Total pages in book: 34
Estimated words: 33474 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 167(@200wpm)___ 134(@250wpm)___ 112(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 33474 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 167(@200wpm)___ 134(@250wpm)___ 112(@300wpm)
I lean in, unable to stop a ridiculously large smile. “I made up with Robin. Day after tomorrow, we’ll all be celebrating Christmas together.”
For a moment, a split-second, something in Lyle’s expression seems to shatter. Did . . . something happen between him and Jordy again? Has my enthusiasm for a happy Christmas rubbed things in?
I step forward, reaching for his arm to check he’s okay, but he steps away, forcing a stiff smile. “I’m glad things are better between you.”
“Has something happened?”
Lyle glances at the firs, and shuts his eyes.
“Is it Jordy?”
He reopens his eyes and looks at me. “It’s you.”
A spike of adrenalin shoots through my middle and I step hastily forward.
Again, Lyle steps back.
That single step feels like a kick to my stomach. My throat gets tight. “Because I left you this morning?”
He shakes his head, and says six words that tear through me, make my heart pound, hurt.
Those six words go over and over in my head while he continues talking. Explaining. He’s being clear, he’s drawing his lines, and I can’t respond. I can barely process what he’s telling me.
I stagger as he ends with another punch. “I don’t want to do this again. I can’t be friends.”
Chapter Fifteen
Almost this time last year, I broke up with my ex. I’d been disappointed, but I numbly moved on. This cuts worse. The worst I’ve ever felt. My chest hurts every breath. I’m stuck on his words all night, all Christmas Eve day. Time passes in a blur; teeth gnawing on lips, long shivers, a pounding heart.
Scott measures himself against the eight-foot tree we’ve heaved out of its hole. His hair has grown since he was last here; it catches in the fir’s bristles.
“Where’s Robin?” he asks as he tugs his curls free.
“Last-minute shopping,” I murmur on another shiver. I widen the hole with a shovel and rough up the sides so the roots will take. “We need to get on with it.”
Scott shrugs. Not for the first time, I wish Mr Cole were here instead, especially since I’m planting for real—no planter bag today. But Mr Cole has headed to Australia again for some Christmas romance, which leaves me with this eight-and-a-half-foot Douglas fir, a five-foot pain-in-the-arse, and the endless loop of Lyle’s six words.
“Bring me those two sacks,” I say, pointing. One is full, the other empty.
With lethargic steps, Scott moves the ten paces to where I’ve stacked all the gear. With an exaggerated grunt, he drags the sacks over. Tool stirs out of his slumber as one of the sacks brushes over his paws. He stretches and scoots alongside Scott.
“Hold open the empty one.” He holds the burlap sack open and I shovel some of the soil from the hole into it. “Now the compost.”
Scott lets out a horribly-bored yawn.
“Sometimes magic is just plain old hard work.” I say, and rest my shovel in the hole. Reaching over, I yank open the compost sack and pour some into the hole.
Tool comes around to my side, and his wagging tail thumps against the back of my knee. “You’re a good boy.”
Scott pokes his tongue out and rolls his eyes. “I’m here, aren’t I?”
“There’s here and there’s here.”
“I could say the same. You’ve been off someplace else since yesterday.”
I swallow. “Gently unwrap the tarp around the new fir.”
After I set the root mass carefully into the hole, he helps me get it straight. “Bit to the left. Right. No, that was too much. Left . . . left . . . ah, there. Just right. No, not move it right, it is right. Go left. Stop! There, perfect.”
After that, he packs the compost and soil mixture around the root mass as per my instructions. “Nice and firm. That’s great. And can you go a little faster?” My arms shake holding up the heavy tree and keeping it exactly straight—
“Ah, mother of shite!” Scott yells.
What the heck? Peering through the branches, I catch sight of a big wolf spider crawling out from the dirt. By the time I yell back that it’s harmless, Scott’s halfway across the yard, pressed against the wooden fence like he’s trying to be sucked into it. Beside him, fir leaves from the old Douglas snatch at his hair.
“I did not sign up for th-th-that,” he whimpers.
This is the last transplant. I’ve made it through almost a year of sneaking into Robin’s garden to make this happen; I can’t mess it up now. Certainly not for a harmless spider the size of a golf ball. “You and Jordy have a fair bit in common.”
“What?”
“Come back and put the rest of that soil in. Once that’s done, I can take over.”
My brother shakes his head sharply.
Trying to reason with him obviously isn’t going to work, and time is ticking. It must have been over an hour since Robin left for his shopping trip. What if he found everything he needed in one store and was done?