Ten
Gavin
I pull a paving stone off the bed of the truck and stack it atop the others in my driveway. It’s Saturday afternoon and Scott
and I are headed into Chicago for the Brewers-Cubs game today, but before he gets here, I need to unload these bricks and
grab a shower. My gloves are gritty, shirt damp with sweat, but I’m grateful for the physical exertion to keep my racing thoughts
at bay.
Flirting with Mia the other day felt so real. To stop myself from replaying the memory of her leaning close, lips parted and
gaze sultry, I stopped by the garden center this morning and bought a load of paving stones, even though I took the day off
for the game.
The task should keep me occupied, but my mind keeps returning to Mia’s declaration—“ The only surprising thing is you thinking I haven’t already imagined how good you’d taste.
” Was she just playing a role, or was there truth in her words?
Either way, her confession sent me into a tailspin of desire
that left me delirious enough to volunteer to be locked into a confined space.
Three hundred square feet. That’s the size of the escape room. I’m not sure which I’m more worried about, the tiny space we’ll be stuck in or acting like I didn’t mean every word I said.
I slide another paver off the bed of my truck and catch sight of my brother’s car pulling up to the curb.
He steps out, wearing a jersey, sandy-blond hair ruffled by the breeze, and scans the torn-up yard. “Thought we could get
to Wrigleyville early and grab a drink before the game, but I guess not.”
“Next train into the city isn’t for another hour, but help yourself to a beer. Won’t take me long to finish.”
He shakes his head, already unbuckling his watch, the pale skin beneath the band a contrast to his sunburned arms. He’s probably
spent the past week outside chasing after Paxton and Brett. “What, and get grief for standing around watching you work?”
I grin at him. “How are Amber and the boys?”
“Good,” he says, climbing up onto the truck bed. “I feel bad leaving her with the kids all weekend, but she practically shooed
me out the door.”
“Dad’s there to help.” And I know for a fact his wife doesn’t mind, especially since Scott and I don’t get to see each other
often anymore. She thanked me once for pushing my brother to get out of the house and have fun. Parenting two young kids turned
him into a hermit for a while.
“Speaking of Dad...” Scott says, with a casualness that has me on high alert. “Have you talked lately?”
“Not since last week.” Once again, I get the sensation something’s up. But every time I’ve called recently, my dad seemed
to be doing great. Would he hide something serious from me? “What’s wrong?” All sorts of scenarios fly through my mind, none
of them good.
“Nothing.”
“It’s not nothing if you’re asking.”
“He says it’s not my place to tell you, but I think you should know.” His mouth pulls to the side. “They’re selling the farm.”
It takes a second for his words to sink in. Mom started teaching college courses after the divorce, but she still has a hand
in operating the business side of the tree farm. “What about the house?” They built it together, on ten acres of land that
has since expanded to more than fifty.
“That, too. Dad’s moving.”
I shield my eyes with a gloved hand, wondering if he’s messing with me. “Where?”
He dodges my glance. “There are some nice town houses near us. He wants to be close to the grandkids again.”
Dad’s moving to Colorado and didn’t bother to mention it? “He wouldn’t just give up on the business. He’s barely sixty.”
“Not like he hasn’t had offers,” Scott says. “He could’ve retired a few years ago.”
I can’t imagine Dad not running the tree farm. He’s poured himself into that place, heart and soul, my whole life. “Never
mentioned wanting to.”
“Not to you.”
That stings. Dad and I are close. Have been ever since my parents’ divorce. Mom moved to Madison, and I stayed at the farm.
Didn’t want to leave my friends, the house I grew up in. The land.
Scott seems to notice my sense of betrayal and hops down from the truck, tailgate hinges squeaking in protest. “Mom and I
wanted to tell you, but he asked us to keep it to ourselves until he could talk to you in person. He didn’t want to pressure
you.”
“Into what?” I ask, dreading the answer.
“Taking over. What else?”
“C’mon. He doesn’t expect that of me.” But he has in the past. Why wouldn’t it come into play now, if what Scott’s saying
is true?
“Maybe not, but he should,” Scott says. My father never understood my decision to make a life in Illinois, but he’s come to terms with it, mostly. Scott hasn’t. “You run the garden center, and Faye and her husband, Dale, aren’t even family.”
They’ve become like a second family, but that isn’t what keeps me there. “Run it, don’t own it. I get to clock out at the
end of the day and not worry about keeping the lights on.” Working alongside Dad would’ve consumed my time. After college,
I was tired of being his confidant. Tired of him pouring all the regret he harbored into the farm instead of rebuilding his
life.
