Rhea and the azaleas while I inspect the leaves. Some have to come off. I start pulling and check the soil for moistness.

“You need to go easier on the watering for these,” I tell him. “They need to dry out a bit.” His azaleas would do better outdoors, but I don't tell him that, understanding why he'd want them in the greenhouse.

While I'm working on the plants, Wilf gets out a spray bottle from the supply cupboard and squirts a nearby plant. I take a better look at him. He seems a little paler than normal, a bit under the weather.

“You feeling okay?”

“Fine,” he grumbles, leaving no room for chitchat about that. He sprays another plant with gusto.

We work in silence, but a seed of worry has sprouted in my belly. “Do you have any kids?” I ask. It's more personal than I usually ask, but as his self-designated new best friend, I decide it's okay that we learn more about each other.

“We never had children,” he tells me. “We wanted to, but it wasn't in the plans.” He shrugs and sprays another leaf.

“I don't think I want to have kids,” I tell him, thinking of my mom and dad.

“You're too young to decide that now,” he tells me. “And far too young to have them now.”

I wrinkle up my nose and check under another leaf for mold. “Um, yes.”

No mold. At least that's a good sign. “I never got to have grandparents. I mean, I guess I did, but they both died before I was born.”

“I'm old enough for the job,” he says.

“Yeah?” I ask. “You want to be my adopted grandfather?” I smile at him. “I'll expect butterscotch candies in your pockets.”

“Okay, but I expect homemade cookies. And don't hit me up for a loan when your parents won't give you your allowance.”

“I don't get an allowance,” I tell him. I do get more than enough money for my needs, and my mom gives me her credit card whenever I want to. Or she used to.

“Maybe you should do more chores.”

“Probably.” Truthfully, Mom's never really expected Allie or I to do much around the house. In the past, she liked to be in control of things. She could barely let us load the dishwasher without rearranging the entire thing. She doesn't do that anymore. But that's what I grew up with. And now we have Isabella, our cleaner.

“Shoot,” Wilf suddenly growls. I'm so startled, I drop the pruning scissors.

“What?” I ask, frowning at him.

“I was supposed to pick up day-old bagels from the bakery downtown.” He slaps his head with his palm. “My memory and a quarter won't even get me a phone call these days.”

“We don't need quarters anymore,” I remind him. “We have cell phones.” I bend over to pick up the scissors. “Well, most people do. Mine was confiscated.”

“For your bad behavior?”

I shrug. I haven't told him what I did to get here.

“I would be lost without my iPhone,” he tells me. “I program in all the things Rhea used to remind me to do.”

I smile. “You know, you're a little bit cool for an old guy.”

“Old is an understatement. When I told my doctor I wanted to stop aging, you know what he told me?”

“What?”

“That I'll stop when I'm in my grave.” He laughs.

“That's awful.” I wrinkle up my nose.

“Awfully true.”

I don't find it funny. “Want me to help you get the bagels?” I ask instead.

“No. There're only a few bags today. You stay here. Work on these plants. You're better at it than me.”

I smile at him. “Thanks.”

“Can you stay awhile?” he asks. “I don't want you to walk to the bus stop yourself.”

“My dance card is empty,” I tell him, hoping he doesn't tease me about Flynn. “I can handle walking alone now. But if you want, I'll be here when you get back.”

He walks to me, touches my arm lightly, and puts down his spray bottle. “Rhea would have liked you,” he says softly, and then he turns toward the door. He glances back over his shoulder as he starts to walk out. “She may have washed your mouth out with soap a few times, but she would have liked you.”

I smile, watching him hobble off. “Program your iPhone so you don't forget to come back,” I yell.

“I'll lock the doors behind me.” He lifts his hand in the air and then disappears.

I take a deep breath when he closes the door quietly behind him, the moist air and floral scents lifting my energy. I finish up Rhea's azaleas and then reach in the cupboards above the sink and take out new gardening tools. Walking up the aisle, I stroke leaves and check soil. The next plant I need to attack is a croton. I tsk at the dust buildup and wipe it off with a towel, so it'll be better able to photosynthesize.

