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Love, BelieveItOrNot and thimbles.

Chapter 12

There's some kind of pattern to the hours Edward works. Some days, he's gone when I pull up at home. More often than not, though, his truck is still on the street, and the shwick of shovel against dirt or the sawing of wood greets me while I dump my keys and relieve my feet from my pumps.

Today, his truck is here but I can't hear the sounds of labor as I change out of my work clothes and add them to the mountain on my bedroom floor. I should probably do some laundry soon.

Comfortable in a T-shirt and shorts, I move to the sliding doors to play my daily game of Spot the Differences. Edward's nowhere to be seen. He must have taken off while I was changing. I push open the door, step outside, and breathe in the smell of sun-baked earth.

The strange geometric shapes composed of wooden stakes and string look like some kind of trap, a primitive version of those criss-crossing laser nets used in banks and museums to stop thieves in heist films.

I walk on my tiptoes through the yard so I don't trip over a string and uproot Edward's careful planning. It's actually the garden design sketched out, like a quick pencil drawing an artist might do before they take brush to canvas. And I'm standing in it.

Here is where the vegetable patch will be. Over there, the beds set aside for colorful perennials. This square area will be paved over, home to my barbeque and outdoor dining set. He's even marked out where the patio will be extended later.

I make my way back onto the existing patio and take a seat, my back against the table. I curve my hands around the edge of the bench and pick at the flaking paint with my thumbs. It has a papery texture. A nail-sized piece of dirty white paint pulls away and reveals the teal color beneath. I should really sand back this table set and paint it, or varnish it, depending on what the wood looks like. I can get the benches cushioned and covered like I always intended.

Summer's getting closer. Edward will have my garden looking gorgeous by the time Maggie's "Begin Anew" party rolls around, but there will still be so much I want to do with the place.

I could take some time off work. I've been hoarding my vacation time for years. In case I got sick. For that trip through Italy I can no longer afford. I'll take two weeks off, use the time to search for a new job, get some stuff done around here; get the insides of this place matching the outsides.

The sun is warm on my bare legs, the tops of my shoulders. The breeze flicks the ends of my hair. I close my eyes, rest my elbows back on the table top, and lift my face to the sky.

Am I imagining Edward's voice? I finger the cool glass of my pendant.

"Don't need…"

My tummy flips. That's definitely him.

Gianna's voice follows. My stomach clenches. "You will… Thursday."

"We have a game."

Their voices grow louder, closer. "You can just skip–"

"No, I can't." He draws out the word "No," the way people do to make themselves clear, to let the other person know there's no question. I imagine his cap pulled low, hiding his eyes.

"Carmen and Eleazar–"

"Fuck Carmen and Eleazar. I'd rather–"

"Hang out with ten year-old boys? Of course you would."

He doesn't respond. I turn my head to see him standing at the corner of the house, cap in hand. His hair is flattened on one side in a way that makes me think he just pulled it off.

"Hey, Bella." He says it louder than he needs to, for her benefit, not mine.

Gianna steps around him with her head held high. I can see she's flustered, though, her smile too wide, her voice too high-pitched. "Bella, hi. How are you?"

I try to look her in the eye but I end up speaking to her forehead. "Good."

They both speak at the same time.

"I wanted–"

"I asked her to–" Edward makes a resigned "after you" gesture that Gianna doesn't see as she steps up onto the patio.

"He–" she waves a hand back toward Edward "–asked me to bring something by for you to see and I just thought I'd pop back here to take a look at what he's been up to. Make sure you're getting your money's worth out of him."

Edward's shoulders sag as he rubs a hand over his face. His fingernails are filthy and there's a long scratch, outlined in dried blood, on his forearm.

"I'm really happy with the work Edward's doing." I wish I were brave enough to tell her that I am, on the other hand, sick of accidentally eavesdropping on her. Do you know how well your voice carries? I could say. But I'm not that brave, so I just look at Edward and hope he can tell I don't blame him for what I just overheard as I say, "It's looking great out here."

"I'm sorry, Bella." I guess he didn't get the message. "I figured you'd…" He tips his head toward the house and I understand what he means. He didn't expect to find me outside—and there's no reason he should. I've made every effort to keep our paths from crossing.

