Juniper Limits (The Juniper Series Book 2) Page 3

  “So…what’s she doing this afternoon?”

  “What you’re really asking is whether or not she’s with Celia. You can just say it, you know.”

  Paul hopped off the stool and paced around the garage, winding his way between the saw and planer and other equipment that was pulled out, leaving footprints in the sawdust on the floor. The garage hadn’t been swept in a while, which was strange. Malcolm usually kept this place spotless. Paul drew a square in the sawdust with the toe of his boot. He couldn’t stay still. It was probably just the heaviness in the air, the looming storm.

  He looked out the open garage door with his hands on his hips, his face turned toward the breeze that kicked up. The sky had darkened and a gray wall of clouds had fallen. Mrs. Dixon sat on the porch of the house across the street, knitting in the wind. She raised a hand to wave at him, yarn twisting at her elbow. He waved back. She was one of their customers. Many of the elderly people in town were. They were aiming for a monopoly on the gray-hairs.

  He turned back to Malcolm. “I don’t know, man. I don’t think she’d want me asking about her. Ronan’s been history for almost two weeks, and she won’t even consider spending any time with me.”

  Malcolm laughed, but when Paul shot him a glare, he held up his hands in surrender. “I know it feels like a long time, but it’s actually better this way—to give it some time first, to make sure she’s really ready to start something new.”

  Paul wasn’t so sure. His whole life had taken on a sense of urgency, as though it was now or never, and every minute that passed gave him the sinking feeling it was sliding toward never.

  A couple days after the day in their yard, when she was at work and he was feeling particularly bold, he asked her to get slushies at the gas station.

  “It’s eight in the morning,” she had said.

  “I see nothing wrong with a breakfast slushie, but I meant when your shift is over.”

  Fay had walked up behind her then, carrying a tray of dishes. “What’s going on, guys?” she asked, and that was Celia’s cue to walk away without giving him an answer.

  The next day he asked her if she liked movies. She had sighed dramatically. “Everyone likes movies, Paul, but I’m not going to one with you if that’s what you’re thinking.” He had laughed out loud, and proceeded to plan about twenty other ways to ask her stuff and get her to say his name that way again.

  He waited behind Heidi’s for her to get off work, and when she and Fay came out the back door, he fell into step with them. Mostly he listened to their chatter as they walked, and when they arrived at Celia’s house, he said, “Let’s have a picnic tomorrow.”

  Fay had grinned, but Celia said, “I’m hanging out with Fay tomorrow. You better scram, Paul.”

  But she looked at him when she said it, a smile dancing on her lips and playfulness in her eyes. In the days since, he kept the suggestions coming, but only when Fay was around too. Celia seemed to love denying him in front of an audience, and he didn’t want to deny her that pleasure. Celia, it’s hot, come swim with me. Celia, let’s go get ice cream. Celia, show me your favorite tree in your back yard. She said no each time, but the way she laughed when she said it kept him willing to make a fool of himself.

  Now, hot and stir-crazy in Malcolm’s garage, he was mired in the idea that she was probably sick of him. Maybe he was wrong to think she enjoyed his pestering her. Maybe it wasn’t fun for her the way it was for him.

  He sighed, thankful Malcolm was also in a thinking mood instead of a talking mood, and leaned against the wall of the garage, watching the scene outside. The sky turned darker still, with a greenish tint to it, and the sharp smell of rain was in the air. The sawdust swirled around his feet. The peeling paint on the Dixons’ house fluttered in the wind. Mrs. Dixon had retreated inside with her knitting.

  “I’m going to take off now. It’s hot as hell in here,” he said, unable to stand being confined a second longer.

  “Just give it a minute. The rain will cool it off.”

  “Nah, I’m going to go before the storm hits.”

  “You’re too late.” Malcolm tilted his head toward the door. Rain sprinkled the driveway. “Mom’s inside, you can go in and get a drink and cool off in there.”

  He knew Malcolm was sending him in to Mrs. Dearing because whenever his head got bent out of shape, she was an expert at straightening it out. He didn’t really feel like feeling better though. A weird part of him enjoyed wallowing. He’d been pining for Celia for so long now, it was a comfortable, almost sweet ache.

