Paul pulled his worn work gloves out of his back pocket and laid them on the tailgate of the truck. “We’ve been at this for ten hours, man. I’m dragging.” He sized up the yard before them—weeds, overgrown bushes, and tall grass. This place needed the works, and it was on the schedule for tomorrow morning, not tonight.
“You don’t have to stay. Heck, you can go and I’ll still split the profits with you,” Malcolm said, and roughly twisted the gas cap on the lawn mower.
Paul examined his friend. He didn’t like the tense set of his shoulders or the wrinkle between his eyebrows. He picked up his sweaty gloves again, and wrestled them onto his hands. He bent over and picked up the weed whacker. “Let’s do this last yard, then I’m going somewhere fun to hang out, and you’re coming with me. Derek and some of the guys are camping out at his house. We could dig up some sleeping bags and head over there.”
“Nah. I’d rather just go home.”
“You mean you want to throw yourself on your bed, call Fay, and moan about how much you miss each other until she has to go. Then you’ll just lay there in the dark, feeling sick, until you finally stop thinking and fall asleep.”
Malcolm stopped fiddling with the gas can and looked up at Paul. “You been peeking in my windows?”
“Let’s just say that maybe we spend a little too much time together.”
Malcolm gave a tiny chuckle.
“Celia misses her, too. We could all three go do something,” Paul said.
Malcolm leaned against the truck and crossed his arms over his chest. “How is Celia?”
She was acting distant, Paul knew that much. She was clearly sad Fay was gone, but Paul thought she was trying to push him away a little bit, too. It was one step forward and two steps back with her, and he guessed their walk the other day had been too big of a leap.
His mind tripped over the image that had been tormenting him the last hour. He and Malcolm had stopped at the hardware store right before it closed, to get a can of oil, and there was Celia in the parking lot, sitting on the trunk of some car with Nick and two guys he didn’t know, laughing. The unexpected jealousy that roared through him had been brutal, even as he realized he had no right to it.
He grabbed a rag out of the truck and wiped down the shield on the weed trimmer. “You haven’t noticed how she slams everybody’s plates down at the restaurant? We were sitting right there when Heidi griped at her for it this morning.”
Malcolm ran a hand over his face. “I guess I’ve been pretty wrapped up in myself. I’m sure she’s missing Fay pretty bad,” he said, his voice bereft. He turned and dug around in the toolbox by the cab of the truck.
“I know you are, too.”
Malcolm’s shoulders slumped, and he let out a large breath.
“So quit working so much and let yourself have a little fun. Come out with me, and help me convince Celia to come. It’ll make you feel better.”
Malcolm turned to face Paul, and finally stopped digging around absent-mindedly in the truck. “I’m not really in the mood to feel better.”
“So you’re just going to let yourself bleed out?”
“I’m just going to bleed out. And you’re going to let me. And if that’s what Celia wants, you should let her do that, too. Sometimes people just need to process their feelings, and let the bad ones exist without trying to make them go away. I know you like to cheer people up, but sometimes you have to let them be.”
Paul sighed, defeated. He couldn’t argue with words that had clearly come straight from Malcolm’s mother. “Alright, no problem. We work, you bleed.”
Paul yanked the cord on the weed trimmer and made his way over to the house and began obliterating the weeds around the foundation. He always found this part of the job immensely satisfying—turning a scraggly mess into a neat lawn. After a minute, the mower started up—a good sign. A little more than an hour later, he had hit all the weeds and also trimmed the hedges out front. He wiped down the equipment and stowed it in the truck. After Malcolm drove the mower up onto the trailer, he helped him tie it off.
Malcolm clapped him on the shoulder. “Get in the truck. I’ll drop you off at home.”
“You mean we’re actually calling it a day?” Paul studied him warily. “Is your mom home tonight?”
Malcolm chuckled. “You worried about me, Paul?”
“Just asking.”
“Well, it’s nothing to worry about. But yeah, Mom should be home. Maybe I’ll help her cook dinner.”
