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I should have smuggled myself into Laurel’s luggage, because Tahiti would be so much better than this.
Sweat dribbles down my back in uncomfortable rivulets that tickle. I’m sweating in other places too, but I don’t like thinking about that. Maybe someday I will sweat politely.
Some women glow with exercise and activity. Not me. I sweat like a horse. Or like someone who’s been locked in a tin shed on a 100-degree day and left to spontaneously combust.
It’s 105 today.
Without the heat index.
If you count the humidity and all the other factors that affect what the temperature actually feels like, it’s pretty much like standing on the surface of the sun drinking hot tea and wearing a wool sweater.
It’s miserable, and since we’re cleaning windows today, we can’t have the air conditioning on. I mean, we could, but it would be a waste since the only area of the house we’d be climate-controlling is the back yard.
I eye a large box full of papers that’s sitting at my feet. The best way to handle it is to carry it outside, but there hasn’t been an official decision about where paper goods are going.
A bang sounds behind me, and the door to the second floor opens. Keith steps out, sweat-drenched and red-faced.
“What’s the word upstairs?” I wrinkle my forehead. “Please tell me it’s pristine and untouched.”
Keith snickers. “Hardly. It’s packed full of junk.” He walks to the table and picks up a few trash bags. “I went through a few rooms up there, but from what I can tell—honestly, Trisha, I don’t think there’s anything on the second floor worth salvaging.”
“Really?”
He bites his lower lip, hesitating. He glances back at the stairwell and fidgets with the hem of his shirt.
Odd. Keith isn’t much of a fidgeter that I’ve noticed. Something must be making him nervous.
“I think, on balance of timing and the actual value of the stuff in the house.” He shrugs. “I think we’d be just as well trashing everything upstairs. Let’s just get a big dumpster. We can toss things out the windows upstairs. I think it’ll save us some time.” He glances at the calendar on the table. “Time we need in order to get this house ready for the auction.”
I frown at him. He’s leaving something out, but I can’t tell what it is.
“Hey, you’re the boss here.” I say. “You make the call.”
He nods and looks at the box. “What was the decision with paper goods?”
“There wasn’t one.”
“Is that all that’s in there?”
“I think so.” I nudge the box with my foot.
“How about I bring my truck up and we put that box inside?” He gathers two other trash bags full of papers Prisha had gathered yesterday. “I’ll take them down to the recycling center.”
“Works for me.”
He stares at me blankly for a moment. “Can you lift that box?”
“I sure can.” I flex my arms at him.
He chuckles. “I’ll go get the truck. Meet you out front.”
I nod.
He dashes away, and I turn my attention to the big box of unopened mail and sticky-covered magazines. With a grunt, I heft it into my arms and point my feet in the direction of the front door.
I ache for autumn. For at least some semblance of relief from this heat. When October arrives every year, the very air in Kansas experiences a mood shift. Throughout the beginning of the year, in the late months of winter, Kansas weather behaves like a passive aggressive church lady. The weather in January and February is chilly and unrelenting and totally unpredictable, as though you were found sitting in her pew and she vowed never to let you forget it but never actually says anything about it.
The spring months are unpredictable too, confused, varying between frosty and muggy in equal measure, but always with the sense of threat and foreboding. Some people find spring hopeful, and it’s true, there is a sense of new life in the first few weeks of spring. But here in Tornado Alley, the hope in green grass is usually replaced quickly with the fear of green-tinged skies. May is usually when we get the worst of the storms, although that has been changing in recent years. Now the threat is just as real in June and July.
Summers are lazy and indolent, as though the atmosphere just doesn’t have enough energy to try cooling down. It’s easier to boil us like new potatoes.
But October? October is a breath of fresh air, crisp and restorative, a brisk reminder that even though everything changes, some things do stay the same. The taste of apple cider. The joyful chaos of the holiday season. The rough texture of chunky sweaters.
The furnace of the outside world hits me like a blacksmith’s hammer as I step out onto the porch and set the box of letters and magazines down.
Is it autumn yet?
I crack my back and stretch my neck, feeling every one of my 35 years in the twinge of my over-used muscles. My tendons creak and pop.
Movement at the RV makes me glance toward the driveway, and I smile as Aaron comes into view. He waves at me with a grin. He’s coated in a thick layer of dirt and grime, and he’s sweating as much as I am. But it’s okay for guys to sweat. Guys don’t look like wrung-out washcloths when they sweat. Sweat on guys seems to just add to their overall guyishness.
Or maybe that was just Aaron.
The porch steps rattle and groan under his boots as he walks up to the porch and leans on the railing.