  The rain thickened, dropping from the sky in sheets. A crack of thunder boomed, followed by high-pitched screaming. Fay and Celia burst through the open garage door, bringing rain, laughter, and new energy in with them.

  Fay ran to Malcolm, who quickly stashed the box he was making for her in the drawer of his tool chest, and grabbed him up in a hug. “I’m getting you soaked!” She laughed, and kissed him on the cheek. He pulled her closer and bent to whisper in her ear.

  Paul looked over to Celia, who swung her head left and right, shaking off the rain, and then pulled her shirt away from her belly, where it clung to her skin. He swallowed, rooted to the spot. “You want to get me all wet too, Celia?” He held out his arms and grinned at her, keeping it light and giving her a chance to torment him.

  “You wish.”

  “I sure do wish. You want something dry to wear? You can wear my shirt. That’s two gifts—my shirt, and a great view of my abs.” He grabbed the hem of his T-shirt.

  She hopped up onto the stool he had vacated, and held up her hand. “No thanks, Paul. I don’t need your shirt, and I definitely do not need to see your abs. I don’t mind the rain. This is the first time I haven’t been hot all day.”

  “Oh, you’re still hot.”

  Celia raised her chin. “I’ve told you before; you have to come up with better jokes if you want me to laugh.”

  He grinned. “I wasn’t joking.”

  She shook her head, exasperated, but she did allow a small laugh to escape.

  Marigold Dearing opened the door that led to the house, and poked her head through. “I thought I heard the lovely voices of young women. Hi, girls. Does anyone want to come in and dry off? I made fig bars. They’re still warm from the oven.”

  “We’re watching the nature channel,” Malcolm said, and gestured to the open garage door—their wall-sized television.

  “But can we bring the fig bars out here?” Paul asked.

  Mrs. Dearing laughed. “Of course.”

  “I’ll go get them,” Fay said. Mrs. Dearing widened the door and Fay stepped inside.

  Malcolm looked from Celia to Paul. “I’m going to help her.” Then he disappeared inside, too.

  “They can’t be apart from each other for five seconds,” Celia said, a wistful smile on her face.

  “They only have a few days left before she leaves.”

  “Yeah.”

  Without Fay and Malcolm there, they went silent. Celia looked up at the wall of tools, as though fascinated by it. Paul slipped his hands in his pockets. He wanted to say something meaningful, something to sway her mind toward him, even the tiniest bit, but he couldn’t think straight.

  Looking away from the one person on earth who had the capability of rendering him speechless, he watched the weather. The trees bobbed and shook in the wind, the thunder their music, the muddy grass their dance floor.

  A bolt of lightning shot across the sky above the trees, and Celia gasped. “Is it weird that I love the way storms terrify me?”

  He spoke without thinking. “I don’t think it’s weird. You terrify me, and I love it.”

  She looked at him in surprise. “I don’t terrify you.”

  “You do.”

  “Why?” A laugh rose out of her.

  He tilted his head and appraised her. “You seem to like it that you terrify me.”

  “Maybe a little.”

  “How about me? Do I scare you at all?”
<
br />   She scoffed. “You’re a puppy dog, Paul. There’s nothing scary about you.” She crossed her arms in front of her.

  A crack of thunder rang out, and she jumped about a foot in the air, letting out a small yelp. On instinct, he closed the distance between them and reached out for her hand. He clasped it between both of his, hoping to offer comfort.

  She drew in a sudden breath, and he looked at her in wonder. Lightning danced between their palms, as though they’d pulled it from the sky. She yanked her hand free immediately, and hopped down off the stool, looking spooked.

  “You all right?”

  She laughed nervously. “Of course. That was a loud one, that’s all. Like I said, I like the way thunderstorms terrify me.”

  He studied the way she stood there, her posture defensive. He raised his hands to show her he wasn’t going to touch her again, and then tucked them back into the pockets of his jeans.

