I DIDN’T SEE Diane for more than a week after the kiss, which led to the awkward talk about the parents on the beach. Not that I avoided her—I hadn’t. A stretch of good weather meant work picked up again. It had been so busy I had donned my orange safety gear and hit the woods to help clear. Despite my helmet and face protector, my hair and beard itched with sawdust. If I ever smelled like a tree before, I most certainly did today. Laughing at the memory of Diane’s description, I stared at her house from my position behind my truck in the driveway. I wasn’t hiding, but I involuntarily crouched behind the bumper when her garage door opened. Realizing how strange it looked, I straightened up and squared my shoulders.
Diane appeared, carrying a box of recycling to the back of her SUV. I trotted over to her and reached to take the box, so she could lift the tailgate.
She jumped away from me and dropped the box. “For the love of— “ She cut her words off and glared at me holding a hand to her chest. “What are you doing?”
“Sorry. I was trying to give you a hand. I didn’t mean to scare you.” I gave her a sheepish grin, then picked up the spilled recycling, placing it back in the box.
“Next time warn a girl when you’re going to be chivalrous.”
“Sorry. Hi,” I said, grinning at her. “You jumped about a foot, for the record. Impressive.”
“I’m a city girl. Someone coming up and grabbing something out of your hands usually means you’re being robbed. Old instincts die slowly.”
“I didn’t even think of that. Looked like you needed a hand and I was giving you one. You headed to Island Recycling?”
“I was. Time to stop hoarding the empty wine and beer bottles in the garage.”
“Want some company?”
She cocked an eyebrow at me. “To the recycling center?”
“Sure. Have you been?”
“Not yet. Hence the hoarding comment.” Her words sounded more clipped than they had been a few weeks ago.
“Well, you’re in for a real island treat. Let me grab my stuff.” I turned back toward my garage, but didn’t get far before changing my mind. “Let’s take my truck.” We needed to clear the air and I’d rather do it on my turf.
“Okay.” I could hear the doubt in her voice.
“Trust me. This will be fun.”
“Okay, whatever you say. Want to grab that?” She pointed at the box sitting at her feet. “I have more back in the garage.”
“Great. The more the merrier. Grab it and I’ll meet you back here in a minute.”
She gave me a sidelong glance before shaking her head and tromping back inside. Being excited about a recycling center probably sounded strange, but Island Recycling was no ordinary place.
Everything loaded, we drove up the hill from the beach and headed up island.
“What’s the helmet for?” she asked, patting the orange plastic creating a barrier between us on the bench seat.
“Safety. What else are helmets used for?” I slipped back into my easiest way of communicating.
She responded with a roll of her eyes and a deep sigh. “I know that. Is this going to be similar to the last time we hung out where I ask a question and you deflect or ignore?”
My eyes wandered away from the road again to her face. “That wasn’t the extent of the last time we hung out. I remember something else more.”
Her lips twitched into an almost smile before clamping down into a straight line.
“Okay, no teasing. Sorry I didn’t answer your questions. You hit a nerve without realizing it. Wasn’t your fault,” I apologized.
“Yeah, I got that feeling. Why not say as much then, instead of clamming up and stewing?”
“Who’s stewing?” I asked even though I knew the answer.
She turned her body and tucked her left knee up on the seat to watch me while I drove. “Okay, I was prying, but I’m curious. We know some things about each other, but not the back story, not the history that makes us tick.”
“You want to know what makes me tick? I’m pretty straightforward.”
Her mouth gaped open. Maybe I hadn’t been so straightforward.
“You play things close, John Day. Other than your relationship with Kelly and you wear an orange helmet to work, I don’t know much about you. Same goes for me.”
“The orange helmet is so you can be seen in the woods and to protect your head from falling branches.”
“See? That’s a start. You are a real lumberjack?”
“Lumberjacks sing songs and eat flapjacks. I work in timber. Or if you want to be fancy, say Silviculture. If you must, you can call me a logger. Although I don’t work with saws and chokers on a daily basis.”
“Okay, logger it is. I suspected as much. That’s why the Paul Bunyan book is perfect.”
“And probably why I smell like a tree, according to you.” Talk of how I smelled took my mind back to the bookstore and what happened after at the pizza place. From her silence, I’d guess her mind went to the same place.
“It all makes sense now. See? This sharing stuff isn’t awful. Let’s start with the simple stuff.”
I turned to glare at her, narrowing my eyes at her motives. “Simple stuff?”
