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Chapter 14
The side gate squeaks open and I set my watering can down on the table. I listen to footsteps, but don't turn. He doesn't need to know I hear him coming, or that I have been wondering if he would be back. I heard him from my bedroom window early this morning, but he was gone again before I was dressed. He's back. A breeze whispers through my hair—through me. I pick up the can and shower Poppy and Sprout with water.
"Hey, I can do that for you."
The breeze has passed, but as Edward approaches the table a chill travels the back of my neck and down my spine. "It's okay. I like it, helping something grow."
He stops before he gets too close, even taking a half-step back. "We're going to be a few days behind." He lifts his cap off his head and, unshadowed, I see his face clearer. He's nervous.
"What's going on?" I turn all the way toward him so I'm dead-on facing him.
"I had to sort some stuff out with one of the suppliers. Good thing the guy called to double-check your address, because whoever took my order f– messed up. It would've sucked if they'd dumped forty cubic yards of gravel on your driveway." He wipes his sweaty forehead with the back of his wrist. A water bottle dangles between the fingers of his other hand.
He lets himself move closer. "They won't be able to make the delivery until Wednesday. I spent half the morning fixing this while digging a trench at the site the other guys are working on."
He runs his finger around the tiles on Sprout's pot. Sprout is as tall as Edward's hand, its glossy leaves still furled. Along the side of my house, unseen from here, jasmine, nandina, and lilac wait to find their new home in my yard. But from where we stand, the two old trees, the vine creeping along the top of the fence that separates my yard from Mr. Crowley's, and Sprout and Poppy in their little pots are the only visible greenery.
"It's a bulb, right? Tulip?"
"I'm not sure. It's a surprise. Sprout wasn't supposed to be mine."
"Sprout?" I can see his laughter building, squinting the corners of his eyes. "Bella, did you name this plant?" He dusts his finger back and forth against the pot.
"Sprout got you this gig." I touch the pot, too, feel the jagged edge of one of the tiles. "He– it was supposed to be my friend's get-well-soon gift. But she abandoned it. Left me to raise it as my own."
Edward's short laugh, as though he's charmed by this, rattles my ribcage like I'm the one laughing. And I do a little.
"It got me thinking, you know, about fixing this place up." I wave an arm to indicate the yard.
"Would you say it planted the idea in your mind?"
I groan. "That was awful."
He smirks. "Hey, Bella?"
I raise my eyebrows.
"Why was there no food around the tree?"
"Uh, why?"
"Because the arbor-eat-em."
"That one's even worse," I say. But I'm smiling.
"Why shouldn't you iron a four leaf clover?"
"I don't know." I shake my head. "Why shouldn't you?"
"Because you don't want to press your luck."
"Oh, my God. Where do you hear these? Is there, like, a forum or something on the internet where gardeners get together and make bad jokes?"
"Probably." Edward scratches the side of his neck. "If a plant is sad, do you think the other plants photosympathize with it?"
The joke's not that funny. It's totally lame, but Edward is grinning at me and a giggle rises inside me. I slap a hand over my mouth, but I can't contain it.
I spot familiar mischief in his eyes. Young, teenager mischief, like the time he reduced a Renoir to a cartoon of our class.
His face was aimed at the painting Mrs. Molina's battered overhead projector had thrown up on the wall, but he was busy moving his pencil in short, contained strokes. It was only because I was right beside him, always so aware of him, that I noticed. To anyone else, he must have appeared to be taking notes.
We were discussing the "Luncheon of the Boating Party." Or, Mrs. Molina discussed it while everyone else sat and stared at the painting, avoiding her eye. Make eye contact and you risked being called on to share your opinion.
At first, I allowed myself only quick peeks of Edward's drawing, but I became entranced as the awning appeared, as he sketched out the table and covered it with wine bottles and glasses. Figures started to materialize around the table. His fingers stilled and I looked away, my mouth dry.