  At that moment, Fay and Malcolm came back through the door, Fay holding a plate of fig bars, and Malcolm carrying a pitcher of tea and a stack of cups. Malcolm laughed loudly as he pushed some sandpaper out of the way with his elbow and set the pitcher down on the work bench. “Paulie, it wasn’t my fault.”

  “What wasn’t?”

  Fay let out a huge laugh, and handed Paul the plate of fig bars. “Don’t worry; I swear it doesn’t change my opinion of you. In fact, it makes me like you even more.”

  “What are you talking about?” he asked, and shoved two fig bars into his mouth at once.

  “Well, see, I asked Marigold if she had any pictures of Malcolm that she wouldn’t mind parting with, that I could take home with me when I leave.” She paused to wheeze with laughter. “She set some aside for me to take, but she also left a big stack of pictures she thought I might like to see.”

  “She saw the haircut, man,” Malcolm said, cutting right to the chase.

  It was Celia’s turn to laugh. “I remember the haircut!”

  Paul stared at her in disbelief, his cheeks full of fig bars. He hadn’t thought she ever paid any attention to him. It was just his luck that the one thing she noticed was the crazy haircut he had in the eighth grade.

  “Do you remember the rat tail hanging down the back?” Malcolm asked her.

  “Of course. That was the best part. It was at least a foot long, and one time he dyed it green,” Celia said.

  “It was green in the picture!” Fay said, giddy with mirth. “Let me go get it, so you can see.”

  Celia grinned at him, likely pleased that he was the target of teasing for once.

  He smirked, swallowing down the food. “If you think this bothers me, you’re wrong. I loved that haircut. I should get it cut that way again. What do you think, Celia?” He patted the top of his head.

  She rolled her eyes, grinning.

  Fay came back out with the picture in hand, and passed it to Celia, who snorted with laughter. “I forgot how short the top was buzzed. You were almost bald. And good grief, look at how spiky the sides were. How did you get them to stay like that?”

  “My hair is just that awesome.”

  After another hour of joking around and being stupid, Celia said it was time to go. Paul thought she was talking to Fay, but then she elbowed him in the ribs. “Can’t you see they need some time alone?”

  Malcolm and Fay weren’t letting an inch of space come between them. “Yeah, you’re probably right.” He didn’t want to leave; wasn’t ready for this afternoon to be over.

  They said good-bye, and laughed as the garage door came down the very second they cleared it, enveloping Malcolm and Fay in privacy.

  The storm was over, and the rain had washed everything clean. He looked down at Celia and she looked up at him. He wondered if he should ask her to go get a drink at Heidi’s.

  Before he could decide, she answered a question he asked last week. “Okay, Paulie. Fine. We’ll go on a walk.”

  4

  I took the marshy evening air deep into my lungs. The storm gave us a break from the heat, and I filled my lungs again, breathing in until I thought they might burst.

  Paul looked over at me, a wide smile on his face. “Don’t you love the way it feels after a rain?”

  I looked down at my feet. My flip-flops were slinging mud onto the backs of my legs.

  He slipped his hands into his pockets. Then he pulled them back out again and shook his arms. He was being all wiggly and kind of goofy. He turned around and walked backwards, facing me. “I just can’t believe I’m on a walk with you.”

  “Paul.” He never stopped joking around.

  “Sorry, sorry.” He lifted up his hands as though I was holding him at gunpoint. “Playing it cool is not my strength.”

  I shook my head and gave him a look. “You think?”

  He tripped on a rock, stumbled, and righted himself before flipping around to face forward again. He grinned. “Playing it cool is over-rated anyway. I never got what I wanted by pretending I didn’t want it.”

  “Hmm.” What did he want? And anyway, I wasn’t so sure about his logic. I pretended all the time that I didn’t want things I actually wanted—vital for avoiding disappointment.

  I looked around, wondering if anyone was watching us. Then I shook my head at myself and blew out a large breath. It was hard not to fall into old habits.

  Things were so good at home right now. I could scarcely believe the last two weeks were my actual life. Trying to protect that, to somehow engineer the world so that nothing bad would happen was second nature. I sternly reminded myself I wasn’t doing that anymore.

