Chapter 20

Every bed, every corner is fresh with foliage. Nandina, strawberries, perennials, the herb garden with its sage and lavender, the barbeque area. I cross the stepping stones and skirt the vegetable garden to where Edward is digging the last hole he'll dig in my yard.

"The apricot tree." The top of the tree reaches no higher than my chest.

"Prunus armeniaca. Delicious."

"Perfect for all that pie I make." I pet its leaves as if it's a cat. "My tree." I look past it and all around. "My lavender, my roses, my vegetables, my lilac." With every revelation of what is here and mine, my eyes sting a little bit more.

Edward steps forward with eyebrows knitted. "It's all yours, Bella."

Not all of it. A heaviness encumbers my chest. Everything in my yard stays at the end of the day, except Edward, and he no longer has reason to come back. I'd give anything if he'd reach out right now, if he'd just touch me.

"This is the last." He goes back to the tree. "Want to help me settle it in?"

It's small. He doesn't need my help, but I help anyway. I do want to be a part of settling my tree in its home with Edward. We lift it together and slide it into the hole. I hold it in place while he fills in the soil.

Edward waters the tree and our eyes meet over the spade-shaped leaves. He pulls his Dodgers cap off and slides his hand through his hair. I feel it again, his fingers on the ends of my hair. I'm tempted to suggest another picnic on the lawn, a reenactment of yesterday. Let's ignore the new lawn rules and lie down together again.

He fits his cap back over his head. "Remember what we talked about a few weeks ago? When your yard was empty?"

"Champagne? You brought it?"

"I said I would, didn't I?"

Edward hurries to his truck for the bottle. I slip into the kitchen and am relieved to find the champagne flutes at the back of my cupboard aren't too dusty. I leave them on the counter and wrestle with my screen door so it will be open by the time he gets to my porch.

The screen door creaks closed and I hear shuffles rather than footsteps. Bootless Edward eases toward the counter and clunks the bottle next to the glasses. In the light shooting through my unobstructed nook window, the blatant blueness of one sock next to its black partner is hard to miss. I keep my teasing behind my lips in case it brings us into territory I don't want to navigate. Not this evening. Not when we're celebrating. The mismatched socks are cute anyway. I appreciate the cuteness of his obliviousness to them, or his indifference.

He presents the wine with an open palm. "Mademoiselle." He rips the foil from the neck, untwists the wire, and pops the cork. Vapor wafts from the bottle. He pours the champagne, holding the glasses on an angle so the wine doesn't fizz everywhere.

He passes me a glass. Streams of bubbles hiss to the surface.

"To–"

"Wait," I say. "We should do this outside."

"Right."

We cross the yard, Edward in his socks, back to the apricot tree. He raises his glass again. There is dirt in the creases of his knuckles. "To…"

"To art you can live in."

"Nice." He pushes his champagne toward mine. Glass chimes.

My tongue tingles, and I'm certain every time I drink champagne, I'll come back to this moment, this extension of myself complete. I take everything in, better than a photograph might, so that my memory can't betray me later: Edward, lips champagne-moist under the waning sun, in this work of art, the waving leaves of the apricot tree below our heads instead of above. We are this tree's shade. And to be sure of everything I'm feeling I ask, "Are you really as happy as you look right now, out here, drinking champagne with me? I mean, truly?"

"Without question." His smile, which had slightly sunk when I'd said "truly,"grows wider. I take him at his word. Even if some dark thought dimmed him for that one split second, it disappeared easily, brightening into all light once again. All light. I look up at the sky, the sun low enough to save my eyes but still strong enough to keep the sky as blue as a robin's egg. "Are you?"

"Yes." The fact that he thought to ask makes my answer that much more true. I have my memory. I close my eyes and let it play all over one more time, already nostalgic.

Edward pulls off his grassy-bottomed socks, pockets them, and then takes me on a guided tour of my yard. We finish our drinks as he points out plants whose names I already know and gives me snippets of advice on caring for them. Things like, "Don't over fertilize these," or, "If the leaves start to yellow, it means the bush is stressed. Could be too much water, or not enough."

"How do I tell which it is?"

"Poke your finger into the soil. If it feels damp, don't water it."