She nodded. “Like favorite food, favorite movie, favorite Turtle … basic get-to-know-each-other stuff. No sticky emotional questions or skeletons.”
“But how will we know when we hit something sticky or run into a skeleton?” I asked.
“We need a code word. Something which changes the subject without either of us feeling put out for being defensive or shut down.”
“Code word?”
“A code word. And you can pick it. A word that won’t come up in normal conversation or is the answer to a question.”
I took a moment to think over her offer of a code word as I turned off the main road to the dirt drive which led into the center. I spied my answer stacked into a pyramid.
“Bowling ball.”
“Bowling ball?” she asked.
“Yes, bowling ball.” I pointed toward the stack.
“Oh cool. Look, over there’s a bird sculpture!” She leaned forward toward the window, eyes wide taking in all the magic of the found objects.
“I thought you might like this place.” Pulling the truck up to the bottle bins, I turned off the engine. “Let’s dump this stuff, and then I’ll show you around.”
“This place is so cool,” she said, turning her head to rubberneck behind us at the stacks of old rusted cogs, scrap metal and the brightly painted lavender school bus. “Weird, but cool.”
I led her over to the bus after we dumped our stuff. Inside housed a small collection of used books.
“It’s a book bus. At a dump.”
“It is. Since you like old books, I figured you’d love this.”
She climbed up the narrow steps and entered the bus. I followed her into the tight space crammed with shelves and the smell of old paper. There wasn’t much room to maneuver or turn around, and we found ourselves standing shoulder to shoulder while she scanned the shelves.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
“For what?” I whispered back, unsure why we were whispering. We weren’t in a library.
“For bringing me to the dump because you thought I’d like it. I can honestly say no guy, or woman, has ever taken me some place like this.”
“I’m nothing if not a classy guy.”
“Do you bring all the girls here?”
“No, only the ones who’d get excited by some rusty metal and a slightly musty smelling copy of a bird book.” I pointed at the book she clutched to her chest.
“How many women do you know who fit that description?”
“Only one.” I smiled down at her. “Ready?”
“Sure.”
I stepped down and turned to help her off the last step. She gave my hand a squeeze before letting go.
“I love this place. It’s full of amazing things others have thrown away because they thought they were trash.”
“The saying is true. One man’s trash …” I didn’t need to finish the statement.
Bent over to examine a large triple-domed birdcage resting on its side in the mud, she turned and smiled up at me. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but we’re kind of like this stuff.”
“Garbage? Gee, you think so highly of us.” I frowned.
“No, the treasure. Only they didn’t see it.”
Not getting her meaning, I asked, “Who?”
“Mr. Not-so-Perfect and Kelly. They tossed us aside, not realizing what they were giving up.”
I nodded, but I still wasn’t getting it. “Which one of us is the birdcage?”
“We’re everything. Misfit toys, broken window frame, old Encyclopedia Britannica volumes.”
“Useless and outdated crap?” My eyebrows pulled together as I tried to figure out how this flattered either of us.
“If you want to see it that way. I prefer to think it takes the right person to see the treasure inside someone else. You’re not useless or worthless to me. Or to anyone else who matters in your life. That’s my point.”
She was either incredibly wise or crazy. Or both.
“I think I get it. I’m the cool stack of bowling balls, not expired meat.”
“Are you saying the code word?”
I licked my bottom lip and chewed on the scruff right below it before smiling at her. “Nope. I’m embracing my bowling ball status.”
“Good. I’m the birdcage.”
“And what a lovely birdcage you are.” Our tension lifted and we settled back into right. The even keel comfort between us returned.
“You have enough fun at the dump?”
“Best time at the dump ever.” She grinned up at me, her eyes alight with happiness.
“Glad to hear it. I still don’t know what your favorite ice cream is, but I know you identify yourself as an old birdcage. I think it says more about you than the simple stuff.”
“I agree, bowling balls.” She reached out and grabbed my hand and swung it between us.
“We need a new code word.”
“How about pyramid? I don’t see us managing to bring that into conversation.”
“We might if we have a heated discussion about Egypt.”
“Or Mexico.”
“Or Mexico,” I said at the same time, swinging her hand when we walked over to the truck. “Pyramid it is.”
“Hopefully we won’t have to use it.”
I liked her optimism.
Winter’s iciness thawed into rain and the sun broke through the gray more often when February turned to March. Diane and I hung out, often playing what she dubbed “Truth or Pyramids”—a nod to our code word. The need for an out faded as we learned about each other.
“Favorite Star Wars?” she asked.
“Star Wars.”
“Favorite city?” I asked.
