Chapter 8
Eric
The days following the lake are torture in slow motion.
Spring break should mean days off to relax, but textbooks are expensive, and my landscaping job offered overtime for anyone willing to work it this week.
It’s left me without a second of free time.
I’m trimming bushes and mowing at sunup, laying mulch at midday, and pressure washing sidewalks at sundown.
My hands are blistered and my shirt is permanently damp.
Dmitri has the opposite problem and is stuck indoors.
He’s using the time off to cram extra practice hours, while earning brownie points by helping the theory TA organize scores.
We’re both on the same campus, but our schedules are misaligned just enough that we keep missing each other.
No quick coffee runs, no bumping into each other in the quad.
Just texts that feel like the only thing tethering me to him.
I check my phone on every break, heart kicking up every time his name appears.
Dmitri (11:32 A.M.)
You still alive out there?
Honestly? Unsure.
Just finished edging the quad. If I never see another straight line again it’ll be too soon.
What are you up to?
Trying to escape the practice room dungeon now. Ran scales until my fingers hate me.
At least you haven’t gone through three tubes of sunscreen this week. All that planning, and I still feel like a lobster.
An exhausted lobster, but still a lobster.
That bad?
I’m too delicate to do manual labor.
Delicate?
I can practically hear your sarcasm from here.
I’ll have you know I can be delicate.
I can be downright dainty.
You?
Eric Woodard?
Dainty?
I’d flip you off, but I don’t have the energy.
Poor baby.
Do what I do. Think of the lake to stay sane.
I’d do disgusting things to jump in that ice-cold water right about now.
Ah, yes. That perfect water. So temperate and mild.
I keep replaying that part where you tried to drown me.
Is that how it happened, though?
Yeah, it is.
You looked damn good committing attempted murder, too.
Flattery will get you everywhere with me.
I’ll keep that in mind next time I want something.
Actually, I want something now.
Pay up, then.
You’re really gonna make me serve compliments?
Still waiting.
You have the most infectious smile I’ve ever seen. People look at me funny all the time when I’m walking around campus because I’ll think about it, and then I’ll smile too.
My heart kicks triple time in my chest as I stare at the words, reading them over and over until the text blurs.
He could’ve told me anything just to keep the game going.
He could’ve said I have nice hair, or that I have a good voice, or that I’m funny when I’m trying too hard.
Those are things that are believable because they’re true, and they’re safe.
They don’t cost him anything. They don’t leave him exposed.
But this is different.
Dmitri didn’t have to give me anything real. He could’ve played it cool or kept it light, left the walls up the way we both usually do. Instead he handed me this small, unguarded piece of himself.
It doesn’t feel like a compliment—it feels like a confession.
I press the heel of my hand against my chest like I can slow my pulse down, but it’s useless. My throat feels thick, eyes stinging in a way that has nothing to do with the glaring sunlight.
I read it again. And again. I’m not used to someone choosing honesty when deflection would’ve been easier. My thumbs hover over the keyboard for a long time before I finally type anything back.
You’re gonna kill me with lines like that, you know.
Dmitri (11:57 A.M.)
Do I get what I want now?
Keep talking like that, and it’s pretty much a guarantee that I’ll cave.
Promise?
What do you need, smooth talker?
I miss you.
Show me what’s in front of you right now so I can pretend I’m there.
You want to be here sunburnt in the dirt with me?
Strange kink, but okay.
I hesitate as I glance around. Lunch break is dragging by, and the crew is scattered in the shade or scrolling on their phones.
No one’s looking my way, so I flip the camera to selfie mode and frame the shot.
The wheelbarrow looms behind me like a silent witness, halfway fallen over with mulch spilling over its side.
Dirt is smeared across my cheek in uneven streaks.
Sweat has carved clean rivers through the grime on my neck and temples, and a few damp strands of hair cling to my forehead.
I grimace at my reflection, cataloguing my sunburned nose and exhausted eyes, but then I force a small, real smile anyway. It’s tired, but honest.
I hit send before I can talk myself out of it.
Mulch rebellion. Day in the life.
Fuck, you look hot.
Thanks, genius. It’s way too warm for March.
I’m unsure if you’re just dense or fishing for compliments.
But you look good out there.
The chaos is very on-brand for you. That wheelbarrow looks like it’s seen things.
Oh, it has. Mostly my regret… and occasional temper tantrum.
Your move. Top that.