Malcolm dropped Paul off in front of his house, and as he bounded up the steps, he smiled to himself. Malcolm seemed better after some extra time riding the mower. He’d be fine. Malcolm didn’t have the kind of life where you didn’t end up fine. The worry that had draped itself around Paul’s shoulders slipped off as he stepped inside his stuffy living room.
He wanted a shower and then he wanted to knock right on Celia’s front door. He could almost feel the wood under his knuckles. No way was he letting her bleed out. He wondered what feelings would show on her face when she saw him there under her porch light.
He flipped on his living room light, and his chest tightened at the scene in front of him. Though he knew he should feel compassion, maybe even pick up that cloak of worry and drape it back around his shoulders, instead he sighed in frustration. He didn’t want to deal with this tonight. He had other things in mind to do.
His mom sat on the couch in a nightgown, the box fan on the coffee table blowing right on her. Paul wasn’t sure how much it could help, as blazing hot as it was in here. A pile of used tissues sat on the couch beside her, and she dearly needed to use another one.
He didn’t say anything to his mother, and she didn’t say anything to him, but her quiet weeping followed him into the bathroom where he pulled the tissue box out of the wicker holder on the sink.
He hit the kitchen next, and grabbed a granola bar out of the cabinet and tucked the trash can under his arm. Back in the living room, he set the tissue box beside his mom, and then swept all the used ones into the trash. He unwrapped the granola bar and pried open her fingers and laid it on her palm.
Next he opened both windows as wide as they would go, and moved the fan to sit in one of them. He muttered curses under his breath as he struggled with the fan, trying to get it to fit in the window frame without falling forward. After about ten tries, it was finally wedged in well enough.
He grabbed the bottle of Xanax off the coffee table and tucked it in his pocket. He didn’t want her reaching for it again tonight. She’d been taking it for anxiety for years now. There was a doctor in Bakerstown who kept prescribing higher and higher doses for her, and all she had to do was ask.
“How many did you take tonight, Mom?”
Another whimper slithered up her throat and out her mouth. “I’m fine, Paulie.” Her voice was sleepy and dim. “I’m fine, now that you’re home.” She reached out to touch his arm, but her reach didn’t come far enough, and her hand thumped down on the couch beside her. She curled her fingers into the pilled, rough surface.
Paul sighed and sank down beside her, taking her hand and squeezing it. “Have you eaten lately?”
She took a tiny nibble of the granola bar. “You’re such a good boy. I’m very lucky to have you, I hope you know.”
He swallowed, trying to dislodge the lump in his throat. It wasn’t going away. It took him a minute until he could speak. “How many pills, Mom?”
She sniffled and swiped at her face with a fresh tissue, finally. “Just the one. I’m sure of it, this time.”
“Why were you just sitting here in the dark? Didn’t you go to work today?” He already knew the answer, but he hoped maybe she’d gone to work before coming home and falling apart.
“I couldn’t work today. I just couldn’t. But I’ll be fine tomorrow.”
He stared straight ahead as she cleaned her face with the tissue. She only got ten paid sick days a year. She’d used those up after her first two months at this job. Now she lost a day’s pay every time she called in sick. It wouldn’t be long before she lost more than that.
The old cuckoo clock on the wall was broken, stuck at 4:17. It had been that way as long as Paul could remember. Every now and then he wondered why they didn’t fix it or take it down. The clock was stuck in the past, his mom was stuck in the past, and he was stuck right along with them.
The couch felt too hot where he leaned back against it, and the lump under his left thigh was making his leg fall asleep. But in a familiar way, it was comfortable. Same as his mom’s crying, same as the pile of tissues that was growing again on the coffee table. It was all familiar. The rest of the night played out in his mind, and he knew just how it would go—the same as countless other nights. His breathing sped up, and the comfortable feeling fled as resentment tried to get a foothold. He took a deep breath, not letting it. “Mom, you think you’re about ready for bed?”
She looked up at the broken clock, as if it was going to tell her the time—tell her that she was ready for bed. “I am tired. But then, I’m always so tired.”
“I know, Mom. You’ll feel better after some sleep.”
She reached up and patted his face with her damp hand. “And you won’t leave?”
