I shrug, feigning nonchalance. Because therearea lot of plants. Probably thirty or forty. I culled some earlier this year. And of course, my bookshelves are currently overflowing. And books are pretty fucking heavy.
“Well, if they’re not busy and want to help, I’d be happy to pay them in beer and pizza. But no pressure,” I say, thinking better of it.
“Please, you know Darcy was going to make Ridge make them help,” he says. “You’re kind of in now, darlin’.” He pulls his phone from his back pocket, types something out, and then sets it on the counter.
“Is that them?”
“Yeah, I texted the group chat,” he says. “Bunch of assholes.”
“Excuse me?”
“The name of the group chat,” he says with a laugh. “It’s called ‘bunch of assholes’ because that’s what they are.”
“Oh.” I laugh. What I wouldn’t pay to be a fly on that virtual wall. There’s no telling what secrets are in there.
Waylon picks up his phone again when the screen lights up, reading what I assume are their responses.
“They’ll be there at six in the morning on Saturday, if that works for you?”
Six in the morning on a Saturday is diabolical. I don’t even get up that early during the week. But who am I to pout at the time when they’re willing to help?
“I suppose before the beer and pizza, I should get some coffee and donuts or something then.” I laugh again.
“I would tell you not to worry about that, but I’m going to need the caffeine.” He runs his hand through his beard, scratching at his chin. I don’t even think he realizes he’s doing it. I’vecaught him staring off into space doing the exact same thing a few times.
Tater interrupts us, barking suddenly and spinning in a circle.
“Oh, he has to go out,” Waylon says.
I stand and follow Waylon to the sunroom off the kitchen, where he opens the back door to the fenced yard. When he told me about this sunroom, I was instantly in love with the idea of putting all my plant babies in here and letting them thrive. It’s the perfect environment, temperature controlled and full of natural light.
“As you can see, I don’t really use this space,” he says, gesturing to the single chair and pair of shoes near the door. “You can dress it up any way you like. Put some comfy chairs in here, all your plants, a bookshelf. Whatever you like.”
Maybe this is his idea of a peace offering. He doesn’t have to apologize for what he did, just gives me a room instead. And considering how much I love everything about it, I’m willing to accept.
“Thank you,” I say, practically bouncing with giddiness. “How come you never used this space?”
“I don’t know,” he says, resting his hands on his hips as his eyes follow Tater, who’s roaming the backyard with vigor.
His little butt swishes back and forth as he sniffs one bush, then the next, and the next in rapid succession.
“I guess I never found anything I wanted to do with it. And now I’m sort of glad I didn’t.” He smacks a hand on his leg, calling Tater inside.
“You are?”
“Yeah. What you’re going to do with it sounds better than anything I would have done. Anyway, let me show you the rest of the house.”
Waylon’s change of subject was pretty obvious. He doesn’t seem to want to talk about it, so I let it go, happy to have a space outside of my bedroom that would feel like mine.
We spend the next hour viewing each room of the house. He shows me my bedroom and its adjoining bathroom, which are both bigger than mine by a mile. Imagine my surprise when my bathroom came with a deep soaking tub and a separate standing shower with what looks like a very powerful showerhead.
When I jokingly said to him, “Do you know how many baths I’m about to take?” I could swear a touch of pink found its way into his cheeks, but I pretended not to see it.
But—and I cannot stress this enough—I am about to take so many baths, I become permanently pruned. The tub at my house is, well, frankly it’s pathetic. It’s old and shallow; definitely not for soaking in. Plus, no matter how I lie, I can’t get my entire body submerged.
“This is a beautiful house, Waylon,” I say. “I really appreciate you letting me move in.” I hadn’t seen his house before, but the night we talked, he described it. He told me that he viewed it as a gift from his mother. He wasn’t rich or anything, but she’d had a life insurance policy. He’d used most of it to buy this house and had the rest in savings and a few investments.
I remembered thinking the way he spoke made me feel like I was talking to a grown-up. There are only five years between us, but maybe that’s longer than it feels. Our stories feel so similar and yet very different. His mom was in a car accident at five. Mine got sick when I was seven. His dad raised him on their cattle farm but wanted him to go into the cattle business, and when Waylon refused, he kicked him out right at eighteen. He took the money his mother had left him, which his father had no control over, and he started over here.