We take our empty glasses back inside for a refill. I set my glass on the counter. "Should I write you a check now?" I pull a pen from the jar by the phone and look around for my bag.

"Definitely not. Just mail it to the office." He drums his fingers on the counter top and I press mine into it, pressing against the urge to cover his hand, still his agitated rhythm. "It – it'd be weird accepting money from you now."

I don't push. And maybe I know what he means. Because he has done work for me, but somehow it feels like more than just a job.

I hook my ankle around a stool and slide it from under the counter. We sit side by side, sipping our champagne, and it's like that evening he barged through my stupid door and back into my life, with his clipboard tucked under his arm. I can still hear his soulful "Bella Swan."

I put my glass down more often than I need to, let my elbow bump him, my forearm graze his, as I reach for my champagne. I let my knee brush against his leg. I can't keep my eyes off his fingers as they grip the stem of the champagne flute, as he wipes the condensation slipping down the sides of the wine bottle.

I want his hands on me. Warm palms, cooled fingertips. On the small of my back, my shoulder, my forearm, my thigh, my cheek. I'm whittled down. Sculpted for his touch.

The next time I lift the bottle, Edward stops me from filling his glass. "Gotta drive," he says. There's regret in his voice, I'm not imagining it. "Practice tonight."

He clears his throat and gets to his feet. My bones turn to lead as I climb off my stool and move to stand in front of him.

"I don't know how to thank you." I don't know how to say goodbye either. Don't want to.

"Just tell me you're happy with it."

"You know I am."

As tall as he is, he doesn't seem far away. He nods, staring at me, his mouth a straight line, his eyes, too. Grim. He points at my eyes. I can't explain to him why tears have sprung to them.

"No one could've done it like you." I rise to my toes and reach around his neck for a hug. My chin to his shoulder. His heart against my breast. I wish my hair was pushed aside so I could feel his skin against my neck, maybe his nose in the crook of my shoulder, maybe his breath. But I don't want to move, even to push my hair out of the way. How can I let go?

I have to. We loosen our hold on each other. I let my arms drop away from him. His hands slide around to my waist. But he lingers, his face next to mine. His mouth touches the edge of my hairline. It isn't lips on skin, but it is a kiss. In an uncontrolled moment, I ease my head upwards until his lips slip to my temple. They press. I clutch his sides. My hands move with the expansion and release of his diaphragm.

It could be a kiss between friends, like one Emily and I might exchange. Between anyone else, it could be just that. But between us, Edward and me, it isn't just that. It's feelings, the magnetic, unresisted kind. This isn't mouth on mouth, but it might as well be. I'm heated through, heart flying. The blood in his lips against my pulse. This is not just friends. This is intimacy.

I did this. He did this.

I feel the need to push my hands under his shirt. I ache for it, and I step back. He pulls away. Our hands fall from one another into empty space. Our eyes meet in communication, understanding. We're okay. He nods. We both breathe.

It's on the tip of my tongue to talk about what just happened between us, how we opened a door once off limits, how we met at the entrance but resisted crossing the threshold. To ask how long it takes in the process of a divorce for one to no longer belong to the other. To be free, to make real space for another. Space that is the exact shape of me. I could slip into that space now if it existed. But how to know if it exists?

"I'll come back." His vocal chords seem to scrape against his throat, grinding gears. "Check on things. Make sure everything's thriving. Anything dies, I'll take care of it."

He leans forward and grazes his lips over my cheek. My eyes close. When they open, his gaze holds mine.

"I–I'm having a party here next Saturday. Well, out there. I think you should come. The party's for my friend, Maggie, but also, I guess, to present my yard. Your creation. A lot of people will be here. Her friends and everything. It could be—could be good for your business. "

"Okay," he says. Simple.

"You'll come?"

"That's what I said."

He said it. Like he said he'd bring champagne and he did, he'll come to the party. There's a twirl in my stomach.

Our eyes remain focused on each other and then he says. "Okay, Bella. See you."

It's another minute, at least, before he really does leave, backing toward the door. He finally gives me a smile, a small one, and turns around. I watch the hair lying against the nape of his neck. Can he feel it there? I watch him reach back to pull the door closed. Is the handle cool in his palm? He takes one more glance at me before he's gone.

The door clicks shut.