His gut twisted with guilt, because that’s exactly what he was going to do. He was going to get her in bed, make sure she was asleep, and then he was going to get the hell out of there. “Come on, let’s get you to bed.”
Closing the front door, slowly and with a light hand, Paul steadied himself for an onslaught of guilt. It didn’t come. He had helped his mom to bed, letting her lean nearly all her weight against him, and shielded her head from hitting the headboard as she dropped down onto the mattress. He pulled the sheet up over her because she was unable to do it herself. The sight of her hands fumbling around and grasping only air, as though she couldn’t even locate the sheet, played on repeat in his thoughts. He sat on the corner of her bed until her breathing was steady, and his earlier anger and frustration wilted.
He turned and looked out at his front yard. The bushes were neatly trimmed, and there wasn’t a weed anywhere in sight. He even had some red geraniums blooming by the steps. He was doing okay.
He swiped his clean, damp hair away from his forehead and took a deep breath. His body was exhausted, but his mind didn’t want to rest. He shuffled down the steps and turned left, having decided to take the long way in order to give his heavy mood time to disappear by the time he saw Celia.
The August evening still held an oppressive heat, though the air wasn’t as thick as it had been earlier in the day. After his mom fell asleep, he showered and then boiled half a box of pasta. He ate all of it, plain, and was still hungry, but didn’t want to cook anything else.
After about ten minutes, he could see the windows of Celia’s house glowing with yellow light. Hers was the first house on her street, and it shone like a beacon, drawing him near. He didn’t hesitate. He crossed the yard and then the porch, and rapped a steady three times on the door.
Someone on a front porch down the street laughed loudly. The bugs were loud tonight too, but Celia’s porch felt like an entire world of its own. Paul raised his hand to knock again, but lowered it when footfalls sounded behind the door.
He looked to the window to see if he could see who was coming, suddenly nervous it would be her dad. The window on the right was boarded over. He leaned to the left to look in the other window when the door inched partway open.
Celia looked up at him, surprise on her face. “Paul…”
“Hey.” He leaned against the door frame. “Feel like going on a walk?”
She glanced over her shoulder, then further narrowed the opening of the door. She didn’t step out, but spoke through a six-inch gap. “I probably shouldn’t.” She closed the door another few inches. “Bye, Paul,” she whispered.
Before she could close the door fully, Paul curled his fingers around the edge of it, and leaned in close, his face a breath away from hers. “I’m going to the park in the center of town, if you change your mind and want to meet me there later. I’ll wait by the pond.”
She didn’t shut the door. “I don’t know. I’m not supposed to go out tonight.” She was quiet a moment. “But, maybe.”
Paul headed straight there, as fast as his feet could take him.
He sat on the grass near the water’s edge, watching the reflection of fireflies in the small public fishing pond. It was late, and he hadn’t seen another soul since he arrived. He’d been waiting for more than an hour, enjoying the quiet and letting his thoughts come and go at will.
“You’re still here.” Celia spoke from behind him.
He stood quickly, slipping and nearly falling down. He laughed at his clumsiness, and turned to her. “I would have waited all night. It wouldn’t be such a bad place to sleep.”
“You’re that desperate to spend a little time with me?” She took a step closer.
He loved it when she teased him. “I’d try to deny it, but you’d see right through me.”
She smiled, and looked around the park. It was empty except for the two of them and the fish in the pond.
“So. Apparently I’m worth sneaking out for,” he said.
She raised her eyebrows. “Sneaking out is its own reward.”
“True.” He gestured toward the pond. “Want to put your feet in? I know how you love sticking your feet into questionable liquids.” She didn’t move. He sat back down and patted the spot beside him. “The grass is dry.”
Eventually she walked to the edge of the water and sat. She was close enough that he could feel the warmth of her body on his arm.
He glanced at her. The moonlight made her black hair look silver at the crown. “Want to swim?”
“Nah.”
“School starts next week.”
“I don’t even want to think about that.”
“Celia?”
“Yeah?”
“Are you still upset about Ronan?” He asked about Ronan because he didn’t want to ask about the boys he’d seen her with this afternoon. He’d decided he wasn’t going to bring it up. Even though it still made him feel a little green, he’d talked himself down. If it was something he should know about, she would tell him.
