Page 57 of You're So Vine
Seems directness is a Durant genetic trait. But I guess when you’re protecting the ones you love, you can leave no stone unturned. Or skeleton closeted.
“Lee and I are friends,” I say.
Nate’s a few inches shorter than me. Most men are. But right now, it’s me who feels small. Secrets weigh you down, bend your back. Diminish you.
“Cam, Shelby cares about you,” says Nate. “Ava does, too. And I care about them. I don’t need to say more, do I?”
No, sir, I almost reply.
I hand him the keys to the truck. For Doug. To whom I also owe an apology.
“I’ll get to work,” I say to Nate. “You can dock my pay for the day.”
“Not going to do that,” he says, “but composting can wait. I’d rather you went back in and made things right with Ava.”
He sees my hesitation, and his mouth twitches.
“She won’t kill you,” he says. “Mild to moderate injuries is my guess.”
“Can I kill Jackson instead?”
“Shelby cares about her brother. Refer to my previous point.”
This is why Nate is the boss. He’s got what it takes to have hard conversations without flinching. Nate has backbone. So does Ava. Time for me to have it, too.
“Do you want me to ask Ava to come out here?” says Nate. “So you can talk to her on your own?”
He’s trying to be helpful. But it feels like he’s calling out my cowardice.
“Nope,” I say, and mumble-add, “thanks.”
“If it’s any consolation,” says Nate after a beat, “I was so jealous of you, I used to refer to you in my head as Survivalist Ken.”
My eyebrows lift. “Like … Barbie and Ken?”
“Yeah. The perfect couple.”
“Ken has no dick,” I point out. “Just a plastic blank.”
“Really? Huh…” Nate frowns. “What about Action Man? Surely he—”
“I’m going back inside,” I say.
“You do that.” Nate’s pulled out his phone. “I’m googling ‘naked Action Man’.”
As I turn away, I hear a startled yelp. Guessing Nate might need to re-think his search terms.
Back in the house, I inhale the distinctive lingering smell of Shelby’s coffee. Like tar and burned BBQ with a top note of the biofuel they make from old cooking grease. Shelby’s coffee puts hairs on your chest and probably the inside of your lungs. But I breathe it in anyway because my heart’s starting to pound. It’s only ten steps from the front door to the kitchen but I feel like I’m taking that last, long walk from death row.
Jackson and Ava are up at the kitchen counter helping Shelby wash the mugs and plates. All three of them turn when I enter. Only Shelby smiles.
“There’s one donut left over,” she says. “Want it?”
The three I had this morning haven’t gone the distance.
“Sure,” I say.
Shelby reaches into a drawer, retrieves the donut from inside a saucepan, and hands it to me.
