Chapter 9
Nine
His hand is filthy; I’m not shaking it.
“Okay, Gavin Nickels.” Nickels is a local name—Greg and Amanda are Nickelses—but I’ve been away so long it doesn’t hold much meaning. “Can you read?”
Two seconds pass then he smirks and drops his hand. His lips cinch to one side like he really has to think about that. Figures.
“Barely.”
“There’s a sign,” I say slowly, pointing to the end of the driveway, “that says no visitors.”
“I’m not visiting,” he says. “I’m mowing.”
I take a deep breath, trying to find my sanity before I snap his neck. My mother doesn’t have a lawn service. “Why?”
He looks around the yard. “Grass is long.”
“Grass is long?” I repeat, annoyed.
He’s young—much younger than me—but his body is all man.
The sleeves of his T-shirt are struggling to contain his biceps, but his face has a youthful quality.
No grey in his sandy-colored, scraggly hair that peeks from his ball cap or in the haphazard beard covering his face.
Every line around his blue eyes lacks the depth and stretch that comes with age.
I put him between twenty-five and thirty.
Poor kid. He doesn’t know the wrath I’m about to unleash on him.
“Did you see the sign?”
Again, he looks around the yard then teeters his head. “I can barely read, remember?” He fights a smile. “And a sign doesn’t change the fact the yard needs to be mowed.”
I eye the logo on his hat. City of Fontain. “Why is someone from the city mowing my mother’s yard? On a Saturday.” He opens his mouth to respond, but before he can, I add, “And don’t give me some bullshit answer about the grass being too long.”
“No bullshit allowed, got it.” He gives me a solemn nod. “I know Iris.”
“And?”
“And nothing.” He hooks a thumb over his shoulder. “I live next door.”
I follow the direction of his thumb to the small white house. The neighbor I’ve never met.
“Okay.” Like that explains anything. “Well, she just had brain surgery and—”
“I know.”
“So you know she had surgery. Saw the sign. And are mowing her yard anyway?” What a dumbass. “You planning on playing a set of drums next? Maybe bringing in a parade? My sisters are throwing a karaoke party with twelve screaming kids in a couple weeks, you part of that idiotic plot too?”
He fights a smile.
I shift my weight between my pumps, which are now sinking into the grass. “What the fuck is so funny?”
“You, for one.” His lips twitch; I might hate him.
“This situation.” He squints around the yard again.
“I told her I’d mow while she recovers. I can come back.
Unless you’ll be taking care of the yard.
” He eyes my outfit until his gaze settles on my feet.
“Shoes might make it difficult. That a Cinderella thing?”
My eyes narrow.
“You know,” he continues. “You lose one of those and Prince Charming finds it so you can ride off in a pumpkin.”
I press my tongue against the roof of my mouth and debate karate chopping this blue-collared boy’s face.
“These aren’t made of glass, so no. And my mother’s probably in there”—I point a finger over my shoulder to the house—“doing cartwheels because I had to come out here and deal with you.” We exchange looks: mine icy, his playful.
“Please stop mowing.” I give him a sweet smile I know he knows means fuck off.
His chin dips—slightly—and lips twist to the side. After a second, his eyes dance around the yard, mine following suit. It’s overgrown. Dammit.
As I walk toward the house he calls, “How’s Iris feeling?”
I pause mid-step to face him, hands on my hips.
He calls my mom Iris: They know each other. What’s his name? Gary? Garth? Something. He’s mowing her yard on a Saturday, albeit inconveniently, he has good intentions. My early-morning flight and pain-in-the-ass sisters might have made my bitch come on a bit too strong.
“Other than the headache from hell?” I shrug. “She just had brain surgery. Good as you’d expect.”
“Cracking up?”
I blink. “What?”
“You know—” He interlaces his fingers from both hands and holds them at his forehead like a big O before pulling it apart. Once. “Cracking”—twice—“up?”
There’s an awkward pause.
“Is that supposed to be a joke?”
He laughs through a breath. “Guess not if you have to ask.” Keeping his eyes on mine, he walks backward until he reaches the mower then positions himself on the machine and tugs on his gloves. “You here for a while?”
