Ripen
Harper
MY PHONE BUZZES ON THE nightstand. In my half-conscious state, I decline the call without bothering to check who the caller is.
But that’s fine, because it’s only the most persistent elderly serial killer in existence.
I swipe to receive Arthur’s second attempt and groan a gravelly hello into my phone.
“Why are you asleep?” Arthur demands.
I check my watch, and then my phone as though the watch could be lying. “It’s not even six in the morning, Arthur. You’re usually still snoring at this time.”
“I never snore.”
“Tell that to the Christina Riccis.”
“Harper—” Arthur cuts himself off with a grumble of insults as I hold the phone away from my face and yawn.
I catch something about an incompetent wretch as I wipe a hand over my eyes and stretch, then return my phone to my ear.
“It’s July seventh. The first round of judging for the gardening competition is today. ”
“The judges aren’t coming until one o’clock, Arthur. I already cleaned up the topiaries,” I say. And I did. It had taken me all afternoon. It was no easy feat trying to make every single one of them into reasonably ball-shaped balls. At least they don’t look like dicks anymore, I guess.
“I know that. They’re—”
Lopsided. Hideous. A curse on humanity. I’m prepared for all of the above, but what I’m not prepared for is “Magnificent.”
I sit up and run a hand over my disheveled hair, the shorter cut still foreign to me. “They’re just balls.”
“What are you talking about? I’m looking at them now. The moose—”
“Arthur, I say this with much love, but did you take the wrong medications this morning? Are you still asleep? Lucid dreaming, perhaps?”
“For Chrissakes, Harper. Just come see. And bring coffee. Not one of those watered-down lattes either. Bring the straight espresso.”
With that, he hangs up.
“Jesus Christ.”
I haul myself out of bed and pull on some clothes before heading downstairs to start my morning routine. Nolan’s already set up my stovetop espresso maker, just like he has every morning since he decided he was moving in. And always with a little note.
Good luck for today. Try not to send any foxglove pie to Sarah Winkle. ~N.
I snort a laugh, my smile fading to something more wistful as I run a finger over his simple pen sketch of a cluster of foxglove flowers next to the text.
It wasn’t really the easiest night after hearing his concerns about my safety with Arthur.
There were times when I wanted to hit back with sharpened barbs.
You don’t know him like I do. You’re not from here.
This is hard enough already. But the truth is, I do believe that Nolan is doing the best that he can.
Even though the tension we didn’t express lies over us like a veil, something warm still blooms in my chest when I look down at his note.
It’s not a stalemate. It’s a push and pull of figuring out how we can all coexist on the same board when we don’t quite understand the game.
I fold the paper and slide it in the drawer next to the spice cupboard with the other notes I’ve stashed away.
Nolan weighs on my thoughts as I go through an abbreviated version of my morning routine while the coffee brews on the stove.
When it’s ready, I pour the espresso for Arthur, making a rather shitty instant coffee for myself, then take them both with me to the back garden of the cottage where Arthur waits at the gate.
“You cut your hair?” Arthur asks as we walk toward the main garden of the estate.
A little pang of dismay slides between my ribs, knifing me in the heart.
He’s seen me multiple times already since I cut it, and I got my hopes up when he didn’t comment on it the last few visits.
I thought it was old news. Something he remembered, even later in the day when he struggles with sundowning and his symptoms worsen.
“I did indeed cut my hair.”
“It suits you,” he says with a single nod. “Even though you clearly employed the hedge trimmer for the job.”
“Har har,” I reply as a devious little glint sparks within his cloud-covered eyes. “I see you’re in a spritely mood this morning.”
“Truly, I am. You created this masterpiece.” We stop at the edge of the manor’s garden.
Arthur spreads his arms and slowly pivots, the wolf’s head of his cane snarling at the display of woodland creatures.
There’s a bear and her cub by the main gate.
A swan in the center of the circular drive.
A fox sitting among the hydrangeas, watching a squirrel near the fountain.
And in front of us, at the top of the hill, a majestic moose, just like Arthur wanted.
“You did an exemplary job, Harper. Truly exemplary.”
“I . . . ” That’s it. That’s all I can manage. A watery film settles over my vision. Arthur watches me as though I’m a malfunctioning machine. I pull my phone from my pocket and start drafting a message. I send a text to Lukas first.
