Nebraska Stars

Chapter Seventeen

The phone rang six times before going to voicemail. It was my mom's cheery message-"Hi, this is Geri. I'm not in right now, but I want to talk to you, so leave a message and I'll call you back. Bye!" She sounded so carefree in the recording. I wished I could talk to that version of my mom. But every time I had gotten ahold of her lately, she seemed muted and distracted, like someone had drained the life from her voice. And most of the time, I couldn't even reach her at all. The phone would just ring six times and go to voicemail. I got into the habit of leaving long, rambling messages-about my life in Nebraska, about working with Hank, but not about dating him.  

I dialed her again and listened to it ring as I stood with my back against Hank's truck, the hot metal burning into my skin in a satisfying way. It was the beginning of August, and we were back at Mrs. Grandy's house, tending to her gardens and mowing her lawn. I could see her, every now and then, peeking at me from behind the curtains, probably wondering why I'd been on the phone all day and not working. She was watching me now, her dark eyes barely visible in the tiny sliver of window she'd exposed by pulling the curtains back. "Hi, this is Geri. I'm not in right now, but I want to talk to you, so leave a message and I'll call you back. Bye!" My mom's message played again.  

I hung up without saying anything and dropped the phone onto the grass, where it landed with a soft thud. I wanted to stomp on it, to feel the glass shatter beneath my work boot. 

"Baby?" Hank said from somewhere behind me. I turned and spotted him wheeling the lawnmower toward the truck, getting ready to load it into the back. His hair had grown longer now, and was even more sun-bleached. He had taken to tying it back loosely at the nape of his neck, but a few long strands always escaped, which he'd tuck behind his ears. 

"I keep getting her voicemail," I said, calling over my shoulder. I bent to pick up my phone and shoved it into my back pocket.  

"Well she's probably busy, right? Probably at work?" He flipped the tailgate down and lifted the mower into the truck bed, grunting as he did, sweat beading on his arms. 

"No, she told me last week she was taking a leave of absence from work. I told you that." 

"Oh yeah...yeah. Well...her phone probably died. Mine always dies." He extended the handle of the mower all the way back so it laid flat, then jumped down and walked over to grab the rest of our tools.  

"It's not dead because it rings six times before it goes to voicemail. If it was dead, it would just go right to voicemail." 

I turned away from him and after a minute I heard the tailgate slam shut. He walked up and took a spot next to me, leaning against the truck. He nudged me with his shoulder and flashed his gorgeous smile, knowing I couldn't help but smile back.  

"She's fine," he said. "She's probably just...taking a break from the phone for a minute. Or she's in the bathroom or something. She'll call you back. She always does." 

"Yeah, in a week maybe." 

He nudged me again and looked over toward Mrs. Grandy's window, tilting his head in that direction so I'd follow his gaze. She was still there, hiding behind the curtains watching us. "Let's give her a show," he said, and his smile turned evil.  

"Oh god..." I rolled my eyes. He grabbed me and kissed me, pressing me up against the truck, his hands in my hair and running down the length of my body. 

"Stop!" I said, laughing and pushing him off of me. "I thought we were keeping this a secret." I shoved him out of the way so I could climb into the truck. 

When we were halfway home, we stopped at a red light and I could feel Hank's eyes on me. He would do that sometimes, just watch me. I would sneak into his room at night so we could sleep next to each other and he would trace the shadows on my back, watching my chest rise and fall with slow, even breaths. He thought I was asleep, but I was usually just pretending. I had come to think of it as him reading my mind, because usually the next time he spoke he had some perfect question for me, or an observation that cut right to the heart of whatever I was thinking.