“Few months.” I raise my brows. “Why?”
He half shrugs. “Saw the moving truck.”
“Okay.” What does this have to do with anything? “Anything else you need to know? Like how to read signs written in plain English or tell a joke that makes someone laugh?”
“Not at the moment.” He eyes me. “But I know where to find you if something comes up.” He starts the mower, waves, then steers the machine toward his yard—passing the sign at the end of the driveway—and onto a trailer.
Okay.
I’m barely in the house when I spot Mom on the kitchen floor. My walk turns to a sprint. “Jesus, Mom. What the hell happened?” I help her into a chair.
“I got dizzy trying to reach a bowl and needed to sit on the floor.”
I look at the open cabinet like it just arrived from space. “What do you need a bowl for?”
“I thought we could make those cookies you like. The ginger ones.”
“The ginger ones?” I repeat. “Why?”
She rubs her temple. “You always loved them. We could have all the kids over.”
“Kids?” I sound as exasperated as I feel.
My mother has always been the kind of woman to do what she wants, when she wants.
Why I thought she’d make her recovery easy is laughable.
“You just had brain surgery, Mom. There will be no kids over. Or cookies. Unless I make them. You’re supposed to be resting.
The most active thing you should be doing is sitting on the toilet. ”
With her wild white-blond hair held back, red cat-eyed glasses, and colorful nightgown, she is the polar opposite to my all-black clothes, and tamed dark bob. She simply looks at me.
“What?” I demand.
“Well get the bowl and let me tell you how to make them—I’m sure you haven’t made a batch in years.
” She eyes my outfit. “And for God’s sake, Reese, lose the shoes.
If you got fired for working too hard, give your feet a damn break.
” When I think she’s done: “And wear some color, will you? You look like you’re between meetings at a funeral home. ”
I bat my tongue around my mouth until all the swear words I want to say dissolve, then kick my shoes off.
“Happy now?” I make an annoyed face at her pleased nod. “And I didn’t get fired. I’m on sabbatical.”
She hums a knowing sound but doesn’t argue as I roll up my sleeves, tie one of her colorful aprons around my waist, and gather ingredients. The dough is barely finished when she tells me she needs to lie down.
As I make cookies, clean the kitchen—organizing the cabinet of tea is the paragon of satisfaction—and unpack my boxes, she sleeps.
Through the day and the rest of the night.
I check on her every hour, and she barely moves other than when I give her medicine—over-the-counter pain pills for the headache.
It’s the same the next day and the next.
Other than eating a few small meals and letting me help her sponge bathe, she sleeps.
I clean. I organize. I bake more cookies. I check my inbox nine thousand times and don’t have a single email. In a moment of weakness, I email Matt and ask if there’s anything I need to know about Fizz Co.
He responds with Nothing that can’t wait until you get back. Hope you’re having a great vacation!!!
The three exclamation points nearly break my will to live, and I slam my laptop closed and scream.
With nothing else to do, I research the process of getting pregnant via sperm donor—that, unfortunately, only takes thirty minutes to understand the ins and outs of.
I’ll go in for my appointment in two weeks, fill out paperwork, schedule a few exams, pick a perfect donor—I made a list of questions to ask him when we meet—and have a quick procedure known as intrauterine insemination—IUI—to get pregnant.
The Fontain Fertility Clinic has an open-identification sperm bank.
That wonderful news means I can thoroughly vet my sperm.
I call Rue and ask her to come over; she’s at work then tied up with family things.
I call Remy and ask her to come over; she’s at work then shuttling the kids around.
I consider waking Mom up but remember that’s the opposite of why I’m here.
I start a baby registry—which I buy everything from for myself—then set up a 529 account for my child’s college fund and apply to the three best preschools in Chicago.
I take Mom to get her staples out and to therapy appointments.
I read the entire internet’s worth of information on best practices for getting pregnant and overhaul the kitchen. I need to eat a clean diet and relax; I master the diet.
I watch four hours of videos on people baking sourdough goods and for some reason mix flour and water in a jar then decide it’s a good idea to watch this concoction rot on the counter so I can bake with it.
Every single night I tell Joshua Jackson’s face on my ceiling that sabbaticals are the worst.