“You stupid piece of crap, come on!” The cord whipped back, and this time not even a gurgle escaped. Kicking the metal base with her boot, she growled in frustration. “Damnit!”
“Let me give you a hand.”
“Jesus!” She nearly sprung out of her skin when her neighbor reappeared, as if he’d been watching her the entire time. Hadn’t he gone away yet? “It’s no use it’s—” Her words cut off as he marched back into her yard and grabbed the cord. Intrusive much?
“Sometimes it’s just a matter of reach.” He wrenched the cord and the fickle mower came to life, purring like a kitten. He offered an apologetic smile and shrugged. “I have longer arms than you.”
Another joyous part of being vertically challenged, she thought. “Thanks.”
He tipped his head toward the clutch as he held the bar to keep the motor running. “You wanna grab this?”
She glanced at his large hands, roughened by work and freckled at the knuckles. She hadn’t looked at a set of male hands in forever. Strange how she forgot the way hair dusted the backs. Nash always had callouses from fingerpicking his guitar. She hadn’t thought about that in a long time and shouldn’t think about it now. Her fingers closed around the bar, the spring lever pressed into her palm as he let go of the tension.
“Let me know if you need help with anything else.”
She hadn’t needed help in the first place. He just barged in and took over. Of course, now the mower was working, but she would have fixed it eventually.
“Thanks.”
This time he didn’t linger. He hopped the fence into his yard and disappeared into his house. As she zigzagged over the lawn making quick work of cutting the grass, her gaze kept returning to his back door. Maybe she should get a privacy fence.
She hadn’t always been so antisocial but people came with emotions, and she preferred to feel as little as possible these days. Having no attachments safeguarded her heart against future loss. If she had nothing, she had nothing to lose, which was exactly why she pushed people away, including her sister.
She used to be a happy, easygoing person. Her monotonous days kept her moving without the pressure of others’ expectations.
She was breathing. She was moving. She interacted here and there. And while her family viewed her isolated existence as a tragic shift from what it was, they would never know how much the slightest effort took out of her.
There was a fine line between living and giving up completely. Most days it was a battle to get out of bed. That’s why she started taking daily trips to the cemetery. If she could trick herself into thinking she could spend the morning with Nash, share a cup of coffee with him, and talk about her boring life, she had a sliver of something to look forward to. Otherwise there was nothing. Just emptiness.
She didn’t want other people to fill the void. She wanted Nash and he was gone. He would always be gone, and now, she would always be alone.
Maybe that wasn’t healing, because the pain pretty much stayed the same. But she also wasn’t spiraling, as she never did anything to risk the pain getting worse. Her static life gave her a sense of control that she could handle. She didn’t care what others thought she needed. This was the only way she knew to survive.
She raked up the grass clippings and hauled the bags of debris to the curb. Nash loved when the weather broke, and they could use the firepit again. He loved strumming his guitar and staring across the flames at her while he sang classics like Johnny Cash or Bob Dylan or The Stones.
She dragged both lawn chairs out of the shed—his and hers. Her eyes filled with unshed tears as she sat in hers staring at the empty one on the other side of the stone firepit. Empty. Everything was empty.
Her throat grew tight as she forced herself to sit there, feeling the void in some masochistic attempt at acceptance. Her fingers traced the cold stones that formed a ring over the scorched earth, and she stared blankly at the ash and leaves gathered in the hollow cavern.
She’d give anything to hear his voice in that moment. Her eyes closed as she slowly rocked her shoulders. Birds squawked in the distance, and she could almost hear his voice pitching over Neil Young’s lyrics as he alternated between the acoustic guitar and harmonica.
“Keeps me searchin’ for a heart of gold…” she whispered, her voice cracking over the lyric. “And I’m getting old…”
Her gaze lifted to the gray sky, her eyes seeking some form of acknowledgement from whatever god existed above. Cynicism mingled with anger as a tear slid into her hair. Grief formed an icy web in her chest.