The faint scratch of graphite against paper started up again. His pencil grew bolder, moved faster. Not giving in to the temptation to look at his work, I glued my eyes to the vacant-gazed woman, half-hidden behind her wine glass.
When Edward's elbow met mine, I jumped. He nudged me again, a deliberate jab. He slid his page toward me while my heart skittered.
It took me a moment to calm myself, to focus on the picture and understand what I was seeing. And when it clicked, I had to bite down on my tongue to stop my laugh from escaping.
He had reproduced the painting, but he'd appropriated it. In his drawing, Lauren rested against the balcony rail; Paul leaned over Samantha's chair. Jared and Connor wore straw boater hats, and Katie brought her gloved hands to her cheeks. Other classmates filled out the background, and Edward had drawn himself in the center, cross-eyed and wearing a frilly collar, in place of the woman sipping from her wine glass.
When my gaze dropped to the bottom left corner of his sketch I covered my mouth with my knuckles. Edward laughed in a whisper. His drawings were so simple, but so accurate. And there, making kissy faces at a black puppy dog, under a hat loaded with flowers, was Mrs. Molina herself.
.
Our laughter fades into the strengthening rays of the sun. Edward lifts his water bottle to his mouth. His throat, shadowed with stubble, bobs as he swallows. Sweat beads on his upper lip. The moisture from his drink clings to the lower. My amusement drains away and I pull my own lips into my mouth and press down until it almost hurts. It doesn't snap me out of wondering about the taste of his mouth.
"You're burnt," I say.
Edward touches the tops of his ears, which are a painful-looking shade of red. "I could feel it happening." He pulls his sunglasses from where they're perched on the bill of his cap and uses the lenses as a mirror, turning his head from side to side. "Rookie mistake. Left the sunscreen at home."
"Do you– do you want some aloe vera? To soothe it?"
He pulls off his cap and throws it and his sunglasses onto the table with his empty bottle. "Yeah. Thanks."
He bends over to remove his boots and I watch the rise of his shirt reveal his lower back, the line of his spine. I could trace it with my finger, follow the ridges to where they dive beneath material, his skin heated under cool sweat. He straightens up again. "What?"
"Nothing. I mean, thanks. Thanks for taking off your shoes." I lead him into my bathroom. He hasn't been inside my house since that first appointment. I bite down and try to ignore the water splashes on my mirror, tiny but many. I open the second drawer and rifle through the creams, lotions, and potions I've somehow collected without intending to.
"You're lucky." My voice takes on an echo quality created by the tiled walls. "Having a job you enjoy."
Edward takes the tube from me and rubs aloe onto his ear. I lean against the vanity.
"I know." He squeezes out some more aloe. "But it's still work, and everyone has their shitty days. Today is definitely not one I want to repeat."
"Yeah, but having a bad day at an awesome job is different. Some people just have shitty jobs. Garbage needs to be collected, you know? So someone needs to do it."
"Okay." He caps the tube and taps it against his palm as he studies me.
I take the aloe vera from him and toss it back into the drawer. "Really, what teenager is sitting in class right now thinking, 'Yes. I'm totally going to work in Human Resources?' That's nobody's dream. But there's all these jobs that just need to be done."
"And people need to buy houses."
"Right. So someone–" I point a thumb at myself "–has to deal with the title crap." I flip the light off and lead Edward out of the bathroom. "I started in college as an intern and moved up from there. I was happy, you know?" I turn to look at him. "Proud of 'moving up the ranks.' But now, if I want a promotion, it would mean my taking my boss's job, and I don't think I want her job." I don't want her job.
"Well, I have two free weeks to think about that. To change the trajectory of my—my future."
"That's why you're home. I didn't want to ask."
I stop at the sliding door and look out over my yard. I can visualize it now, the smells and colors that will soon fill it, the garden beds spilling over with greenery, vigorous but contained. The extension of myself complete. I'll get to watch it unfold.
"Bel..." Edward says, his voice inches behind me. My eyes close as I fight to keep my spine straight.