  I wasn’t going to worry about who was looking at me, I wasn’t going to make sure Mom didn’t lose her temper, or make sure Abe didn’t get underfoot, or make sure I didn’t do anything to set Dad off. It was futile, and not my problem, and I would resist the inclination. I suddenly felt bolder. “What is it that you want, Paul?”

  He laughed and raked the hair out of his face. “For this walk to last until I wear holes in the bottoms of my shoes.”

  I didn’t let that comment penetrate. He was just teasing me, like he did everyone, all the time. We crossed the gravel at the edge of Stacker Park, and walked over to the playground. Paul sluiced the water off the picnic table with his palm and sat on the top, resting his feet on the bench. He patted the spot beside him, but I went to the swings.

  I tipped one up to dump off the water, and sat in it, dangling. My feet skimmed the surface of the puddle, then I slipped them under the water, flip-flops and all. After a moment, the shoes floated to the top. “The mud is so smooth under here.”

  “It’s a hundred years’ worth of rock dust and shoe rubber, ground down into a fine paste.”

  “Probably.” I turned my face up to the sun, which peeked out between fat, gray clouds. In spite of the warm sun, I shivered. “The mud is almost cold on my feet. You should try this.”

  He toed off his work boots—the only pair of shoes I ever saw him in—yanked off his socks, and rolled up his jeans. He hopped off the table and came to the swing beside me.

  The puddle beneath his feet was bigger than mine. He dipped his toes in.

  “Go on; dig your feet down into the mud.” I wriggled my toes in the muck.

  His legs jostled as he complied. “You realize we’re at risk for getting sliced by broken glass, right?”

  “I never met a risk I didn’t like.”

  “Is that true?”

  “I said it, didn’t I?”

  “Yeah, but is your tetanus shot up to date?”

  I chuckled. “I wouldn’t know, but probably not. We don’t go to the doctor unless we’re near death or have a broken bone.”

  He tilted his head toward me. “You’ve had two broken bones. You broke your leg when you were really little, and you also broke your arm once. You had a purple cast on your arm, and you wouldn’t let anybody sign it.” I looked at him quizzically, and he shrugged. “I have a good memory.”

  “I didn’t let anybody sign it because I wa
nted it to stay pretty. Turns out it wasn’t set properly, and it healed a little crooked. You can still sort of see.” I held up my left arm, indicating the very slight curve in the bone of my forearm. Why was I telling him this?

  “The radius,” Paul said. “We memorized the bones in biology last year.”

  We were quiet for a while, gently swaying in our swings, our feet holding us in place like anchors in the mud. Paul was good, a truly good person. He was kind to everyone—which meant he wasn’t here because I was special, but because he was.

  He looked over at me, but I kept watching the ground. A breeze blew my hair across my face. I was grateful for the hiding place. “What else do you remember about me?”

  “Lots of things.” He smiled. “We both survived Mr. Thackish in fifth grade.”

  I crinkled my nose. “How do you know which teacher I had in fifth grade? You were long gone to middle school by then.”

  He reached out and tugged on my chain, bouncing my swing. “Don’t pretend you don’t know. It has been thoroughly revealed by this point that I’m sweet on you, and I’m not scared to admit it.”

  He grinned, and I began to wonder if he was serious. I swallowed, my heart racing, and I stared at the puddle beneath me.

  “You’re not the only one who enjoys a little risk,” he added. “That’s one of the many ways we’re alike.”

  I shook my head, my thoughts swirling so fast I could only grab onto one. He thought we were alike? I wondered where on earth he was getting his information. I should just say it. Get it over with and stop wasting his time. If I talked to him just a little bit, then he’d see I wasn’t who he thought I was. “We’re nothing alike.”

  “We are way more alike than we are different.”

  “We couldn’t be more different. You’re the nicest guy, and I’m—”

  “You think I’m nice?” He beamed.

  I rolled my eyes up to the sky and bit my lip so I wouldn’t smile. “Well, let me tell you how we’re different.” It seemed important to push this point. I never wanted him to think I tricked him into believing I was a sweet girl. “People don’t say the kinds of things about you that they say about me.”