“Oh, please.”
“What does that mean?”
“I’m not sitting here heartbroken, if that’s what you’re wondering. It’s been weeks, and I was the one who broke up with him.”
“Okay, but just because you broke up with him doesn’t mean—”
“Paul,” she interrupted, “it’s not like that at all. I’m not hung up on him. He’s a jerk. Apparently I’m more over it than you are. Let’s talk about something else. Anything else. I didn’t plan on arguing with you tonight.”
“We’re not arguing.”
“We are so arguing. We argue every time we’re together.” She sat, looking out at the water.
“Celia, will you look at me?”
Nothing. Maybe they were arguing.
The din of crickets and frogs filled the silence. “Hey, look.” He pointed across the water, where the grass was tall at the edge and a small dock stood, lichen covered and rotting. There was a fishing boat. “Let’s go for a ride.”
He stood up and held out his hand to help her to her feet. She looked at him skeptically. “Whose boat is that?”
“Nobody who’s using it right now.”
She stood without taking his hand, and started walking around the edge of the pond. “It’s really annoying that this was your idea, Paulie. I’m the one who thinks of things like this.”
He followed after her, pleased. They arrived at the dock, to see that the small fishing boat wasn’t tied to it. It rested about eight feet out in the water—too far to reach without getting wet. They stood behind the cattails, watching it gently bob.
Paul looked at her with a crooked grin on his face. “Should we flip a coin to see who has to go get it?”
“Nope.”
Before he could tell her he was only joking, she stepped out of her flip flops, parted the weeds and cattails with her arms, and walked right into the water. She gripped the edge of the boat with her hands and walked it toward the shore.
Paul, mesmerized by the surface of the water skimming her thighs just below her shorts, blinked hard to avert his gaze and walked through the weeds, his boots squelching on the wet ground. “I was going to do that.”
“You snooze, you lose.” She pushed the boat as close to the edge as it would go, and held it steady as he stepped in. He then held his hand out to her, but once again, she managed on her own. She climbed into the boat, and sat down at one end.
He sat down facing her. The boat rocked and drifted a bit away from the cattails. He stretched his long arm down into the water, until he found purchase on the muddy bottom. The boat lurched as he gave it a shove, and they drifted out into the water. “This is upsetting. I wanted to bring you the boat and then sit back and let you pile on the praise,” he said.
“Because I have a tendency to gush?” She asked, and they both smiled. “Anyway, my legs will be dry in a minute, and you’re some sort of strange creature who wears jeans and boots year-round. Don’t you get hot?”
“I’m willing to suffer for fashion,” he joked. The truth was, his work boots were the only pair of shoes he owned, and he thought they’d look stupid if he wore them with shorts.
Celia leaned forward and tugged on the laces of his boots. He sat stiffly, not moving a muscle, feeling the muted press of her fingertips through the leather, his eyes on her shiny legs. “What are you doing?”
She gave him a mischievous look. “You never know when a boat might capsize. We have to protect your fabulous boots.”
She had them both untied and was working to loosen the laces, but that was almost too much for Paul to take. His whole body buzzed with her attention. He pulled his feet toward himself, tugged a boot off, and heaved it onto the shore. He did the same with his other boot. “Satisfied now?”
“Almost. Here, why don’t you put your legs on the outside, and I’ll take the middle?” The boat was small. Paul took up most of it, his long legs bent up to make room for hers.
At her urging, he straightened his legs so they bracketed the sides of the boat. Celia, legs still bent, placed her bare feet together on the bottom of the boat, between his knees. He studied her feet, a little too restless to look at her face. Her toenails were painted purple, and she had a tiny little ring around one of her toes. He thought that must be terribly uncomfortable.
Suddenly, she started laughing. She leaned over, cackling into her knees.
“What is it?” he asked, chuckling. He always laughed when someone else did, even if he didn’t know what was funny yet.
She lifted her head, still howling with laughter, and wiped underneath her eyes with her fingers. “Paulie, there aren’t any oars in this boat.”