His voice shifts, silky threat soaking in. “Vanessa, I’ve reminded you—your position here, the income you earn… it’s not guaranteed. In a town this size, single mothers are vulnerable.”
He never said “quit or else,” but he didn’t need to. The unsaid feels sharp enough to bleed.
My pulse pounds in my ears. I refuse to let my daughter’s world shrink again. But with one look at Lipnicky, I know this will bleed me out—morally, emotionally, financially—unless I decide which version of me survives.
I swallow and smile, brittle. “Of course. I’ll get them signed.”
He reaches across, taps the stack. “Thank you. I knew I could count on you.”
I walk out hollow, tugging the stack of blank notices with me like a lead weight. That night, I drag the biggest plastic lawn chair I own onto the back porch, open a box of red wine. The cheap crimson liquid slides across my tongue and trees echo with katydid cries—thick, endless, mournful.
Box wine. Raised eyebrow, tiny comfort.
My phone buzzes with Sam’s affirmation sticker. I smile briefly—my child believes in me, despite everything. I hold the glass up to my lips again, the wine warm as regret.
Then I sense movement across the yard. He’s out there again—Richard—fiddling with the garden hose. He’s shirtless, jeans faded. Dew glistens on his arms and chest. The hose snags. He too fumbles—not war gear but yardcare, breathing the same air.
Our eyes meet through the window screen. Mine stutter. His hold steady. And in this quiet, I taste something new—something incandescent.
I stand, glass in hand, and shuffle across the creaking porch. Summer air wraps around me—grass, damp earth, tension.
He steps back towards me, the hose leaking water onto the concrete. He doesn’t say hi. We stand in this liminal space—two strangers bound by soft proximity.
I take another sip, warm wine pooling in my chest.
He gestures at the hose. “Water–human irrigation device.” His voice is soft, deliberate.
I tilt my head. “It’s called a hose.”
“Yes,” he nods. “I practice.”
I laugh—short, amused, brittle. “You’re practicing?”
He shrugs. “Precision. Pressure. Flow rates.”
The hose spurts, spraying him in the ribs. He flinches and splashes a reflexive splash out in his direction. Water arching between us like a delicate, fragile bridge.
I stumble back, glass nearly slipping. Wine sloshes across the rim.
He blinks with surprise, then smirks.
“It is… wetter than I expected.”
“Just go with it,” I say. The moment settles into us like a slow film. Not tense. Not awkward. Comfortable.
I look at the hose, at the water. Then at him—his closeness, his intention. The liquor warms the edges, blurs the hard corners of fear.
“Can you help?” I ask softly. “I need help with something important.”
His eyebrows lift. The night air is sweet with promise.
I gesture to the stack in my arms. “I need help reversing something… at work.”
He processes it. Then nods slowly. “We help.”
Simple. That word stirs me. My chest loosens, pain recedes enough to draw breath.
I lean forward, clink my glass against his.
