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Chapter 15

The cement mixer falls silent. Its chug and churn echoes in my ears as I poke my head out through the door. Edward crouches beside his cooler and pulls out a takeout container and a plastic fork. The foundation of the barbecue area behind him looks complete. Raoul and Collin had come around to help him stamp it to look like stone. Now it only needs to be connected to my patio.

"Come eat inside. Get out of the sun for a while."

He straightens up. His hair and shirt are wet as if he washed up under the garden hose.

I lean into the refrigerator for two cans of Coke. When I nudge the door closed with my hip, Edward is but a foot or so away. I gasp and start back, nearly dropping the sodas.

"Boo." His lips twitch, fighting a grin.

My laugh is built on nerves. "I didn't hear you come in."

He holds his hands up. "Mind if I..." He wiggles his fingers and I gesture toward the sink.

"This is better." He suds up his hands. "No soap out there."

I set the Cokes on the counter. "You can sit here." I take the stool next to the one I've offered him. He rounds the counter and joins me.

"Where do you find a shirt like that?" He opens his can and carbonation fizzes into the air.

I pull the hem out and peer down. It's my Van Gogh self-portrait top. The back reads: Wake me up before you Van Gogh Gogh!

I smooth the fabric over my stomach. "In Venice. We road-tripped down to L.A. and found this shop with all these cool T-shirts and buttons and stuff. I thought this was the funniest thing I'd ever seen. But there's a chance I wasn't completely sober at the time of purchase."

I remember explaining the obvious to Emily: "Because it says 'Gogh.' And you say that like 'Go.' Get it? It's funny."

"When you have to tell people something's funny, darling..." She'd tilted her head at me as if I were a sorry headcase, but that just made me more determined to buy the shirt.

"Shopping under the influence. Been there." Edward scoops a forkful of chow mein into his mouth and slurps up the trailing noodles.

"SUI? What's the dumbest thing you ever bought?" I point at his lunch. "Do you want to heat that up?"

"Nah, I'm good." He chews on a piece of carrot. "It's been a long time since I spent money on stupid shit. But um…" He drums his fingers on the countertop. There's this stubble on his chin that flows toward his throat and moves with him as he swallows. "Okay. When I was in art school, I had a problem with those late night advertisements for home gym equipment. You know, like those ab swings? Me and my buddy, Emmett, we'd be high, watching these commercials." He continues higher in pitch and overly enthusiastic, "'Only four easy installments of forty-nine ninety-five!' So, we ended up with a bunch of stupid gym equipment we never used."

"Most people want to stuff their face when they're high. You wanted to exercise?"

Edward huffs a laugh through his nose. "The people advertising them have those big smiles." He flashes me his teeth and sweeps a hand down his torso. "And they're all shiny, and they wear those neon leotards."

Coke bubbles fizz in my nose as I try to contain my laughter. "It was the leotard that won you over, wasn't it?"

"It was a genuine problem," Edward says. "You shouldn't laugh."

I wipe the end of my nose with the back of my hand. "But you kicked the habit?"

He sets down his fork. "I don't see Emmett that much anymore." A little crease settles between his eyebrows. "And I don't remember the last time we lit up. So, yeah. No more ab swings for me."

"Do you still have them all?" I don't remember seeing an "ab swing" in his garage.

"Sold most of the equipment on Craigslist." He crooks one side of his mouth." Some people'll buy anything."

"Your buddy? Emmett? Is he one of the guys you play basketball with?"

"Sometimes. He started seeing this girl a few months back, though, so he doesn't always make it."

"Is that why you don't see him much?"

"Sort of." Edward's eye contact is unsteady. I read in his face there's more to the story. I assume it involves Gianna and I let it go. I want to learn about this other corner of his life, a place where Gianna isn't.

"What's he like?"

"He had it tough. His parents were messed up. He was at school on a scholarship. He's this huge guy, you know?" He hold his hands out past his own shoulders. "And rough. Every second word is something foul. He smokes like a fucking chimney. When I first met him, I figured, this guy's gotta be a sculptor. A metalworker or something. Or some crazy dude who sits there with a friggin' huge chunk of rock and chisels away at it all day."

He drags out his pause. Maybe I'm supposed to guess. "Not a sculptor?"

"Painter." His eyes widen as if he still can't believe it. He looks too cute. "He's a genius across any medium. Oils, acrylics, anything. But watercolors are his thing. He does epic landscapes and streetscapes, but then he does these portraits. And they're just…" He tumbles his hands around, eyes toward the ceiling, in search of the right words. "They're these sublime… They're simple… but there's still so much in them." His hands are claws out in front of him and he closes them into fists like he's capturing everything that is in these paintings.

Watching Edward talk about the emotion his friend puts into his portraiture, his use of color and shadow, the impact of the negative space, I feel like I'm seeing something beautiful emerge. Not in the images he's describing, but in Edward. This is not Edward I knew in high school. But it's not "grown-up Edward" or "landscaper Edward," either. It's just him. Just Edward. It's like that day he had me look at the sky to see possibilities. That's how I see him now, wide open, luminous.