“More mail?” He digs through the box on the porch with his gloved hands. “And travel magazines.”
“And cooking magazines.” I sigh and run my hand over my dripping neck. “I don’t think he ever cooked anything either.”
“Why not?”
“Prisha realized the old guy had been using the oven as extra storage. She found a whole bunch of canned goods in there.”
Aaron shook his head. “Yikes.”
“How is the basement looking?”
Aaron flashes a smile. “I’m pretty sure we’ll have all the structural issues dealt with before the inspector gets here. It shouldn’t be a problem.”
I nod and look away.
I want to lean on him. I want to take his hand and feel the roughness of his fingers. But it’s hot, and I’m sweaty, and the last thing he needs is a clingy girlfriend.
“I’m glad,” I say. “I’m really thankful that you’ve been working for the construction group.”
“Right?” Aaron chuckles, crossing his arms. “I couldn’t have planned that. Having all the contacts in place to get this old dump approved and ready to sell.”
My brain hiccups.
This would be an appropriate time for a compliment. I should tell him that I’ve seen how hard he’s working, that I acknowledge how much he’s grown, offer him the respect he deserves. But if I start gushing like that, he won’t understand why, because I haven’t done it before. And that’s on me. So is there a way to indicate that I respect him and his work without drawing attention to the fact that I’ve been a failure in this area?
“Trish?”
His voice barely registers.
I need to think of something to say to him. Normally I’d tease him about how his eyebrows look like drowned fuzzy caterpillars. But now that I think about it, that sounds mean. No wonder he hasn’t wanted to take our relationship to the next step, especially if I make fun of him the whole time. In fact, it’s a wonder that we’re still together at all!
“Trisha?”
I could compliment him on his tool belt, but he didn’t make that. I could compliment him on his ability to swing a hammer, but that falls short. I could compliment him on—
“Lee-Lee?”
I scowl at him. “Don’t call me that.”
Dummy. After everything you’ve put him through, he can certainly call you whatever he wants.
Aaron has moved closer and currently has my elbows in his hands, his expression wary. “Where did you wander off to?”
I blink. “Nowhere.”
“No, I think you got lost in that crazy brain of yours.” He smirks. “What’s rattling around up there under all your hair?”
My hair. Ugh. With my split ends. Is he bringing it up now because he’s noticed that my hair is a wreck?
“It’s nothing.”
He arches an eyebrow. “Trish.”
“It’s nothing, Aaron. I promise.”
The eyebrow stays raised, his expression doesn’t shift.
“I’m just tired.”
His fingertips press into my elbows with a bit more pressure, his thumbs brushing against my skin gently. His eyes narrow.
“Really.” I sigh and meet his gaze. “I’m just tired.”
Both eyebrows draw together and he leans into my face, his musky, spicy scent flaring boldly. “You put that doll in your room, didn’t you?”
My lips make a straight line as I glare at him. “Shut up.”
He throws his head back and cackles.
I should be irritated at him, but he’s laughing so hard that irritation is the last thing I’m feeling.
“Did it watch you all night long?” His eyes are sparkling with mirth, and—good Lord, he’s beautiful.
“You’re not funny, Aaron,” I manage to say.
His long fingers press against the damp fabric on my lower back as he pulls me closer and nudges my wild hair with his nose.
“I’m a little funny,” his voice rumbles in my ear.
I flatten my palm against the broad plane of his chest, the fabric of his shirt damp to the touch. He has plaster dust on his collarbone and shoulder, and I brush it off thoughtfully.
I don’t know how to do this. We’ve been together for so long, and we’ve had so many meaningful conversations. At least, they were meaningful to me. But how many times have we talked and I listened to him? How many times has he been struggling and never told me? How many times has he needed my help and I ignored him? How many times has he noticed all my failings and said nothing because he wanted to protect me?
“Trisha.”
His tone is a bit sharper, and I meet his eyes.
The sparkle is gone now, replaced with a sober expression of genuine concern.
“What is it?” The corners of his eyes crinkle intensely.
“I’m just—”
“You’re not just tired.” His hands slide down to set against my hips. “What’s wrong?”
I bring my other hand up to brush the dust off the other shoulder, pressing my lips together and swallowing hard. I should have known he’d recognize that I was upset. He’s always known me better than I know myself.
“Do you think—” The words are out of my mouth before I can reel them back in. “I’m disrespectful?”
I can’t look at him, so I stare at his chest.
“What?” he croaks.
Well, it’s not a croak per se. It’s something between a croak and a squeak, almost like he’s reverted to junior high and his voice is in the middle of changing.