I pull the door open for him. A weed whacker buzzes away on the other side of the fence. Tyler must be visiting his grandparents.
"So," Edward says. "Career change in the works. Excited?"
"Excited? Wow. Yeah, I am. Also kind of terrified. I don't really know what I want to do, just that I can't stay where I am. I'm… stagnating." I run my fingers through the ends of my hair, untangling the strands. "Although, my colleagues think I'm nuts."
"Maybe it would be nuts for them to quit. But they're not living your life, are they? You know what's right for you."
He's right. It has taken me a while, but I'm starting to figure it out.
"You only get one shot. Gotta make it count."
"Exactly. Like you. Even though you're—" I pause, unsure of how specific I should be "—going through stuff, you're alive."
Some people let life close in on them. They step into each day and zip it up like a uniform. But Edward exudes life. It springs from his pores.
"You're not alive?"
"Not the way I want to be."
"Neither am I." Humor blends with affirmation, like the joke's on him.
Neither is he...
"But I'm working on that."
"Me, too."
Is he? He lifts his hand as if to grab his hat, forgetting he left it on the table. He drags fingers through his hair instead. Is he working on that?
He bumps me with his elbow. "It'll be cool, though, having you around more. You're cool to talk to." He says it like it's as obvious as "your hair is brown."
He likes having me around, likes talking to me. I gather my composure, roll it up like an unraveled ball of wool.
"Or are you going somewhere?"
"No, I'm not planning on traveling at all, if that's what you mean. But I want to add some color to my world. Not literally, just stuff that's not work. Stuff I used to do before, before stagnancy. Like on Sunday. There was this artist's market, over by the gallery? It was inspiring."
His eyes light up. "You went? I wanted to go, but we had a game."
"Maybe you'll get to the one in August."
"Yeah. Maybe."
"That reminds me. I was talking to this man at the gallery. He was like the curator, I guess. And I was wondering, because I remembered those Warhol prints in your garage, and that quote. Do you think art has to be, I suppose, good to be considered real art?"
Edward is quiet. His eyes narrow. "Define good for me."
"You're the artist."
He tilts his head, silently telling me not to cop out on him.
I blow out a breath. "Well, there'd be criteria, right? I mean, you get graded on your work in art school, and that can't just be based on what the teachers and professors like. I know people say art is subjective. Beauty in the eye of the beholder. Whatever. But there has to be some sort of objective criteria."
"Why?"
"Because. Because you can't fail someone just because you don't like their work. You'd have to justify it. Or you'd have students forever appealing their grades."
"There are certain techniques you learn. So there's definitely such a thing as–" he lifts his hands and makes air quotes "–'good' technique. But good art? That's a lot harder to nail down."
Edward tugs on his bottom lip then drops his hand away. "Did you know there's a Museum of Bad Art? It's in Massachusetts."
"I'll definitely add that to my bucket list." I say it like a joke, but the concept intrigues me.
"Yeah. They have strict criteria for the pieces they accept. For one, it has to be a genuine attempt at art-making. So it can't just be the old guy next door deciding he's going to do a paint-by-numbers."
"Did you ever see that episode of The Simpsons where Homer tries to put together a barbeque and becomes, like, an avant-garde sculptor for a while?"
"Yeah, the art dealer sees his sculpture and discovers him." He laughs. "That's how some people see the art world."
"So, would you say that art can't happen accidentally?"
"Well, that's what the people who run MOBA are saying. But can something be art on accident?" Edward folds his arms across his chest and rocks back on his heels. "You start out painting and it turns into something else as you're working on it. Something you didn't expect. Happens all the time."
"But the intention is still there, isn't it? You set up your easel and took out your paints. You said to yourself, 'I'm going to make some art now.'" I hold up a pretend paintbrush and make a few strokes through the air. This cracks him up.
"But back to the question you still haven't answered."