"Here." He leans back and slips his phone from his pocket. He taps it a few times and moves closer to me.

He holds the phone out and with his other hand between my shoulder blades, pulls me in. I lean where he directs me and his hand falls away. Our thighs press against each other, his jeans rough on my skin and still sun-warm. Even with the tingles that sneak up on me, I don't pull away. I wrap my fingers around his wrist and make him tilt the screen so I can see the image clearly. His skin under my hand is soft. My thumb pulses to move itself against the insides of his wrist, the place where blood pumps through his veins.

I focus on the image in front of me, a watercolor of a woman's face. Well, part of her face. Just her eyes, nose, and mouth. Drips of pink and purple paint slide down her invisible cheeks. I see what Edward means. There's a simplicity—only the barest details—and yet the slant of her eyes, the flare of her nose, the shape of her lips, breathe emotion.

"It's like it's more powerful for all the details it lacks." I say it quietly and almost like a question.

"Absolutely."

Pride rises inside me. "This guy is big and rough?"

"Yeah. See what I mean? Look." He swipes to the next image. A different woman. Blues, yellows, and oranges. The previous woman was melancholy, but this one…

"She has a secret. A happy one. You can see it in her eyes. She won't quite meet yours. And in the corner of her mouth, there's this smile she's barely holding back." It reminds me of all the smiles I've hidden from Edward, past and present. I wonder if my secrets are as obvious as hers.

Edward turns his head and I look up at him. I don't think we've ever been this close to each other. His breath brushes my face. His gaze burns into mine and a chill goes through me. I release his wrist, bring my palm to my chest, and tap the side of my thumb against my pendant. My "what?" is on the tip of my tongue, but I let it dissolve there. He'd answer, "Nah, nothing," but it would be a lie.

The lowest part of my stomach feels weighted, my breathing slow, like each breath is farther away than the next. My heart calls attention to itself. My eyes fall to his lips and stay there a beat before I wrench them away and focus again on Emmett's paintings.

"Your tough buddy has serious talent. Don't you wish you were that talented? I'd love to be able to do that. Make something like that—create something that makes a person feel so much." The words come out too fast and high-pitched. I stop and slow myself down. "But you don't have to wish. Because, I mean, you are that talented. And you do create things that make people feel." I stab a finger toward my window. "Out there. You're giving me a piece of art I can live in."

He rubs an eyebrow. "Well, I'm not exactly giving it to you, am I?"

"Any landscaper could have shoved some plants in the dirt and returfed my lawn. But you... You knew what I wanted. And that, what you're making me, that's more than a garden. It is."

Edward ducks his head, and I think I've embarrassed him. "I'm, um, I'm glad you're happy with it."

His knee still touches mine and he seems oblivious to it. Too soon, his phone is tossed to the counter, his attention back on lunch. Silence drifts between us in what feels like waves until he runs his hand through that crazy hair and asks where my garbage can is.

.

I breathe in the smell of sawdust as I wander the aisles of the hardware store. I have no idea what most of these gizmos are used for. An older man with half of his fourth finger missing finds me studying a few sheets of sandpaper. I tell him about my idea to upcycle my table and benches and he steers me toward a power sander.

"I want to do it the old-fashioned way." I'll feel it happening under my fingertips, see the effect I have with every movement, hear the wood scrape away instead of the roar of an electric motor. When I'm done, I'll know I did it all by myself.

One eyebrow climbs up the man's sun-damaged forehead toward his receding hairline. "It's gonna take alotta effort. I'm talkin'–" he shakes his head "–blistered fingers and sore arms kind of effort."

"I like the sound of that."

"Alrighty." He guides me to the rack of sandpaper. "Pretty straightforward. Start with a big grit to get the paint off. Once that's done, you wanna go finer and finer. Get it nice'n smooth."

He picks up an ugly plastic thing that looks like an oversized computer mouse. "And at least try it with one of these." Hand Sanding Block, the label reads.

I take it from him with some reluctance, but he seems so concerned, his eyes a warning, telling me that he knows what he's talking about. He asks if I'm going to stain or varnish it, and I tell him I haven't decided yet. I might end up painting over it. "I'll wait and see what the wood looks like once it's stripped back."

"Good idea."

We walk to the register where he rings my purchase up. "You need any more advice, come talk to ol' Kim."

I leave with a growing kernel of excitement. For once, my screen door co-operates and I barge into the house, change into old clothes, grab some water bottles and a bag of chips, then practically skip outside.

Edward is building the raised garden bed that will house my veggie patch. He told me raised beds means better drainage, and less chance of grass and weeds creeping in and taking over. Sweat shines on his face. The muscles and tendons in his forearms flex and roll as he drives a drill through one piece of wood and into another. The drill screeches and then falls silent. He has earmuffs on, perched over his cap, but for some reason he looks up and catches my eye. He waves.

