Faded Pink (gxg)

Twenty-Three

Roughly twelve days have passed since I last spoke to or saw Reese. Each of those days I found myself wondering what I did wrong to upset her, or how she likes the book. I didn't want to say it before, but when she chose that book, my heart nearly stopped. It's the book that helped me through many lonely nights and bad days in Second Course. I thought of warning her about the handwritten notes, or the slips of loose paper tucked within the pages, but for some reason, I couldn't.

It's a simple book of poetry by an unnamed author. I've tried researching the contents but to no avail. Without a title or a name, it almost made the book more appealing when I first found it. The poems were about various topics; life, love, loss, sorrow, joy, and death. Every page had a different theme, making it impossible to pick a favorite.

When she took it from my shelf, I almost declined her request to borrow it. But thinking back to those nights in treatment – keeping my lights on far past curfew just to read one more, or having that book tucked under my arm when I was released, or scribbling quotes and thoughts into the margins – I felt like I had to share it with someone. And Reese is the perfect person to share it with. I hope.

During the past twelve days, I've hung out with Dad a lot. He's taken it upon himself to rejuvenate the dying garden in the backyard. Unfortunately, Dad doesn't have the greenest thumb. And for an architect, he seems to be struggling with a plan for the vegetable boxes.

"Dad," I call from my spot in the shade. Several stacks of wood sit in front of me and I have the instruction booklet splayed across my lap. I look down at the page and then back up to whatever it is my Dad is trying to build.

His focus is on the nail he's currently trying to hammer. He kneels down and closes one eye, pulling the hammer back and then quickly knocking it against the nail. It doesn't budge.

"Dad," I try again, this time waving my hand in the air. He pauses his next swing and looks at me.

"Huh?"

I hold the booklet up. "I don't think that's right."

He glances at the nail and then stands, groaning the way that all Dads do. He approaches me, signaling me to show him the page. I turn it to face him, pointing at the sketched photo.

"See," I say. "I think it goes the other way."

He looks back at his "wall" and then again at the booklet. He takes it from my hands and studies the page. With a huff of annoyance, he folds it closed.

"It's a box, for Christ's sake," he points to the project with the paper. "How hard can it be?"

"Maybe we should take a break?" I offer slowly. The midday sun beats relentlessly into the yard, offering little shade.

Dad motions for me to scoot over so I do. He drops himself onto the grass next to me, sighing loudly. "I told your Mom this would be built before Monday."

I raise an eyebrow at him. "It's Sunday."

"Yep," he nods, popping the "p".

I shake my head. "Maybe just tell her you meant by next Monday?"

He laughs lightly. "You and I both know that doesn't work with your Mom."

"Yeah, I guess not."

We sit silently for the next few minutes. Birds sing around us, accompanied by a few distant voices from our neighbors. The back door slides open and we both turn towards it.

"Hey," Sawyer steps out, shielding his eyes from the sun. "What are you guys doing?"

"Building a vegetable garden,"