It's uncomfortable, the silence, the two of them standing, fidgeting, and me sitting, watching them. I get to my feet. "You wanted me to see something?"

"Yeah–"

"Some plants he thought you might like." Once again, Gianna takes over. "They're in my car." She looks back at Edward. "Why don't you go get them?"

He looks at her, his eyebrows drawn together, and for a moment I think he might tell her do it herself. But then he turns and disappears back down the side of the house.

Gianna sits down and pats the bench seat beside her. With her sitting here, all neat, clean nails, and hair shining like molten copper in the sunlight, the setting looks that much shabbier. I sit down and twist my fingers together in my lap.

"Here." She hands me the photo of the groundbreaking ceremony. "For your mom."

I take it from her slowly, caught off guard by the gesture. I'd forgotten Gianna had said she would make a copy for me.

There I am, a smile on my face my mother would call goofy, and holding the shovel, accessorized with its shiny red bow. Edward, who was right next to me, whose arm I can see, is otherwise cut out of the picture. I feel my face fall. He was more a part of that day than the front-and-center shovel, and there's no way to go back and retake this picture.

And it's that long before I say, "Thank you." I set it down on the table behind me.

"Did you try the oysters at Camille's the other night? I couldn't stop eating them."

My smile feels mechanical. One side hitches up and pulls the other with it. "No, we… I, um, I'll have to try them next time." I won't.

"If you do," she says, "you should have them with one of the local Chardonnays. Something from the Santa Maria Valley, maybe. I was so impressed with their wine list."

"Sure." A conversation better suited for Maggie. I'm surprised they don't know each other.

As Gianna continues, I barely listen. My eyes are fixed on the corner of the house, waiting for Edward to reappear. I still my jiggling knees.

He rounds the corner with about six potted plants. His fingers spread like claws, he carries them by the rims of the black plastic pots. The roping tendons in his wrists are the only sign of his exertion.

He moves into the shade of one of the trees and sets the pots down. I look at Gianna. She's tapping away at her phone. I wonder when she stopped talking and if she noticed my inattention.

I stand up, adjust the shoulders on my T-shirt, smooth it down. Gianna doesn't move. I join Edward under the tree.

"I tried… I mean, I mentioned this a while back." He nudges one of the pots with his foot. "This lilac."

"I remember." I look closer. The leaves are a dark, glossy green, their edges serrated. The little clusters of blossoms vary from a pale purple to an almost-blue. "These are all the same."

Edward nods. "I thought seeing it might help." He traces out the line of the garden bed, now helpfully indicated with string. "This area. I know I drew manzanitas here, but you…" He runs his hand through his hair.

"I what?"

"You barely glanced at them, at the nursery. But this one. It stuck in my head how much you liked this one. No pressure. You didn't know you wanted the poppy. Maybe you don't know you want this. I wouldn't be doing my job if I didn't offer it to you."

I brush a finger over the tip of a blossom. As light as my touch is, the flower moves with me. He introduced this subject a week or so ago. I'd interrupted him, rudely, and still he brings these to me. I lift my face, his eyes waiting. Somehow I'm not thinking of the plant anymore. I find myself wanting to ask, How can Gianna not appreciate what she has in you? At least this part of you. I want to say it so badly that my saliva feels hot while the inside of my stomach forms a knot. I drop my attention to the lilac and rearrange my thoughts. I'm taking this too personally. He's not doing this for me alone. He's doing this because it's his job. He just said as much.

I pull my hand away from the plant and swallow what little saliva is there. It's a wonder how the simplest acts can affect a person so physically. "You don't think there'd be—I guess—too much lilac?"

He chuckles, simple and natural, no struggle inside of him like the one I fight. "No such thing."

I tell him he's right. I want that lilac.

.

Inside, I stand like stone between my living room and my kitchen, facing the short hallway that leads to my bedroom, and also facing a truth. What may have once been an old crush returned, based on old, heightened, teenage memories has taken on new legs and begun to find a steady pace.

I move with these new legs to my front window and watch Edward's truck trailing after Gianna's shiny SUV, and I wonder what will happen when they pull into their own driveway.

I imagine slammed doors and stony-faced silence. He should be upset. The way she speaks to him, not even to him, the way she speaks around him as if he's not even there. Joking at his expense. He was worried about the business going under, told me about the mistakes he'd made underquoting. Maybe he's got it wrong. Maybe it's her—her shrewishness that makes people reluctant to hire them.