I set my stuff down on the table and mime lifting a muff away from my ear. He complies, his head tilted to keep the other in place.

"There's water and snacks here."

"Thanks." He snaps the earmuff back and returns to his drilling.

I relocate the snacks to a bench before I choose the coarsest grit and fit the paper to the block. Within ten minutes I understand why "ol' Kim" encouraged me to go with a power tool. Already, every muscle from my hand, all the way up my arm to my shoulder and neck, aches. I switch the block to my left hand and keep going, though I'm slower, clumsier now.

In an effort not to be aware of Edward, not to let my eyes be pulled his direction, I concentrate on the burn in my muscles and find a rhythm in the back and forth. Stripes of raw wood emerge as I scrape away its battered skin. I switch from hand to hand every few minutes to keep up my momentum. Still, my glance slips to Edward when he moves around my yard. I trade hands again.

When he speaks from only a few feet away, there's a rush through my stomach. I would shake my head at myself if he weren't watching. How his voice has such an effect on me. "I have a power sander at home. I can–"

"Not you, too." Hair clings to my face and I push it away. I'm sweaty and a little concerned that I stink. I hold my elbows close to my waist. But Edward probably doesn't smell so fresh either. His dark blue shirt is darker in places—under his arms, in the center of his chest—and sweat beads on his upper lip. "The guy at the hardware store tried to get me to buy one."

"Nah, don't buy one. You can borrow–"

"No, thanks." I hold up a hand. "I want to do it this way. The hard, sweaty—" I look at my hand, covered with a layer of fine wood dust and chips of paint "—sawdust all over me kind of way."

"You're–"

"Crazy? I got the impression the hardware guy thought that, too."

"I was going to say determined."

"Sure you were."

He runs a hand over the area I have managed to strip back. I didn't realize I'd completed almost a third of the table.

"Well?"

"Slow, aren't ya?"

I exaggerate a glare at him. His way of joking, as usual, sets me momentarily at ease.

He reaches out and squeezes my shoulder. "Just messin' with you." The touch of sun on the tips of his ears and nose hasn't faded, but deepened. A burn on its way to tan. His eyelids, shaded under the bill of his cap, appear heavier than usual. "It's looking great. Gonna look awesome when you're finished. And yeah, it'll take you ten times longer doing it by hand, but you'll be a hundred times more satisfied when you're finished."

"That's what I want. Some job satisfaction."

"I'm done for the day. You want a hand?"

I hook my finger in my chain and tug. "It's okay. You– It's getting late." I want to do this by myself. But I also want him to stay. I want too many things.

"Doesn't matter."

I straighten my right arm out, kneading at my sore tricep. "I think I'm probably done for today, too. But, um…" I can't ask him to stay.

"Your arms are wonky. I remember that." Edward traces a finger down the inside of my elbow and the world dissolves. All that exists is Edward's fingertip sliding over my skin.

I can barely speak. "Hypermobility."

"Both arms?"

I extend my other arm. Not in front of me, but out to the side, like a dancer. While my hands are shoulder height, my elbow juts up toward the sky. I used to think they looked like broken wings.

Edward grasps the arm he's still touching, pulls it out to match the other. "Like that."

I look up at him, my arms spread. My shoulders ache and I feel exposed and out of breath.

"The first time I saw you, you and Angela were walking on a wall. And you were just like that. But smiling." He looks at my mouth, pointedly, waiting. My lips curve in response. "There we go."

I let my arms fall. "A wall?"

"Yeah, there was this brick wall near the courthouse." He holds his hand at his mid-thigh, demonstrating.

I remember. When I was little, my father would hold my hand as I crept across the bricks. I'd imagine various scenarios as we went: I was crossing a bridge to escape a fire-breathing dragon; I was walking the plank on a pirate ship; I was an Olympic gymnast on the beam, doing the routine that would win me a gold medal. By high school, the imaginary scenes faded, but Angela and I would still step up onto the bricks whenever we passed. Our conversation would pause, we'd wobble our way across the wall, jump off, and then pick up wherever we'd left off.

"It was about a week or so before school started."

"Sophomore year?"

He shakes his head. "Before freshman year. We'd just moved there."

I don't know why this matters, but it does. It changes nothing. But it's everything. He saw me, noticed me, before that day in the library.

He speaks of moving to town, where he lived before he strode into my life and tangled it in knots, but I've lost focus. I watch as words, born as a deep vibration in his throat, are shaped by his lips and tongue and pushed into the air, carrying his thoughts.

Even when he packs up his gear and leaves for the night, I still feel dazed. I burn my dinner and have to settle for a bowl of cereal.

Nothing has changed, I remind myself. He's still married.

But that doesn't stop me, when I lie in bed later, from imagining his lips on mine, the feel of his whispers against my neck as his hands explore my body. His weight pressed down on me. Our legs tangled together.