I need to look at him, but I’m terrified to do so. What if his eyes tell me the truth—that he’s always thought I had a big mouth. That I always overstep my boundaries. That I never think before I speak and it always hurts him, but he’s too much of a gentleman to admit it.
I square my shoulders. “Do you think I’m disrespectful?”
Aaron pauses, his fingers still on my hips. “N—no.”
My heart drops.
I can feel it plop into my stomach.
“Trisha.” Now he sounds worried, his hands grasping my arms again. “What is going on?”
“You hesitated.” I shut my eyes.
“What?”
“You hesitated. You think I’m rude.”
“Trish.”
“You do.”
“I don’t.” He’s chuckling now, gentle and softly chiding. “I didn’t say that.”
“You don’t have to.”
I fold up and press my forehead against his shoulder.
He sighs loud enough for the whole house to hear as he bundles me into his arms and holds me tightly in spite of the heat. “Trisha.” His voice is kind in my ear. “If I hesitated, it’s because I don’t understand the question.”
I pull back and finally meet his gaze defiantly. “It’s not a hard question!”
“It’s not the real question either, Trish.” He smiles.
My lower lip trembles, and I go back to brushing dust off his shirt.
“I say mean things to you all the time,” I mutter.
He cups my face in his hands.
“And I make you feel like you can’t do things or that you don’t notice things.”
My voice wavers.
“And I have split ends.”
Aaron snorts. “Trisha.”
“What?”
He lifts my chin with his index finger until I’m staring into his face.
“You talked to your mom, didn’t you?”
I feel the inadvertent flare of my eyes before I wince. “That has nothing to do with this.”
Aaron raises an eyebrow.
I sag again, and he runs gentle fingers into my tangled, sweat-soaked mass of hair. He cups the back of my head in the palm of his hand and pulls me forward to press a soft kiss against my brow.
“We need to talk, Trish.”
My stomach flips. “Yeah, we do.”
“But not here.” He straightens, hands back on my elbows as he steps back. “We both have work to do.”
I nod.
“I’m coming over for dinner tonight.” He squeezes my arms. “So we can talk then. Okay?”
“Right.” I shake myself. “Sure. Of course.” I take a deep breath and smile.
The smile feels forced and wrong on my face. It’s not a smile that touches my eyes, and I’m sure he can tell. Because he’s Aaron, and he always knows.
He smirks at me, pats my cheek, and brushes past me to go into the house.
I stay on the porch staring out at the street for a moment, but before I can move Aaron’s warmth wraps around me from behind. One hand forms around the knob of my hip, and the other splays across my collarbone drawing me back against his chest as he presses a searing kiss behind my right ear.
He lingers there for a breath while I forget how to breathe, the air in my throat stuttering like a choking engine.
“I don’t see any split ends.” His voice is a deep, rumbling growl against my ear, the timbre of it setting my nerve endings on fire, like electricity sparking across my skin.
He kisses that spot behind my ear again, and then he’s gone.
Leaving me to regain my balance and composure like a beached trout flailing to get back into the water.
As I’m standing in place, trying to remember how to inhale and exhale, Cecily and Keith come around the side of the house and make a beeline to my box of magazines and unopened letters.
“I’ll take this.” He starts to lift the box. “Hey, Trish, I did have a favor to ask.” He frowns. “Would you be sure to leave the basement door unlocked tonight? I was planning to come back this evening and pack a few more things up.”
“Do you need help?”
Keith shakes his head. “No, we made some piles of household goods down there, and URM thought we could give them to some of the guys who live in the units.”
I nod. “Sure. I’ll leave the basement open.”
“Thanks.” Keith takes the box with a smile and backs away to carry it to his truck.
Cecily stays there for a moment, staring at me.
“Patricia.”
I blink. “Yes, Cecily?”
“You should drink more water. Your face is the color of a tomato, and as I am not prone to exaggeration, you should take my word.” She turns and follows Keith.
I watch them go and shut my eyes, a gentle breeze whispering through the drooping cottonwoods. It’s not a cool breeze, but it’s enough to cool some of the sweat on my neck and back.
Water.
Water is a good idea.
Then, more boxes, and looking into ordering a big yard dumpster so we can play target practice from the second floor.
After that? Dinner with the family and a conversation with Aaron. I decide not to think about it and walk back into the house, but even as I shove the anxiety and insecurity down deep where I don’t have to deal with it right now, it’s still there, throbbing with a hollow ache.
Laurel needs to come back. Between this project and my family and Aaron and Cecily and Keith and the weird vibe I keep getting from him, not having Laurel here feels like trying to walk a tightrope with one leg tied to the other.
