This was his fifth and final load. The sun was shining. The temperature was in the low ‘60’s. He had long ago shed his shirt. He could feel sweat trickling into his crack.
He was hungry but didn’t want to dampen Debbie’s enthusiasm. They’d cried until their tears and sobs turned into giggles, then erupted into laughter.
The cats had not been amused.
Matt had been curious as to when Debbie began to suspect he was gay.
“All the rainbows intersected at you,” Debbie had said. “Garland Stone-Dancer, the lawyer you got to handle my case: gay. Even I could see that. Then, you somehow knew Nicholas, my ex. Knew him well enough to rope him into helping me get my job back. And he knew you. I guess that’s when I got suspicious.”
“When?”
“That day Nicholas came here to the house. You both tried to hide it, but it was obvious you were more than casual acquaintances.”
Matt had scrunched his face. “We haven’t had sex, if that’s what you’re implying!”
“EEEEEeeeew!” Debbie had howled. “I wasn’t implying that at all! Hadn’t even thought about that! Now I’ve got this mental image of my ex-husband and my sort-of-adopted son in bed together!”
Matt had started giggling again. “We used condoms, mommy. We were safe.”
“EEEEEeeew! Stop!”
“And Nicholas wasn’t cheating on Bradley,” Matt had said, laughing, “because Bradley was in bed with us, too!”
“It’s always SEX, SEX, SEX with you gays!” Debbie had said, laughing so hard she was holding her sides. “SEX, SEX, SEX! I was married once, you know. I’ve had sex, and, frankly, it’s highly overrated. Given a choice between sex with Richard Gere or a banana split, I’d choose the banana split every time.”
Matt had grinned. “You might want to give Richard Gere a shot. You never know. He might ring your bell.”
“Hot fudge rings my bell, too, and I don’t have to shower afterward!”
That had ended the sex talk.
“Let’s get to work!” Debbie said.
Matt worked. Debbie supervised.
When it came time for the fifth load, Debbie excused herself.
Then, when Matt was unloading that last batch, Debbie rounded the corner of the house, carrying a flat of annuals. She had changed into overalls and was wearing a floppy hat.
“Once you finish stacking those bricks, you can help me over here,” she said, nodding towards the garden that stretched across the front of her house. “There are two more flats, which shouldn’t take us long. It’ll give you time to tell me about this boyfriend of yours.”
So, there they were, the two of them, squatting side-by-side in the garden, wielding hand trowels, planting a hodge-podge of marigolds, lavender, and salvia, when Matt noticed a weedy looking thing with sand-papery leaves and small yellow and orange flowers.
“What’s this one?” he asked.
“Lantana. Plant it towards the back. It gets tall. Butterflies love it.”
Matt raised the lantana to his nose, didn’t smell anything.
“Pluck off one of the leaves and crush it in your fingers. Then take a whiff. And I’ll warn you, it isn’t sickly sweet like roses or hyacinths.”
Matt crushed a leaf, releasing its oils. His fingers smelled citrusy and herbal.
It hit him then, smacked him into a goofy smile—Celeste’s advice about the three friendships he needed to heal. “Smoke the cigar. Sniff the flowers. Eat the pie.” Two down. One to go.
He was puzzling over who was the third friend—the one with the pie—when he heard a familiar chug-ka-chugging of an engine that needed its timing adjusted. He knew, without looking, that its driver was a certain red neck whose attitude needed adjusting.
Damn Celeste and her meddling!
