I hear the subtext of what she’s saying: no Rob. That sounds pretty appealing at the moment when just the thought of his face makes me want to simultaneously scream, kick something, and cry.
“When are you coming back?” I ask.
They glance at each other again and I fear what that means. But Maggie answers, “Mid-August. But you can keep living here as long as you want after we come back. Under this roof or out to the cabin if you want. I know you’re used to being on your own.”
The cabin is typically for seasonal workers, so there’s always the possibility I’d have roommates. Though late enough in the fall, they’ll all have moved on. It’d be just me out there, across the creek from the homeplace and by the barn. But I don’t plan to be here that long.
Maggie squeezes my hand. “You don’t have to say yes. I’m sure Dustin’ll come back if we need him. And his sister said she’d come work this summer. She’s coming out next Friday to start. Bill already hired her for day work.”
Dustin’s been the on-and-off farm helper for a few years now. He’s somewhat become part of the family. I’ve never met his sister, but heard she was something of a wild child. Dustin was always worried about her in one way or another.
“I think Dusty’s girl’s pregnant,” Bill grumbles. “He wanted to take some time for the baby. That’s why Becca’s coming. And something about her wanting to start a farm. But she lives with her boyfriend out Painter a bit.”
Bill’s talking about Painter Creek that runs through the area. Yes, the town is Paint, and the creek is Painter. Painter is the local pronunciation of “panther,” and everybody spells it Painter. It’s even Painter on maps. How the town became Paint, I’ll never know. It’s one of those things you just accept.
I’d say it’s annoying, but honestly, it’s one of the idiosyncracies I’ve missed about home.
“Well, you didn’t tell me that, Bill. I guess we don’t have Dusty. But!” Maggie’s eyes light up. “We got that nice boy who works down at the hardware store. He’ll be living out here for the summer. Bill poached him and Mr. Anderson is none too pleased.”
“He’ll get over it,” Bill huffs. “So yeah, Becca, Caleb, and then some boy came up to me at the market today. Said he grew up on a fruit farm and could help with the horses?—”
“Oh!” Maggie says, trying to sell me on it. “Look at that! Two men living here and no internet or cell service. Sounds like a mighty fine summer! Almost like a retreat or something.”
Bill chuckles and rolls his eyes. “Darcy knows damn well it’s no retreat, Mag.”
I sigh and laugh too. “I know what it entails.”
I ran from my job, so I need a job. I need a fresh start, and a summer off the web and being humbled by heavy manual labor might fix me.
Plus, if Maggie and Bill want to go on this well-deserved trip, it sounds like they need me to run things.
They need me. I need them. I need the break and distraction to figure out what I want as much as Maggie and Bill do. I turned away from the life I built in Raleigh, but what the hell comes after that?
I take a steeling sip of sweet tea and run my tongue over my teeth before meeting Maggie’s hopeful eyes.
“You’ll send me postcards to the P.O. box from every stop?”
Maggie’s eyes crinkle. “If that’s what you want.”
I set my jaw and swallow hard. “I’ll be gone in the fall. I’ll have to face the music sometime. This is just temporary.”
If I say it out loud right now, maybe it’ll come true.
FOUR
JAKE
A thin puffof smoke drifts across the lab.
“Uh, Jake?”
I look up from my own robot to see one of the undergrad students with panic in her eyes. I’m technically not on duty, but I supervised her lab all last semester and I’d be a dick to deny her help right now. Her engine sits in front of her, smoking and shooting out the occasional spark. It makes a higher and higher-pitched noise until it pops.
I suppress the annoyed curse I want to let out. I’m never going to get my own project done if I keep getting interrupted. But I’m not a monster, so I put on my pleasant, patient face and hurry over. I fan away the smoke with my hand and notice her eyes are wet.
“It’s alright,” I say, offering the bare minimum consolation. I’m so careful to not cross a line with the undergrads, especially being an older grad student. I’m twenty-six, having taken two years off between undergrad and grad school. I never want to put my teaching assistant position in jeopardy because I need that job. I’ve heard the “hot prof” whispers about me in class, and while I’m flattered, I steer clear of mixing work and play.
This has led to a longer than average dry spell, but it won’t be forever. I’ve survived worse.
