Ripen #2
“You know that’s not true. I was afraid of falling in love.
I’m afraid of losing those memories. I’m afraid that I failed, that I didn’t do enough to protect innocent people, because I couldn’t find La Plume.
I’m afraid that I’m becoming dangerous too.
I’m afraid of losing myself every single day.
” He lays a warm palm over the streaks of tears on my cheek.
His lips thin to a taut line as he tries to control the shine gathering in his eyes.
“I was afraid of loving another daughter when I’d already had one taken from me.
I am afraid of forgetting you, my Harper. ”
I grip onto Arthur’s upper arms. I can feel the bone.
There’s hardly any muscle left there at all.
I’ve seen the photos of Arthur when he was young.
A lean, strong, force of a man. I can’t stop the slow, merciless march of time.
But I do make a promise I know I can keep.
“If you do forget me someday, I’ll remind you. And I’ll never forget you.”
Arthur’s unsteady nod jostles a tear free of his lashes, sweeping with it any hold I just regained over my composure as he reels me into another embrace.
Maybe he’s gotten a little bit softer with time and his condition.
But only so much. Arthur pulls away after a few moments.
He clears his throat, his voice a gravelly rumble when he says, “Let’s get to work. ”
With one last pat on my arm, he shuffles away toward the shed, leaving me to gather myself while he takes a minute to do the same.
It takes longer than it should for him to rummage in the shed for the basket of gloves and garden clippers that lives by the door.
When he returns, I feel like another bond has glued us together.
Like something I’ve been missing has suddenly reappeared, though maybe it was always right within my grasp.
And then we do just as Arthur says. We get to work.
Arthur’s definition of “Let’s get to work” is actually more like, “Harper works while Arthur supervises and grumbles complaints.” But I enjoy every minute of having him out in the garden with me.
I weed and prune and rake and mulch, and Arthur stays with me the whole time, talking about next year’s plans and an even grander topiary display.
By the time lunch rolls around, I’m confident we’ve done everything we can to secure our spot in the finals.
The first round of judging is always the easiest. It’s only the president of the gardening club, a congenial man named Don who seems to like Arthur, and a couple of the less-influential members of the town council.
Really, it’s just to strike off any lackluster candidates so the mayor doesn’t need to judge fifty ugly gardens for the final round in August. Is your garden covered with weeds?
No—you’re in. Is there dog shit on your lawn?
No—you’re in. Do your topiaries look like penises?
No—you’re definitely in, and realistically, you’d probably still be in if they looked like dicks.
It’s over in twenty minutes, and when the judges are gone, I bring Arthur back into the house for a much-deserved afternoon nap in his recliner.
“You know,” Arthur says as I settle him into his chair, “I can still kill him if you want.”
I tuck the blanket around his lap and place his phone within reach. “Who?”
“Mr. Rhodes.”
“I think I’m good, thanks.”
“You seem to like the hands, so I could cut him straight up the belly instead and you can keep them. I’ll even feed his entrails to that horrible vermin you call a pet.” Arthur’s brow lowers into a fierce glare. “Disease-riddled sky rat.”
“You’re a great friend.” I lean in and give him a kiss on the cheek. “Stay away from my sky rat.”
“Take a shower. You need one.”
I skip away toward the entrance of the room. “Kick my ass with your Christina Riccis, why don’t you?” I say with a wink over my shoulder before I disappear down the hallway.
I’m already halfway to the foyer when he calls back a string of old-fashioned insults, my heart taking up more space in my chest than it did yesterday.
I spend a little time tinkering at the main house, doing things Arthur can’t easily do himself.
Sweeping dusty cobwebs from the overhang of the entrance and the old camera he rarely checks, replacing a light bulb in one of the sconces next to the door, filling a crack at the base of the foyer window.
When I finally get to the back garden, Morpheus is on his bird feeder, peeling a strip from a hunk of meat trapped beneath his claws.
He gives me three knocking clucks in greeting, and I approach slowly enough that he lets me run my hand over the shimmering feathers along his head.
“Looks delish, murder bird,” I say as he pulls another bite free of his prize. “Where’d you find . . . whatever that is?”
“Murder,” he says, my own voice reflecting back to me.
“Makes sense. Enjoy.”
With a final stroke across his feathers, I head into the cottage.