"You haven't answered it either." He smirks, then feints away like he thinks I'm going to take a swipe at him. "Art is complex. You can't pin it down that easily. Once we can nail it down and categorize it, that's when it stops being art."
His gaze falls to my neck and I'm made aware that I've been toying with my necklace. "What's the story with that?"
I swing the pendant back and forth on the chain. "Just a habit, I guess. Like the way you play with your hat."
He raises his eyebrows, then grins and picks his Giants hat up off the table. "This hat? I play with it?" He situates it on his head.
"Or the Dodgers one. Both."
"I didn't know I played with it." His smile widens until dimples mark his cheeks, and I can't tell if he's teasing me or not. "But I meant the necklace. You're always wearing it."
"Oh. It was a gift. From my friend, Emily. Back in college, we went to this street market. I saw it there, fell kind of in love with it. But I couldn't afford it. We talked about how someday we'd have these lucrative careers and could buy any damn twenty dollar necklace at any old street fair we wanted. And when we got home? She handed me this small box with a ribbon around it." I rub the pendant, the smooth glass, feel a couple of otherwise invisible chips in it. "She couldn't afford it either, but she bought it anyway. It's a much longer story but she said she wanted me to have something I loved."
"What's the longer version?"
"The longer version? Um..." I look down at Edward's feet, at the outline of his toes through his socks. "Um... I lost at love a lot. Or potential love, whatever. Well, who hasn't, right?" I smile and lift my eyes back to his. I hold my pendant out. "But I'll never lose this."
He stares back at me and it's like we're stuck like this until I raise my eyebrows in question.
"Something like that, twenty bucks, makes you that happy. Gi needed a Volkswagen Tiguan to get a look like that on her face."
"You bought it for her?"
He doesn't say anything. I remember how I used to cut our conversations short, and how I regret it. A few minutes ago he'd said I was cool to talk to.
"You can—you can talk to me, Edward. If you want to talk." A sour feeling pumps through me like a contamination to a well, a wrongness. It's on the tip of my tongue to say, "Never mind. Forget it." But that's the old me. Taking my offer back would feel worse. Wrong or not, I meant what I said.
"She wanted one. She got one," he says. "She wanted a house so we got a house."
"You didn't want a house?"
"Sure, but I wanted the business to grow more. You know, I could've had more money to put into the business, help it out. Now all the money goes to mortgage and car payments. Credit cards. Shit. She always wants more. More, more. It's what she's used to. But who..." he rubs a hand up the back of his neck "...who can live this way?"
"You were facing different directions."
"Yeah. That's it. I should have known that earlier. She was too expensive for me. Over my budget. I saw it, though, I did. I just didn't respect it. Didn't think about it. I didn't know how much it would matter. I guess I thought she'd mellow. But, no, it's in her. It's how she grew up."
"And so now you're..."
He plops himself down on the bench, his knees spread wide. "About two years ago she wanted kids. I didn't. She's been mad ever since."
"She's been mad at you for two years?'
"Mad, hurt, disappointed. I don't know. She said I'm a weak, auxiliary verb. She wants an action verb."
I frown. He's always in action. "Translation?"
"She said I just coast along, happy with the way things are, not, you know, not changing." Then a few decibels lower. "Happy."
"That's... that's so mean."
He drops his head. "Maybe she's right. I don't know. It's been so long. Us like this. Gi and me."
"She's not right. Maybe you're not the kind of action verb she wants." I scoff. "But you. You're all action." I won't look away from him. His gaze on me is just as steady. "You have a business. Edward, you're an entrepreneur."
He rolls his shoulders back. "I know. I can't lose it."
"Don't lose it."
He brings his hand up and pinches his lips. It's like he has more to say but he's physically stopping himself. I let the thoughts linger.
He slides his sunglasses back on and walks over to his boots. He shoves his foot into one, then the other."Better get at least a little work done today. My boss is a hardass."
"Aren't I your boss? Right now, technically?"
He nods and draws his lips tight. "See? Scary."