Possibly I'm being unfair. But I didn't imagine the frustration on his face when he came around the corner, their argument still hanging in the air. And I didn't imagine the way his shoulders slumped when she questioned his work ethic. He's a good guy. Thoughtful. Hard-working. She shouldn't treat him like he's a bratty kid who needs to be scolded into doing his chores.

I picture his mouth turning down, the way it does just before he looks at his shoes. The way he shoves his hands in his pockets or runs them through his hair, so unsure of himself. But no. That was under the tree. That… that was because of me.

I'm moving, not seeing where I'm walking, my head so full of Edward there's no room for thinking about where I'm going. When my calves meet couch, my knees buckle. I pull a pillow into my lap.

It's easy to criticize Gianna. She doesn't value what she has. But I'm no better. He told me they were having problems and I turned my back and walked away. I put my own peace of mind ahead of his. And for nothing; it hasn't curbed my attraction. I've just added guilt to guilt by treating him like the dirt under my shoes.

I say it aloud. Let myself hear it. "I like him." I cuddle the pillow close, my cheek against the pilled cotton.

Since he showed up at my door, I've been like a kid trying to puff out one of those trick birthday candles. Trying to blow his image from my mind, only to have it reignite again and again.

I've run out of puff.

So screw it. I'll take what I can get. I'll be his friend. If he'll let me.

I sag against the couch cushions. It's a relief, making up my mind to stop holding him at arm's length. I tip my head back and close my eyes. There he is. His smile. The bob of his throat as he swallows. The ripple and roll of muscles in his arms. His hair, all messy from being stuffed under his cap all day.

My feet are light, disconnected, as I lift them one at a time up onto the coffee table. In the process, I bump the pile of magazines and papers and send half of them tumbling to the floor. I let them lie.

.

Freedom comes with finalizing a decision and seeing it through. It's like I've opened the cage of my skull and released dead weight. I'm the tail-strings on a kite, swooped off my feet. Jake looks at me like I'm from Mars when I tell him Alice has granted my request for a two-week vacation.

He follows me into my office. "Now? Are you going somewhere?" His dark skin takes on some red. "Why not break the weeks up? Two week— you know a temp's going to have to fill in for you. Actually, Tanya will probably fill in for you while a temp takes her job. People are after jobs right now."

"I don't know if I want this one anymore. It might be up for grabs soon." I walk over to my desk. "Don't you hate the color of these walls? Drab gray. It's like they want to put us to sleep. But you can't sleep here. And it's so sunny outside." I glance out the window—not as sunny as at home. "Well, the sun's out anyway."

"You've changed," Jacob says.

Have I? I touch the hollow of my throat where my collar bones meet. I drop my finger to catch my chain. "No, I haven't. I'm just thinking. Just voicing thoughts I usually suppress or make excuses for!"

"Are you mad at me? Is it my fault you don't like your job?"

"Jake, I'm not mad at you. I'm annoyed. With myself. I feel cornered. Don't you know what I mean? But I'm not cornered. I'm in my twenties. There are options. Avenues. You know, maybe this is my fork in the road."

Jacob closes my door and lowers his voice as if he's the one who was almost yelling. "Hey, don't let Alice hear you. You know how many people want your job? With the Marina branch gone? Girl. Except for Alice, you and I get the highest paychecks here. And this job market. Don't go letting people see you sweat right now. Get what I'm saying?"

"'Never let them see you sweat.' Sure." I can't bring myself to care if people see me sweat, if they smell my dissatisfaction cubicles, or offices, or office buildings away. I fall back into my chair and push away from my desk, let my chair roll until it hits the wall behind me. "But some people have jobs they love."

"Some people don't have jobs." He jabs my desk with his pointed finger and jackhammers away at the wood. "Our work is not pointless. Of all the pointless jobs out there, our work is not one of them." His finger stills and his hand slides out flat, pinky against my pen holder. "We actually, whether you see it or not, make a positive difference in people's lives."

"Yeah. I know that. I do. I do."

"So you take a vacation. You come back. Refreshed."

I scoot my chair back up to my desk and imagine Tanya sitting here. I'm not a bit fazed.