It’s strange, walking into this place now and feeling the absence of Nolan whenever he’s not around.
The cottage has felt like home, but not truly my home.
I have no claim here. I don’t even pay rent.
When Arthur passes away, it could go up for sale for all I know, despite how he has said he’s added me to his will.
But somehow, since Nolan moved in, that changed.
It doesn’t feel like someone else’s borrowed home.
It feels like our home. Our couch where we sit and watch Surviving Love, Nolan pretending to hate my favorite couples until I use the tickle advantage to force the truth out of him.
Our kitchen where we cook together and talk about the search and all the things that scare us.
Our bedroom where he fucks me in the dark, tugging on my pierced nipples or slapping my ass or biting my flesh until I’m begging for release.
And every day that passes, the pull to tell him how I really feel only grows.
As I kick off my work boots and start toward the bathroom to take a shower, I think about what it would feel like to say the words out loud. But I hear a sound at the front door. I backtrack and jog to the entrance, unlocking it and whipping it open, expecting to see Nolan on the other side.
But that’s not who it is.
Sheriff Yates is standing on the doorstep, a Leatherman multi-tool clutched in his hand with the screwdriver open and raised toward me.
“Fuck me,” I say, pressing a palm to my chest. “You startled me.”
“I’m so sorry, Miss Harper.” He glances at the tool in his grip, lowering it before closing the flattened metal spike and sliding the knife into its pouch along his belt. “I noticed your knocker was a little loose. Just thought I’d tighten it before it damaged the door. Didn’t mean to startle you.”
I look toward the brass lion’s head knocker; the ring clutched in the beast’s open mouth.
I don’t remember noticing that it was loose.
But then again, I never use it, and neither do most visitors.
Maybe I just don’t get enough of them, or they feel like it’s too loud and antiquated to use.
I give it a little push of my finger, but everything seems tight now.
“Thank you, I appreciate it,” I say with a brittle smile.
“Happy to help.” Yates removes his hat, running a hand over his short, graying hair. “Mind if I come in for a moment?”
“Umm, sure.” I open the door wider and take a step back from the threshold. “Nolan’s out at the search if you’re looking for him, though.”
His smile stretches, as though he’s trying to reassure me, but I get the sense that he somehow enjoys putting me a little on edge.
In my four years in Cape Carnage, this is the first time I’ve been alone with Yates.
Even though Arthur and I have talked many times about his fortunate incompetence at his job, it’s still unsettling to welcome the town sheriff into my home.
“Oh, I know. It’s keeping him pretty busy.
” Yates walks inside and assesses the living room. “For now, at least.”
He heads toward the chess set, indifferent to the arrow he’s just shot into my chest. The subject of Nolan’s departure from Cape Carnage crosses my mind often, but we don’t talk about it much, as though the search could just stretch on indefinitely to keep him here.
If it doesn’t, what would that make us? A fleeting summer romance?
A future long-distance relationship? Another car crash waiting to take us to our starting point before tearing us apart?
“You play?” Yates asks, not turning my way as he looms over the board with his hands clasped behind his back. I get the sense there’s a point to this unannounced visit, and chess is not it. It’s like I’ve been dropped onto the board with him, and now I’m forced to play.
“I used to.” I swallow the urge to ask him not to touch the pieces when his fingers unlace and he reaches forward. But it’s not the chess pieces he’s after. He picks up the box of palo santo incense next to the holder and sniffs it. “Do you?”
Yates casts me a smile over his shoulder. “Once in a while.”
I give him a fleeting smile and nod, fighting the impulse to rip the box from his hands. Maybe he senses my irritation, or maybe it’s just coincidence, but he sets the box down. “Can I get you something to drink? I have coffee, water, a beer?”
“You know, I wouldn’t mind a beer. I’m technically off the clock this afternoon. It’s my anniversary. Gotta get out of this uniform and take Fiona out to dinner.”
“Congrats,” I say, heading to the fridge and taking out two of Nolan’s beloved Blackstone porters. “Heading to Nightfog?”
“You know it.” Yates nods his thanks as I open the bottle and pass it to him. He takes a sip, then holds it away from himself to examine the label. “It’s good beer. Tennessee brewery, huh?”
“Yeah. Nolan’s favorite.”