CHAPTER EIGHT
On Saturday, Grandma calls while I’m in my kitchen putting together a salad for lunch. I put her on speaker. My first mistake.
“Hey, Grandma.”
“Want to watch a movie with me tonight?” she asks, eagerness making her sound a little asthmatic.
No, I don’t. Not at all. I love my grandmother with all my heart, but watching a movie with her is a torturous test of endurance, since she insists on hauling Google into the TV room with us. And then she feels compelled to ask it questions while the movie is playing. Hey, Google, is the director still alive? Hey, Google, how old is the actor in the movie? Hey, Google, did the movie win any awards?
It drives me crazy.
When I suggest we remove Google from the room, her only response is, “Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer.”
“A movie?” I ask, stalling. “It’s a Saturday night.”
“Perfect!” she responds. “You’re not working and Lisset doesn’t have school tomorrow.”
My second mistake.
“We can watch a Clint Eastwood classic,” Grandma suggests. “Or maybe Dawn of the Dead . I’m in the mood for some zombie killings.”
“That sounds like quite the evening,” I manage. “But I have Lisset with me. She’s not really ready for zombies.”
“Even better!” Grandma says excitedly. “We can watch Parent Trap . It’s a great movie.”
Of course, that’s the moment Lisset wanders into the kitchen.
“I LOVE Parent Trap !” she declares, and just like that I’m committed.
My sole intention on Sunday is to relax, especially after a Saturday evening spent with my grandmother watching a movie where Google turned out to be the main character. Never have I wanted to take a hammer to a machine as much as I did last night.
Lisset and I are currently in the middle of a fierce Monopoly game. It looks like my ruthless daughter, who clearly harbors ambitions to be a property magnate, is winning.
Winter sunlight streams through the windows, bathing the furniture in a pearly gray glow. Lisset and I made blueberry pancakes for breakfast and we’ll put together sandwiches for lunch after she’s finished destroying me. Days like this that unfurl at their own pace are my favorite, and I’m soaking up a rare feeling of contentment.
Lisset is demanding I pay up for landing on her property when the doorbell rings.
“Hey, neighbor,” Gideon greets me when I open the door.
Surprise sweeps through me to find him standing on my front porch looking big and intimidating wearing black sweatpants and a blue hoodie.
“Hi,” I respond automatically. I’m acutely conscious that my white sweater sports a blueberry stain right where my boob is. I fight the urge to cross my arms over my chest.
We stare at one another and some kind of charge passes between us. I felt it in the library and I’m feeling it again now.
My stomach is doing that stupid, fluttery thing again, ignoring all the warning signals my brain is trying to transmit.
Lisset comes bounding down the hallway, edging past me to peer up at Gideon. “Where’s Uno?”
“Hello, Gideon,” I say pointedly.
“Hello, Gideon,” she repeats dutifully. “Where’s Uno?”
“Fast asleep,” he tells her. “Greyhounds spend most of the day sleeping.”
I raise my eyebrows. “I thought they were high-maintenance dogs.”
He shakes his head. “Giant couch potatoes. Uno needs one walk a day and then he spends the rest of the day recovering from it.”
Kind of like how I feel after social interactions.
Now that Gideon is without his four-legged companion, an uninterested Lisset wanders back into the house.
I don’t open my door all the way and I don’t invite Gideon in.
I suddenly remember that Janine was on the verge of telling me what she found strange about the sale of the Martinez house to Gideon. I never did find out what she was about to tell me, and my curiosity is piqued once again.
I haven’t seen much of Gideon since bumping into him at the library Thursday night. The only additional detail I’ve gathered about him is that he drives an army-green Jeep Wrangler. Otherwise, he seems to keep to himself. Until now.
“I’m about to mow my lawn,” he tells me. “While I’m at it, would you like me to mow yours?”
My eyes widen. He’s offering to mow my lawn? It’s winter so the grass isn’t growing fast, but it’s been a while since I cut it.
“I’m perfectly capable of mowing my own lawn.”
“I wasn’t implying otherwise.” His steady hazel eyes hold mine. “It’s just a neighborly gesture. No strings attached.”
He’s wrong. There are always strings attached. Most of the time, they’re invisible and you’re only made aware of them when the puppet master yanks them.
“Thanks for the offer, but I’ll get around to cutting it myself sometime.” I gesture vaguely to indicate a nebulous point in the future.
The corners of his mouth pull into a grin. “Your lawn could be a jungle by then. I might have to use a machete to reach your front door.”
At his playful tone, my face burns a little. I’m being rude. My parents raised me better than this. Anyway, why am I making such a big deal of his offer? If the man wants to mow my lawn, he can knock himself out.
“Since I’m not sure you own a machete,” I say, giving him the smallest of smiles, “I should probably take you up on your offer.”
His expression becomes quietly pleased. “A wise decision.”
“And you seem to really like mowing lawns.”
“The smell of freshly cut grass. All those clean lines. It’s the best therapy.”
“It seems cruel to deprive you of that.”
His gaze lingers on me. “And you don’t appear to be cruel.”
My smile slips a little. I try not to be, despite being coached by an expert. “Anyway, thanks for offering. I appreciate it.” His brow furrows as I ease the door closed. “Enjoy the rest of your Sunday.”
I leave Gideon to my lawn and rejoin Lisset in the dining room to finish our Monopoly game. It takes all my willpower not to look out the window and watch him while he cuts my grass.
That evening, Lisset’s asleep in bed and I’m in the shower when the tears come. They take me by surprise. It’s been months since I’ve cried. While Tess will literally sob at anything—animal rescue videos, romantic movies, sad songs—I’m not a crier. Which confuses and worries my sister, who maintains it’s normal and healthy to have that release.
She has no idea I cry in the shower. It’s the only place I allow myself to break down. And I want no one (not Lisset and not my family) to witness me momentarily falling apart, because it’s ugly and noisy and sometimes, like now, it goes on for a while.
Ever since Gideon’s unexpected gesture of kindness, I’ve been feeling off-balance, culminating in this. I still can’t believe I’m crying over such a small gesture. Someone mowed my lawn. So what? Why am I making it into such a big deal?
I wish I could control my emotions better. It frustrates me when I allow them to overcome me like this.
My sister’s wrong. Crying never helps.
A few minutes later, after I’ve worked shampoo into my hair, it comes to me. In the four years I’ve lived in this house, no one has offered to mow my lawn. Not a single person.
My heart pinches. A small, insignificant gesture has suddenly become momentous. This is why I’m so upset. Gideon’s thoughtfulness is stirring inside me the tiniest flicker of hope. Which I need to snuff out immediately. The last thing I need in my life is a man who stirs up that emotion. Hope carves out a hole for vulnerability and I can no longer afford to be vulnerable.