Page 53 of Out on a Limb
“I wasn’t talking about your penis.” The words tumbled out, falling right past the filter I swear my mouth used to have.
I might not have been talking about it, but now I was sure as hell thinking about it.
And my eyes went right to it, widening as I tried to convince them to go somewhere else.
Anywhere else.
Andrew cleared his throat.
“I’m not staring at it.” More filter-free words.
“It seems like you are.”
“You’ve got pants on.” Like that made a difference. I was openly, blatantly ogling his crotch. “I think I might still be a little drunk.”
“Let’s go with that.” Andrew grabbed my hand and turned toward where his truck was parked at the very backmost spot of the lot, tucked under the leafy branches of a tree. He opened the passenger’s door. “Get in.”
I did as he said, because at this point it was relatively obvious I shouldn’t be left to my own devices.
The door barely made any sound as he pushed it closed.
I sat stick straight while he went around the back, the shadows making him all but impossible to see. Impossible enough that I jumped when his door opened.
“It’s just me.” He slid in, body shrinking down as he dropped low in his seat.
I followed suit, my butt scooting along the worn upholstery as I slid as low as I could go. “What now?”
“Now we have to wait for him to leave.”
“What if he drives back here and sees your truck?” I scooted lower, bringing my knees up to rest on the dashboard.
“Then he’ll assume it broke down.” Andrew clicked the ignition one spot, then rolled each window down halfway. “It’s old enough he might not even realize it’s a vehicle.”
There was a hint of something in Andrew’s tone.
Something I’d never heard from him before.
“I like your truck.” I wiggled a little, getting comfortable since we might be here a while. “It reminds me of the truck my great-grandpa used to drive.”
Andrew’s brows came together. “You remember your great-grandpa?”
“He died when I was ten.” I smiled. “He was ninety-two.”
Some of my best memories were of my great-grandfather. “I used to help him with the garden.”
The furrowing of Andrew’s brow deepened. “Which garden?”
“This garden.” I waved one hand toward the place we’d just snuck out of. “He ran it until he died.”
And then my granddad retired and took over. For a while it seemed like that was a good thing.
Sure, he exploited the garden for his own benefit, but it actually worked well for the garden too.
There were parties. Concerts. Benefits. All sorts of things that got us attention from the media and the general population.
Sweet Side Gardens were known across the country.
But all those events stopped when my grandmother died, coming to an abrupt halt just like so much else in my life.
