I paused. "Stop what?"
"What I just said, forget it."
"But I don't want to forget it. I–"
"I mean it," he warned. "I didn't say it. And I'm not gonna say it."
I pulled back, letting our hands slide apart. "What's wrong? Are you angry with me or something?"
"I'm not angry. I'm realistic."
"No, you're not. You're talking like a crazy person."
"Yeah? Tell me something I don't know."
Therewassomething that he didn't know, and I desperately wanted to tell him – three little words that had been growing in my heart almost from the beginning. In a softer voice, I said, "Joel, just listen–"
Abruptly, he stood. "I'm gonna get to work."
Confused, I stared up at him. "On what?"
His gaze drifted toward my bedroom, just beyond the open balcony doors. After a long silence, he said, "The kitchen faucet."
Screw the faucet.
That’s what Iwantedto say. But that was the last thing I wanted to argue about. So I said, "Alright. Then I'll keep you company."
"You know what? Forget the faucet. I'm gonna mow before it gets dark."
I gave him a perplexed look. "You mean the lawn?"
But already, he was striding through the balcony doors.
I stood and called after him. "But you just mowed a few days ago. It doesn't even need it."
He didn't pause. He didn't answer. He just kept on going. Desperately, I wanted to follow after him. But something in his stride told me it would be a huge mistake.
It hadn't escaped my attention that he'd zoomed in on the one job that wouldn't just take him outside, but would also prevent any further conversation.
If that wasn't a hint, I didn't know what was.
So I stood, watching like an idiot as he strode through my bedroom and into the hallway. A couple of minutes later, I was still standing there when I heard the sounds of the mower firing up outside.
I tried to look on the bright side. At least he'd gone for the mower, and not his car. That was an improvement, right?
Chapter 60
I felt like a stalker watching him from behind the front curtains, but I didn't know what else to do. I'd waited upstairs for at least an hour, hoping he'd come to his senses. But he hadn't.
So I'd come downstairs and nudged aside the curtains for a better look. His shirt was off, and his body was glistening as he pushed the mower from one side of the yard to the other. If he didn't look so angry, I might've enjoyed the view. But there was nothing enjoyable about this.
For someone who claimed that he wasn't an artist, he sure was temperamental. A wistful smile tugged at my lips. Funny, my dad had been the same way.
But he didn't mow the lawn. He played the drums. Badly.
I glanced down at my watch. In a couple of hours, it would be dark. Would Joel stop then?
And if he didn't, what would I do?