Scott squints against the midday sun, like he’s trying to figure me out, and for once, I wish he’d really listen. “I love
the work,” I tell him. “But Dad’s whole life is the farm.”
“Not anymore,” he says.
“He’s got a buyer?”
He pulls the last paving stone off the truck. “Don’t think he’s in a rush. But he’s taking steps.” Slyly, he says, “He’d let
you have the land for cheap.”
I’ve known that since he tearfully hugged me at graduation and told me he always knew I’d be the one to take over. Right before
I told him I’d taken a job near Chicago.
“He deserves what it’s worth.” I pull the tarp off the truck bed, brick dust catching the wind, then roll it up and head toward
the backyard, ready to put an end to this conversation.
Catching up, Scott says, “Shit, Gavin. Why’d you get your horticulture degree if not to run the nursery someday?” Here we
are again. As if I haven’t explained myself often enough. How I want to work to live, not live to work.
But a lot of that stemmed from knowing I’d be the one Dad leaned on, his excuse to keep hiding from life. Awful as it sounds,
without him, running the farm might not be so bad. “You don’t want it, either,” I tell him.
“I’m not the one working at a garden center.” Scott never liked outdoorsy stuff. He had his share of chores, same as me, but whenever he could he’d take a shift at the register or filing receipts. “And our life is in Denver now. We can’t uproot the kids.”
“I’d never expect you to. But my life is here. And I don’t want to pull up my own roots any more than you do.”
He glances around. “You’ve got what, a quarter acre? The shed alone takes up half your backyard.” It might not look like much,
but I own a home in a town I love. “One of Dad’s seedling greenhouses is bigger than your whole property,” he adds. “Think
what you could do with all that land.”
“Grow trees,” I say dully. Sell them to subdivisions and commercial developments. Dad does most of his business with developers,
and I can’t get excited about the cookie-cutter plots. I like to get to know the clients I work with and tailor the designs
to their property.
“And the gardens back home? You’re fine letting those go to a stranger?” He knows I can never stay out of the gardens when
I visit. Always advising Dad on what fertilizer to use and when to divide the hostas. But it hasn’t been home for a long time.
Not for Mom or Scott, either. And soon, it seems, not for Dad.
“I have my own gardens.” They’re not as showstopping as the ones at our childhood home, but it’s only a matter of time. “To
be honest, I’ll miss the cabin the most.” My dad and uncle built it on the small lake on the east end of the farm back when
I was a little kid. Mia’s even used it as a writing retreat a handful of times.
“You sound entitled.”
“I think I am entitled to choose to do what I want with my own life,” I say.
“We both got a lucky draw. I’m not denying that.
” Our parents made enough money to send us to college, and if I’d needed one, I had a job waiting for me.
It isn’t a privilege I take lightly, but I’ve absolved myself from letting it dictate my actions.
“But I’m not obligated to take on a life someone else built for themselves.
It was Dad’s dream, not mine. He obviously agrees, since he’s not the one here asking me to give this all up. ”
“I just think you’re taking the easy route.”
I turn to face him in the shadow of the shed. “Easy? You think my decision to stay in Illinois and work at a garden center
is easy to explain at every family occasion? You think I enjoy opening up LANE TREE FARM shirts for my birthday each year
and hearing the same jokes about how they’re supposed to be for employees only? You think it’s easy to know I’ve let Dad down,
but knowing if I do what he wants, I’d be letting down myself?”
Scott sniffs, shoving his hands in his pockets. “I didn’t mean it that way. But what’s really keeping you here?”
“Besides a good job, my house, and my friends?”
“By friends, you mean Mia?”
Knew that one was coming. “She’s one of them.” I step inside the cedar-scented dimness of the shed, searching for an open
shelf to store the tarp. “Also, my buddies from work, and Serafina and Joe, you know, the parents of my future godchild?”
Joe’s in full dad mode already and recently texted me asking if their houseplants were toxic, even though the baby’s not born
yet, let alone crawling.
Scott shifts a flowerpot to make room on one of the shelves. “So if Mia wasn’t in the picture...”
I want to protest that staying close to my best friend would affect my decision even if I didn’t have romantic feelings for
her, but that would mean admitting he’s partially right. “This isn’t about her.” I shove the tarp onto the shelf, and brush
past him, back out into the open air.