Please tell me you’re the one who fixed all the fucked-up topiaries overnight . . .
And his reply is nearly immediate.
Was I supposed to?
I’m being serious.
So am I . . .
A strained whimper escapes my control, threads of my restraint snapping one by one. I sniff and wipe my eyes with the back of my hand before placing a call next.
“Hey,” Nolan says, picking up on the second ring. “You’re up earl—”
“Did you fix the fucked-up topiaries?” I blurt out.
“Uhh . . . well . . . that one at the top of the hill looked like a couple of cocks, and then after that a pretty sad-looking sack of balls, so I thought it might be best to replace it. Actually, I started working on it a while ago, when the pair of dicks were still in Demon Moose form, but who’s keeping track? ”
“You are.”
“Damn straight I am. My moose is a fucking masterpiece.”
Tears breach my lash line and I turn to face away from Arthur as he says my name like a worried question. “And the squirrel?” I ask.
“Figured it looked better than the melting trapezoid thing you made.”
“The fox?”
“Look, I think we need to work on your hedge-trimming skills. Maybe you can take a class. It looked downright satanic before you made it into another lopsided sphere. Which somehow also looked satanic.”
I laugh, but Nolan still catches the notes of distress buried in the melody. “How?” I finally manage. “Why . . . ?”
“I roped in the Bobs for a little help. Bobby let me make them at his place, and Bert helped to truck them over. Bob spent the night replacing them with me. Many hands make light work, you know?” I can almost hear the shrug he probably makes on the other end of the line, that practiced nonchalance in his gestures when he tries to make it look like something is no big deal.
“As for the why, I know how much the gardening competition means to you. I thought the new topiaries might make you happy.”
The topiaries don’t make me happy. Nolan makes me happy.
Not just because he leaves me notes in the morning, or sets up my coffee, or spends however many hours carving a bush into a fucking squirrel because he knows it will mean something to me.
It’s not just that he’s willing to have the tough conversations, to put himself on the line for me.
It’s everything about him. The dark. The light.
The points at which they intersect. It’s even those goddamn murder dimples.
It’s knowing how hard it is to earn his laughter. The way it feels in my heart when I do.
I look up at that goddamn majestic moose, the morning sun cutting through its antlers to spill across my tears, and I realize I’m in love with Nolan Rhodes.
“That . . . that was really sweet of you,” I manage, barely in control of my voice. “I, um . . . th-thank you—”
“You okay?”
“Yep-gotta-go.” I blurt out, and end the call.
I stare down at the phone screen as it goes black.
The words were right there, so sweet on my tongue I could taste them.
I nearly told him—I wanted to tell him—but if I let them loose, how can I keep what I feel from being stolen?
It was so easy once to say “I love you” when I didn’t realize that it was just as easy to be torn apart by losing the people who matter.
Every time I’ve said it out loud, I’ve lost it. I don’t think I can bear to lose him too.
My phone buzzes in my hand, tears dropping on the glass as I read the message.
I love you, Harper. Even if you can never say it back.
I press the phone to my forehead as the fissures in my heart split wider, and then I dissolve into a torrent of tears.
“Harper,” Arthur says, and I turn into the sound of his voice, laying my head on his shoulder as he wraps a frail arm around me and pats my back. “My dear Harper. What’s wrong?”
I grip onto him, sobbing into his cashmere sweater vest. “I couldn’t stop it.”
“Stop what?”
“Falling in love with him.”
“Falling in love with who?”
“Nolan,” I say, crying harder.
“Oh, the one from the theater. I was going to cut off his hands,” he says, and I nod against his shoulder. Somehow, it hurts even more knowing that he remembers. “Except, while he was holding you, you were holding on.”
Any control I had over myself spirits away.
He’s right. Nolan may have come into my life like a cyclone, but he’s also the light in the storm. The beacon I’ve held on to in turbulent waters.
“You’re scared,” Arthur says, giving me another fatherly pat after a long moment of letting me cry into his cashmere. “You have every reason to be scared. I was afraid too.”
“You’re not afraid of anything,” I say as I manage to control myself enough to lean back and look into his eyes.