Carson followed me out of the truck and toward the house. I was about to unlock the side door before I caught sight of the garden, glittering beneath the last of the sunset.
“Wait.” I groaned, hunger battling with obligation. “I need to water before I forget.”
“You garden?” Carson didn’t sound terribly put out at this change in direction and trotted after me. I flipped on the rear porch light and collected the hose.
“Mom did.” I gestured around us before flipping on the hose to take care of the raised beds. “I try to keep it going. Nearing the end of the season, but it was warm this week. I can’t let the garden die off yet.”
“Beautiful.” Carson drew out the word as he looked around the garden, which even in the fading light was pretty. All the late-summer plants were in full bloom, with a few of the autumn bloomers also coming along. I hadn’t expected Carson to appreciate my efforts, but he nodded approvingly. “My mom does tomatoes.”
He put a novel’s worth of meaning into that single sentence. He got it. The bond between sons and mothers, the urge to keep part of her alive, the need to honor what had been important to her.
“There used to be more vegetables and herbs over there.” Voice thick, I pointed to the rear of the garden space. “Keeping the perennials going gives me enough fits.”
“You’re doing good.” Carson’s praise hit like cool water on a parched plant on the hottest of days. Lord, I’d needed to hear that.
“Thanks.” I moved the hose, narrowly avoiding Carson, who had stooped to pull some weeds from one of the lower beds. “You don’t have to help.”
“I want to.” He sat back on his heels, seemingly content to stay awhile. “Peaceful out here.”
“Yeah, but I promised you food.” Task minimally accomplished, I flipped off the hose. “I bought steak for tomorrow, but there’s enough meat for both nights.”
“Sounds good.” Carson brushed off his hands and jeans as I returned the hose. He followed me through the side door into the kitchen, striding over to the sink to wash his hands like this was his hundredth visit. “Can I help?”
“Sure.” As with other tasks, we worked well together. I preheated the grill while Carson seasoned the steaks. Then I did a fast chop of some vegetables for an easy salad while Carson watched the grill.
Having someone else in the house again was nice. Comforting even, the walls seemingly relaxing from their years-long silent tension to a homey familiarity. Setting the table was another novelty, and my mother’s voice echoed in my mind, prodding me to use the nicer dishes and glasses and real napkins from the hutch where she’d kept such things.
“Nice job.” Carson smiled approvingly at my efforts as he took a seat opposite me at the table.
The steak had turned out decent if a bit hard to cut, and Carson struggled to work the fork and steak knife. I watched him a second too long. He made a frustrated noise.
“Sorry.” Frowning, he glared down at his knife. “Hands don’t listen.”
“No worries.” I knew better than to offer to cut for him, so instead I kept my tone light and my gaze on his face rather than his hands. “Take your time. My stare was because I was just thinking how brains are tricky beasts. Improvements are seldom linear. Take Linus and his progress, and also, how far you’ve come.”
“Getting there.” Carson’s voice was tight before he succeeded in taking a bite of steak. “More to go.”
“Don’t forget to celebrate the wins along the way.” I used an encouraging tone, but Carson merely rolled his eyes.
“You sound like Simone.”
“Guilty.” My smile turned sheepish. Figuring out what to say and how to act around Carson’s limitations was a challenge. I called out others on ableism, yet my own responses were also a work in progress.
After dinner, Carson insisted on helping me with the dishes. Toward the end of my mother’s illness, my father had finally relented and added a dishwasher to the old farm kitchen, one of his few nods to twenty-first-century living. Accordingly, cleanup was relatively fast and easy. My dad’s hat sat on his wall hook,quietly observing our work. What he’d think of Carson, I had no idea, but I preferred to believe my parents would be happy because I was happy.
And I was, a deep satisfaction that went beyond the enjoyment of having a rare guest. Carson wasn’t simply any other friend, a truth made painfully clear as we stared expectantly at each other after putting the last dish in the dishwasher.
“You need to get back?” I shifted my weight from foot to foot. “We could game or…”
“Or.” Carson closed the distance between us with a decisive kiss. Well, that answered that question. I greeted his kiss with a happy sigh. Carson was my favorite kind of kisser, unrestrained and passionate, matching my hunger. His lips were salty, making each kiss like a shot of tequila. Warmth spread throughout my body, muscles loosening and limbs growing heavy.
Still kissing me, Carson fumbled for my shirt snaps, closing off any doubt as to his intentions for the evening.
“I have a bed,” I gasped as he pushed my shirt off my shoulders.
“Show me.” He released me long enough to follow me to the stairs.
I’d needed several years before I’d been comfortable reclaiming my parents’ room. A doozy of a snowstorm had given me the time I needed to clear and paint the bedroom, and a new mattress and bedframe had helped the space slowly feel like mine.
