Over the Fence (14 page)

“Of course I am, Kourtney. You were fucking amazing. How could you doubt yourself?”

“I kept looking down at the phone. I knew you were there, and it helped so much. Thank you, Nat. Nobody has ever—”she drew in a deep, stuttering breath—“nobody has ever cared that much,” she whispered. “Ever.”

It made me sad to hear her heartfelt confession, and my throat tightened. “Well, I do. Get used to it, because it’s not gonna change.”

“I have to go.”

“I know. I’ll call you later.”

“Promise?”

“Promise, Chefgirl.”

“Okay. Thank you, again.”

On the way home I stopped at Home Depot and bought a ladder. The only way to move this relationship forward was to be able to breach the high fence between us, and that wasn’t going to happen on a chair. I carried it into the backyard, leaning it up on the fence. Feeling somewhat guilty, I climbed the ladder, and for the first time, looked over into Kourtney’s yard. Curious, I glanced around, taking in the neat, trimmed grass and the bright pots of planted flowers she had scattered around, the lilies I had given her in full bloom; pink amidst the other plants in the containers. I looked over my shoulder, grimacing at the barren appearance of my own yard. I thought how similar the two were to the people who owned them; Kourtney’s yard reflected the bright, lovely oasis she had become in my dark, lonely life.

I scanned the rest of her small yard. Leaning up on the fence, almost directly across from me, was her ladder, a much smaller version of mine. Beside it was her barbeque, and by her patio doors was a small table, where I knew she sat when we were outside.

My eyes kept straying to the table, something bothering me, until I realized what it was that had caught my attention. There was only one chair. I searched around the small yard, but I didn’t see another one anywhere. I viewed my table and the four chairs around it. As solitary as my life was, there was still the need, the desire for company. Occasionally, all the chairs were occupied when I would have people from work over to watch a game and we would sit, laughing and drinking, sharing some time. My gaze traveled back to Kourtney’s table and solitary chair; its singleness speaking volumes to me. She was alone and expected to remain alone. I stared at it for a moment before climbing back down the ladder and heading inside. I was probably thinking too much. Maybe the other chair broke or she used in her kitchen. But for some reason, the image of that one chair bothered me all evening.

6 p.m.

Chefgirl—this pan won’t fit in my microwave—how can I bake it if it won’t fit?

The pan is aluminum Nat—you CAN’T put it in the microwave—it will spark.

You said to bake it.

You have to use the stove.

Use it as in turn it on?

Sigh. Yes. You have never used it?

For other than its intended purpose in this house, no.

Ah, yes. Counter space/garbage collector.

Yep. It performs well.

Is there garbage in it now?

Um, no Chefgirl. Football doesn’t start for a few weeks. It’s empty.

Oh, so sorry. Wasn’t aware.

Gasp. You cannot be serious. I’m in shock you don’t know this.

OK—you need to remain open to new ideas. I will teach you how to use the stove.

Great. Not sure how this will work, but I’ll try.

If I can learn to use a cell phone, you can learn to turn on the oven.

Good point, but highly unusual for a cell phone to catch fire. Me and stoves . . .

Okay, first—do you know how to dial 911?

Yep. 9–1-1

Good, just checking. I don’t want your dinner to be the reason you are homeless. Are you in front of the stove?

Would you really let me be homeless, Chefgirl?

No.

Knew it. x I am ready to be taught, wise one.

I am going to assume since the houses were built at the same time we have the same stove. Does it say LG on it?

Yep.

Good. See the button that says BAKE? Push it twice. It will beep.

Beeping has commenced.

It’s going to heat up now. It automatically goes to 350 degrees. You can put the casserole in and once it beeps again, it should take about an hour and it’ll be ready.

How will I know?

It will be bubbly and hot.

Bubbly and hot. Got it. Then?

Um, you take it out and let it cool for a few minutes and eat it. Be sure to turn off the oven! Then you can cut it and put it in containers and take it for lunch.

Turn off the oven—good point. And leftovers? Excellent. More weeping co-workers.

You get too much satisfaction in that.

You have no idea. What are you doing?

On a break from another presentation. Going back to the room in a bit.

Going out for dinner?

Annie and I are going to get something. Then I’ll be back.

OK, let me know when you’re back. I’ll be lying on the sofa in a food-induced haze.

Laughing here.

The term is LOL, Chefgirl.

Right. Later?

Call me when you get back. I’ll be right here.

11 p.m.