“London.”
“Favorite tree?” she asked
“Cedar.”
“Favorite body of water?” I asked.
“A lake.”
“Favorite fish?” she asked
“Salmon.”
And so it continued for weeks. Neither of us ever said pyramid.
We talked about other stuff: weather, island gossip, zombie apocalypse preparedness, and the probability of a zombie apocalypse. And if zombies existed, then other supernatural creatures must exist, too, which led to reminiscing about our vampire story. Normal stuff. Sometimes we went to the movies. Once we drove to Oak Harbor when she swore she craved fast food only to figure out she had lost her taste for it after going so long without it.
Occasionally, I’d have a guys’ night out with Donnely. On some of those nights we headed over to town and flirted with women we hadn’t known our whole lives. But I never missed the last ferry. The appeal wasn’t there. Donnely commented, but didn’t make a big deal of it, which surprised me at the time. He also toned down hitting on Diane. Guess he figured she was sticking around and wasn’t giving in to his charms any time soon. Could have been that or she beat him at pool every time they played. Losing damaged a man’s ego.
After much reminding from my aunt, we found ourselves in her Jeep driving to have Sunday dinner with my family. I kept warning her they might be overbearing or my uncle would probably say something homophobic, but they were good people. She’d never asked about my family again and I’d been nervous she’d find out all the ugly truth. I could have told her upfront, but the topic hadn’t come up. And I was a chicken shit.
While we bumped along the unpaved driveway through the woods to the house, I filled her in on the list of cousins who might show up. I felt relief when only two cars sat in the driveway. We’d lucked out and my explanations were for naught. No big family inquisition.
Helen and Peter were as nice as could be to Diane, offering her wine and inviting her to help herself to the homemade cheese-ball or smoked salmon. She politely tried both, asking if Peter had smoked the salmon.
“John and I did it together. I’m surprised he hasn’t shared some with you already.”
“I’ve heard legend of his fish sharing, but he’s never brought me any fish.”
I wondered where she’d heard that … ah, Maggie. They must have talked. Of course they talked. Maggie was her landlord. Made me wonder what else they spoke about. Specifically, what did they say about me?
Dinner tasted delicious. After we finished eating, Peter invited Diane to sit with him while I helped my aunt with the cleanup. He insisted, even after she offered. Damn him. I hated doing the dishes.
Helen waved me away from the sink. “Stand here and keep me company while I clean up. You’ll only get in the way.”
“I knew there was a reason I loved you,” I said, leaning down and kissing the top of her head.
“I talked to your dad last week. They’re thinking of bringing the RV up this summer. We figured they could park it here on the property for a visit.”
My spine stiffened at the idea of my father visiting.
“I can see how happy you are about the idea. He’s your dad, John. The only parent you have. You only get one set to start out with and there isn’t a return policy.”
“I know,” I grumbled and picked at a spot on her counter with my thumbnail. “I’ll play nice when they come. I promise.” Even to my own ears I sounded like an insincere child.
“You have a couple of months to practice.” She sighed and patted my arm.
A change of subject was needed and she chose the exact one I’d rather not discuss with her. If only my code word worked with everyone.
“Diane seems like a nice girl.”
Pyramid.
I leaned back and peered around the corner to see Peter and Diane in the living room. Her soft laughter carried into the kitchen. Nothing appeared out of sorts, nor did she sound uncomfortable.
“Yeah, Diane’s nice. We’ve been hanging out.”
“Is that code for dating?”
“No, in this case it means spending time together, but not dating.”
“Is that the same thing as hooking up?”
Pyramid.
“No, not hooking up. Hooking up is the benefits of dating without the dates if you know what I mean.”
“Oh.” She paused. “Well.”
“Yeah. Not that.”
“Good. A nice girl should be respected and treated like a lady. I think your generation would benefit from courting.”
“Seriously? Courting? My generation? You’re not that old. Dad got Mom pregnant before they got married. Sounds like your generation could have benefitted from it too.” I bumped her hip with mine to emphasize my teasing.
“Oh, those things have always happened.”
‘Those things’ were my brother James, born fourteen months before me.
“Speaking of the bastard child, how is Jim?”
“Don’t call your brother a bastard. Haven’t spoken with him, so I guess he’s fine. You should call him.”
Pyramid.
“Sure. I’m going to check on Diane. We should probably get going.”
Peeking into the living room, I spied Peter showing her a framed photo. The familiar frame and the picture in it would open a whole big box of pyramids.
Why did I think bringing her to dinner was a good idea?