Blame The Weeds (gxg)

18

The ensuing week was murky. After our graduation night, Freya had drove me home in silence, waited until I made it inside, and left. I hadn't heard from her since. In the mornings, I toiled in Gabrielle's garden, then came in for a hummus and tomato sandwich when my palms bled. Some days Rue had soccer, and some days she shovelled with me. In the afternoons, I used her phone to call for jobs at local stores. Then, after no one was taking applications, I walked to Luke's place and listened to his raspy breathing and rattling pill bottles. Evenings were bland as the parents came home and asked us how our days were (fine or good or productive, we'd say), and after, we ate a near-silent dinner. Sleep, wake, repeat.

Turns out Ida was on leave. Frank had told Gabrielle, who told me. The stress part was carefully omitted but evident nonetheless. I'd never known Ida Hoffmann to be the kind of person to take a stress leave from work, but too much had happened in the last two months. She'd locked herself in her room, no longer monitoring my visits—or caring at all. Maybe I understood. And maybe it truly was my fault. When Ida rediscovered her resolve, I'd have to be ready. I was a walking target.

On Saturday, July 8th, Gabrielle resolved to plant the last herbs next to metres worth of tomatoes and turnips. The yard was so overly-fenced with vegetables and flowers that little grass was left, and what remained was peppered with the odd sprout from a fallen seed. As Gabrielle sorted the seedlings, I heard my father pull into the driveway with her requested load of soil bags. Rue looked up at me from our place on the ground and raised a hand over her eyes from the blistering sun.

"I've lost a pound in water weight," she said quietly, moving her yellow bandana away from her eyes. I clipped another root as a drop of sweat fell from the tip of my nose to the dirt.

"In the last hour," I said. Rue huffed a laugh.

"Today's the last day," she reminded me. I heaved a sigh and pushed to my feet.

I walked across the lawn toward the house. Best to meet my father to scope out the work; that way Rue would do more of it. Better for her athletic performance, assumably.

The driveway was bare, with only cracks in the asphalt with yellow weeds breaking through. Then a car door slammed shut, and my eyes shot across the road. Freya stood before her blue Jeep with a stack of pizza boxes. She raised a hand at the peril of nearly dropping the boxes, recovering clumsily with wide eyes. Despite my best efforts, I smiled. I'd missed her. She strode across the dead-hot road to stop before me. Her ginger hair was tied up in my hair tie, swinging as she walked. She'd burn in about a minute today, that's how powerful the sun had become. The closer she became, the more my mouth watered at the pizza steam from the boxes. Still, I levelled Freya with a glare.

"Eight days," I said.

"Nine, actually. I'm sorry," she mumbled.

"I went by The Pier Pages. Moe said you called in sick and then he made me work for an hour. I don't even know your home phone number," I said. Freya dropped her eyes.

"Someone had to talk to Graham," she said. My throat tightened, but I swallowed the feeling.

"That doesn't take nine days," I said.

"I know."

"Is he okay?" I dared to ask. Freya breathed shallowly, and after a moment, she nodded. So I finally said, "What did I do wrong?" She lifted those clear green eyes at that, confused. "I thought we were doing okay for once, as friends or whatever," I babbled. Freya bent to set the pizzas on the ground, pulled me in by my shirt and kissed me. I froze in shock, then held her arms and lost my mind as she surrounded me. The kiss was different this time, a bit clumsy and rushed, but just as warm. She cupped my cheeks and I found her belt, holding her close. Her tongue touched mine, her teeth even nipped at my lip, and I thought I'd melt in her arms under the heat of the day.