I smiled when I heard Kourtney’s ringtone. “Hey, Chefgirl.”

“Hi.”

“How was dinner?”

There was a small giggle. “Good. Yours?”

“Fucking awesome casserole. I love stuff with noodles.”

Another giggle. “I love how enthusiastic you always are over my cooking.”

“What’s not to be enthused about, Kourtney? As I said—fucking awesome.”

“How many beers have you had?”

“A few.”

“I had some wine.”

“Yeah? How much?”

“Um . . . Annie and I shared a bottle.” Her voice dropped. “I’m not much of a drinker. I can’t feel my nose.”

I laughed. “Uh-oh. Celebrating the day being done too much?”

“Glad it’s over.”

“One down, one to go, right?”

“Yeah. Then I can come home.”

“I miss you.”

She paused, her voice now timid. “Really?”

I rubbed my face. “Really, Kourtney.”

“But I left you food.”

“I told you it’s not the food. It’s you. Your company. I miss you giving me lip. And your laugh.” I eased back into the sofa. “God, I love your laugh.”

There was silence.

“Chefgirl?” I prompted her.

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why do you love my laugh?”

I thought about it. “I dunno. Maybe because when it happens, it’s such an honest reaction and your laugh is so contagious. It makes me smile. It makes me happy. I miss hearing it. And I miss you.”

“Nobody ever misses me, Tomcat.”

“I’m not nobody.”

“I know,” she whispered, sounding wistful.

“And I do miss you, Kourtney. A lot, actually, and I want you home.”

“I’ll be there Thursday afternoon.”

“Good.”

I grinned when I heard her deep yawn. “Did you sleep at all last night?”

“Not much.”

“Go to bed and get some rest. Are you running in the morning?”

“Yes.”

“The rule?”

“I’ll have my cell phone with me.”

“And?”

“I’ll let you know when I get back.”

“Good. And if you need to call me before your talk tomorrow, I’ll be there, okay?”

“Thank you. Night, Nat.”

“Night, Chefgirl.”

I hung up, not wanting to break the connection, but knowing she needed some sleep. However, I felt her sadness when she hung up, too. I wanted to leave her smiling. Picking the phone back up, I texted her.

Kourtney, did you forget something today?

Um, no?

Sock color?

Oh.

?

Black and pink.

Black and pink as in you forgot to do laundry so you wore one of each, or are you giving me more info than I asked for—which is fine, too. *wink wink*

*wink wink*?

I thought maybe you were telling me your sock and underwear color. You know, as an added bonus for today.

Rude. My SOCKS are black with pink hearts on them, perv.

I chuckled at her reaction to my teasing. I loved hearing about her various socks. It was a simple thing, but it made me smile.

And who says I’m wearing underwear anyway?

I threw back my head in laughter. My Chefgirl was teasing
me
now. The wine must be making her brave.

Commando? I’m blushing here, Chefgirl.

You started it.

I did. I’ll finish it as well. Gray.

Your socks are gray?

No, my underwear. I’m not wearing any socks.

Well, thank God it’s not the other way around.

LOL

TMI, Nat. TMI.

Just wanted to give you something to think about, Chefgirl. My ass looks good in gray.

Thanks for the mental image. I need to go and find some brain bleach now. I don’t want to think about your gray-covered ass.

That’s the second time you have dissed my ass, you know. I’ll have you know it’s a fine-looking ass. Many have commented on this fact.

You have an unhealthy obsession with your own ass. You should talk to someone about it.

I am. I’m talking to you.

You’re nuts. I think I may have mentioned this before.

And as I stated before . . . nuts about you, Chefgirl.

Go to bed, Nat.

Are you?

Going to bed?

No . . . Commando?

Sigh. You won’t give this up will you?

No. Color, please.

Nathan . . .

Please.

Black.

Nice.

Go to bed, perv.

With that mental image, happily.

Eeewww.

Not in my mind, Kourtney. Sleep well, Chefgirl.

You, too.

xx

I waited. And waited. Finally, I sent her a prompt.

Waiting here, Chefgirl. I got one last night. Give it up.

Finally it came back.

x

I shook my head at how big I was smiling over a little x. But I couldn’t help it.

One small x for me was one huge step for Chefgirl.

Laughing at my own corniness, I went to bed, taking the phone with me.

Just in case she wanted to drunk text me later.

I could only hope.

Wednesday 10 a.m.

Hey Chefgirl—going for a run?

A short one. I’ll go for another one later.