“A clean plant is a happy plant,” I tell it.

I do my rounds, and I'm about to put my tools away when I spot an ivy I've never noticed before, tucked away in a corner. It's looks like a newer plant, but it's wilted and close to dying. I clip and wash the leaves, chattering to it the whole time. “Come on, little guy. Give it your all. You can do it,” I tell it.

“You talk to plants?”

I jump and look behind me. Flynn is only a few feet away. His dark eyes watch me, sparkling with amusement. My heart pitter-patters, noticing how he wears the shit out of his jeans and a plain black T-shirt.

“I didn't hear you come in.” Now that his presence is known, it overtakes the room.

He walks closer, and I inhale deeply to try and get my thumping heart under control.

“You were giving that plant shit.” He walks up beside me and reaches out to touch the plant.

“No, I was giving the plant encouragement,” I tell him. “Big difference.” My skin tingles, and everything in the greenhouse seems more alive and brighter. I clip another leaf, smile at it, and start gathering the tools to put them back in the cupboard.

“How'd you get in here?” I ask, knowing Wilf locked the door.

Flynn dangles a key off his finger and lifts it to show me. “Stella keeps an extra key in her office. Wilf lets me come here alone sometimes. I like the air.” He glances at me. “Weird?”

“Not weird. Green thumb.” I hold my thumb up in the air and examine it. “At least it used to be.”

“Wilf told me.” He looks at the miniature hoe I'm holding. “You're pretty handy with a hoe?” Flynn asks.

“Kyle said you were too.” I place my hand over my mouth and giggle at my own joke.

“Very funny.” He pushes back his bangs. “I really hope Kyle has no idea what a ho is.” Flynn helps me carry a few things back to the cupboard.

I smile. “Doubtful. Not yet.” I stand on my tiptoes to place tools back in the cupboard. “I didn't see you at lunch today.”

“You noticed?”

My cheeks warm. He obviously doesn't know my entire shift revolves around whether he shows up or not.

“My mom was off work today, so we ate at home.”

“Cool,” I say.

“I came by to do something for Stella, but she didn't need me. She told me you were back here. I wanted to say hi before I left.”

I nod, thrilled he thought about me and wanted to check in.

He nods. “So. Hi.”

“Hi.” I smile and tuck the last tool in the cupboard, press my lips tight, and shut the doors. I have no idea what to say next. The silence gets louder, and I search for something that doesn't sound stupid. “I'm glad you came.”

He tilts his head. The hair on my arms stands at attention. “Do I make you nervous?” he asks. And then he grins. Slowly.

“No,” I lie, barely able to breathe.

“I don't know about that,” he says. It sounds like a challenge.

“About what?” I can't focus. I don't know where to look or what to do with my hands.

“I make you nervous,” he says. His voice is low, almost a whisper.

My cheeks burn and I stare at him, mesmerized. He licks his bottom lip. The air between us sparks.

My face gets hotter. I remember what Mom used to say about Dad before she retreated into her shell.
“We don't always choose the ones we fall for. Sometimes the chemistry chooses us.”

Is that what this is? Chemistry? Because it feels wonderful. And also scares the shit out of me. It's more real than anything I've felt lately. And dangerous. I like it.

He steps closer. “My mom and Kyle are waiting. I have to go.” He says it softly, and we stare at each other. “Remember my friend, Braxton?” he asks out of the blue.

“Yeah. Of course.”

“You into him?”

I shake my head. “No.”

He smiles. “Good, 'cause he's trying to find you. I haven't told him I've got you hidden away. See you.” With a wave, he walks out of the greenhouse.

A few minutes later, Wilf returns. I'm still standing in one spot, not moving, reliving the entire conversation over and over in my head.

“What's the matter with you?” Wilf asks as he walks over to inspect the azaleas. “You look like the bird that got the worm.” He touches the plant and then looks at me and coughs into his long-sleeved shirt. “These look much better. Thanks.”

“You feeling okay, Wilf?” I ask and snap out of my spell.

“I'm not about to keel over, if that's what you're asking.” His tone is gruff. “What about you?”