Challenge accepted.
He sends a photo of the practice-room piano, with a row of empty energy drink cans lined up along the top. Instead of being neat like it usually is, his sheet music is scattered like he’s thrown it a few times then had to gather it back up because he needed it.
Another picture comes through before I can respond.
This one is an up-close shot of a drawing from his notebook.
A stick figure with messy hair lies on the ground with tiny Xs over its eyes, and beside it is a crude drawing of a piano with devil horns and a smug smile.
I chuckle as I zoom in to read the messy I will survive that’s scrawled underneath.
Cute note.
That piano looks like it’s in cahoots with the wheelbarrow.
I don’t know how I didn’t consider this until now. They’re conspiring to keep us apart.
Like a band of villainous inanimate objects.
The horror.
Exactly. I’m pretty sure the piano started it.
It keeps making the same mistakes.
Are we… sure it’s the piano doing that?
We’re sure. Just like we’re sure your wheelbarrow tipped itself over.
They’re in league. We’re being sabotaged by our equipment.
Sabotaged by jealousy. The piano’s mad you’re thinking about me instead of scales.
That's probably true. It does like my hands a little too much, if you catch my drift.
The wheelbarrow’s not jealous, it's just spiteful.
It wants to carry away my dignity.
Plot twist: they don’t realize we’re hotter when we’re suffering.
Misery loves company, but apparently it also loves dramatic lighting and dirt streaks.
So what you’re saying is… we’re basically tragic heroes in a low-budget film?
I’m the sweaty landscaper with a heart of gold, you’re the tortured artist with too much caffeine and too little sleep.
Nailed it.
I’d watch the fuck outta that movie. Five stars.
The soundtrack would be killer.
Let me guess… you'd be singing it?
Of course.
Okay, superstar.
But seriously, you’re pulling off the dirt-streaked look way too well. It’s unfair.
Send another one when the sun’s lower.
I need to see how the golden hour treats the golden boy.
Only if you send proof you’re still alive after whatever happens during this unholy practice session battle royale.
I want to see the moment the piano finally wins.
Bold of you to assume the piano will win. I’ve got spite and three more energy drinks.
I’m unstoppable.
Famous last words.
Don’t die before I get to see you suffer in person.
Wouldn’t dream of it.
Lunch break is almost over. If you hear about campus police being forced to remove someone from the fountain, it’s unrelated.
One more picture to send you back to work.
He’s flipped to a new sheet of paper, with a short handwritten to-do list. Don’t overdose on caffeine and beat the piano with pure willpower are scribbled out, but it’s the bottom one that makes my breath catch.
Don’t think about Eric.
It’s scratched out, too, with a tiny heart next to it, and my pulse knocks inside my chest as the next messages come across.
Dmitri (12:09 P.M.)
I’m failing at my plans for the day.
I keep thinking about something specific.
Oh? What's that?
You really want to know?
Yes.
You sure? It’s kind of… sweet.
I can handle sweet.
You can’t, but okay.
I can’t stop
thinking about
those chocolate pretzels.
I laugh out loud in the middle of the quad, earning a weird look from a passing student. My chest feels too full, like it’s trying to hold something bigger than it can.
Dmitri (12:12 P.M.)
I do miss you, though.
Are we still on for Saturday?
I wouldn’t miss it for the world.
Walk together or meet there?
I’ve got to drop those extra credit papers off in the eco department, and Professor Silkoff wanted to “show me something”
Dear god
Last time that happened you were there for two hours.
Trust me, I remember.
I’ll meet you at the party in case I’m held hostage. Try to meet around 8?
If I don't see you by 9, I'll send a search party.
Not even coming yourself to rescue me?
Ouch.
Maybe your chocolate pretzels will come.
Funny guy.
Wear something other than your landscaping clothes.
Rude. You just said I look great in dirt.
You look great in everything, baby.
My fingers freeze on the pet name, but before I can type anything back, my supervisor stalks past with a glare that could wilt steel. I shove the phone into my pocket, but the words are already burned into the back of my eyelids. I’m fixated on every silly photo and subtle tease.
He’s handing me pieces of his day like they’re gifts, and I’m hoarding them. He wants me to laugh. He wants me to see him. He wants me.
I’m not imagining this, right? It can’t all be in my head.
The mulch spreads under my shovel on autopilot, but my mind is somewhere else entirely. A reel of memories unspools without permission, each one sharper than the last.