Ididn’t even realize how important he is to me. At least not until now. Not until he told me his story. I know why he didn’t tell me the truth. His guilt, for one. But he was also worried I wouldn’t trust him or I’d be afraid of him. I’m way past that, though. I was afraid when he first arrived at the cabin, but I know who he is now.
Even though he lied and kept the trip to Alexandria from me, it’s not enough for me to be mad at him.
Because I know the real reason he was coming here. He was hoping the Fosters were still alive, and I think he was hoping they would want revenge. I honestly don’t know what I would have done if that had been the case, but I’d make sure no one would ever hurt him.
What does that mean? At the time, walking up to this house, I was so sure, but in the darkness, next to Andrew, the idea is absurd. I don’t know why this person is so damn important. Then it hits me.
It’s because it feels like love.
The reason I moved in front of Howard’s gun, and why I left my home to come after Andrew. What gave me the strength to finally shoot the rifle—though that may have also been to save my own ass.
I feel safe when he’s with me and I want him to feel safe, too. Andrew’s breath continues its steady rhythm across from me on the couch. I want to tell him but I don’t know how. How do I explain it when I don’t understand it myself?
The idea of kissing him isn’t scary or strange—and I have thought about it. A few times. More so at night, before we go to sleep. When he says good night to me it feels like I should kiss him. The idea of holding him doesn’t make me uncomfortable. Actually, it’s the complete opposite.
I want to pull him close to me and hold him while he sleeps. It makes sense in my heart, though it doesn’t make sense in my mind. Even the thought of more intimate things doesn’t deter me.
But I’m scared. Disappointing Andrew is what scares me. There’s a massive difference between thinking about things and doing them. What happens if I’m wrong and it’s just friendship and loneliness and horniness all mixed up? And then we try something and it’s awkward and weird and I suck, and then I’ve ruined the only relationship I have left.
It seems so trivial when I think of it like that because it feels like so much more than just “the only relationship I have left.”
I keep my eyes open and my thoughts running as night turns into early morning. I don’t know what time it is when I finally drift off to sleep.
I hear a gentle hum. In my mind I see an air conditioner. It’s blowing on me and I’m lying under it in the afternoon sunlight.
My eyes open and the hum grows louder. As my mind clears, Irealize it’s not an air conditioner. The sun’s up and the room is hot and stuffy. I look around, getting my bearings. I’m still in the Fosters’ house, but Andrew isn’t lying across from me anymore. His shoes are gone as well.
I jump up, following the humming noise of a motor that grows louder as I reach the back of the house. There’s movement in the backyard.
Andrew is pushing a gas-powered lawn mower through the tall grass. The backyard, which was overgrown last night, is half-cut. Clumps of wet, masticated grass are being spewed out of the side of the lawn mower. I push open the back door and stand on the deck, watching him. He’s taken off his shirt and tied it around his head. His shoes and legs up to his knees are green with cut grass. Pink scars on the leg I sewed up stand out against the green.
I watch him, studying him like I’ve never done before. It’s strange.
No, not strange.
Different.
He doesn’t notice me until he loops around the back of the yard. He holds up his index finger,one sec.I nod and sit down on the steps, waiting for him to finish.
When he’s done he cuts the motor and pushes it back toward an open shed next to the house.
“Sorry,” he says. “It took me almost two hours of trying and the engine flooding before the damn thing finally started. I didn’t want to risk turning it off and it not starting back up again.” He picks up a red gas can and puts it in the shed, too.
“You decided to do yard work.”
He looks up at the second story of the house. “I want to bury them. I want them to be able to rest together. I didn’t like seeing them separated like that.”
“Did you bury George and Joanne?”
He lowers his eyes and shakes his head. “The ground was frozen. I couldn’t.”
I nod. “All right. I’ll help you.”
There are two shovels in the shed but only one pair of gardening gloves to share. It’s almost eleven in the morning when we get started. By the time we finish digging four holes—two large, two small—the sun is low in the sky and our hands are covered in blisters despite swapping the gloves back and forth. For the last hour, Andrew declines all my offers for him to use the gloves.
We wrap each member of the Foster family in a different blanket and carry them down the stairs one by one. As the sky turns from orange to purple, we gently lower each of them into the ground. They aren’t six feet down like they should be, but there isn’t much of the Fosters left to dig up even if animals did try to get back here.
Andrew says a few words and tells them what happened to George and Joanne Foster. We cover the girls, then their parents. Andrew says one more time that he’s sorry, and we put the shovels back in the shed.
