My scoff answers for me.
Once we have the game set up and are standing opposite of each other, I nod at him. “You can go first. No fair just reaching over with those long arms.”
His grin is infectious. “Are you already thinking of excuses for when you lose?”
“Not going to happen.” My words are accompanied by a small cough, and he stares at me.
“Have you been feeling okay?”
Fair question. “I’m fine. Just some allergies. You?”
“I feel great. One more week and we’ll know we’re okay.”
“For now,” I agree. He throws the first washer and it rattles off the side of the box. My first pitch lands perfectly in the ring.
Grinning, he shakes his head, “Oh, is that how you think this is going to go?”
Shrugging, I tilt my face up to catch the thin rays of sun, already overshadowed by incoming clouds. “I tried to warn you.”
We take turns for a few silent moments before he asks, “So, you’re a writer? Are you a novelist?”
He’s just trying to make conversation, but it isn’t something I want to talk about. When it came up before I told him I was writing a book and changed the subject. I’m not sure how to explain it, honestly. “Oh, no, I’m not a writer. I just…have this one book I need to write.”
“I felt the same in the beginning. Just a few ideas I needed to get out.” The way the light strikes his eyes when he looks at me accentuates their unique shade of brownish gold. It reminds me of fresh honey. “It becomes addictive before you know it.”
It won’t with me. I’m not driven to write. It’s only for the sake of my future independence that I’m doing any of this, but I’m not going to get into that. Better to answer diplomatically. “We’ll see.” A change of subject is in order. “How’s your work going?”
“Slowly but considering I didn’t plan to be writing at all during this time, I don’t have to stress over a lack of productivity.”
The washers get tossed a few more times as we chat. Every time I get ahead, he manages to catch up with me. “Did you say you’re from Canada? It must suck being that far away from your family and friends through this. I’d be terrified to ride out a pandemic in a foreign country.”
His hand runs through his hair, shoving it back from his face, and the wind whips it right back into his eyes. “I’m from Ohio, originally. My dad is Canadian, Mom’s American. We moved to Canada during my last year of high school. I have dual citizenship. America feels just as much like home as Canada does.”
The last washer I throw plunks into the middle and puts me over the top. A smile leaps to his face when I exclaim, “I win!”
“By two whole points.” He sits on the bench of the picnic table, leaning back against the top, and crossing his legs. “Where’s your family from?”
It depends on who you consider my family. It’s a constant question in my mind. Which ones? Both definitely thought of me as theirs. “Kansas City, Missouri, originally, but I grew up in Indiana.”
“Another Midwesterner, no wonder we get along.”
His phone vibrates on the table as dark clouds start to roll in. Looks like one day of sunshine is all we get, but I shouldn’t be surprised. It’s spring. “I want a rematch,” he laughs, and scoops up his phone.
While he’s talking, I gather up the game and head back into the shed to put it away. The light is fading fast, and the small bulb that illuminates the space doesn’t do much to push back the darkness. In the gloom of one corner, I notice a bicycle that doesn’t seem to be in as bad a shape as the others. It’d be nice to be able to go on a ride once I get past the next week of confinement.
Patrick enters as I roll it out to the center of the floor to get a better look. He glances around and starts exploring while I kneel down to check out the damage. The chain is fine, just needs a little oil, and I saw a bottle on a shelf by the door. The tires look okay. Flat, but not rotted or anything. If the tubes are fine, they may just need to be aired up.
“I have a portable pump you can use.” Patrick stands over me. Damn, he moves as quiet as a cat. “It’s on the rack with my bike, in the garage.”
When he pulled in, I noticed he had a bike attached to the back of his SUV. He steps back when I get to my feet. “Thanks. I’ll mess with it when there’s more light.”
The steady sound of rain on the roof makes us both glance up at the ceiling, and Patrick’s eyes light up. “Is that…” He pauses and reaches above his head for something resting on the beams. After a short struggle, he tugs the end of a folded table free, and I grab the edge, helping him lower it to the ground.
Grinning like a kid on his birthday, he rushes to unfold it. “It’s a ping pong table!”
It is and attached to one leg is a netted bag containing paddles and ping pong balls. “I’m surprised they don’t have it set up in the basement where the other games are.”
“Good idea.” He folds it back up. “Let’s take it inside.”
His excitement is kind of adorable—different from the calm, quiet demeanor he’s shown so far—and I can’t help but grin as I grab one end of the table to help maneuver it out of the shed door. The sky chooses that moment to really open up and by the time we get it through the back door of the house, we’re both laughing and soaked to the skin.
“We should probably leave it here to dry out,” I suggest, and we place it on one side of the screened porch.
“I’ll get it cleaned up later,” Patrick says.
Shivering, I take in the sight of him. His hair is soaked, plastered to his head and neck. The T-shirt he’s wearing clings to his skin, showing the outline of chest hair. Dirt streaks his arms from the now wet, dusty table. He’s a mess, and damn it’s sexy.
My gaze reaches his face and he’s looking at me with an eyebrow cocked while I just stare at him. “You look like you’ve been dragged through a ditch.”
“You might want a peek in the mirror, yourself,” he chuckles, nodding to the front of my shirt that’s now grimy and damp. A rivulet of water makes its way out of my hair and down my forehead, and I wipe it away with a giggle.
“Your fault. It’s revenge for beating you at Washers, isn’t it?”
“No, that will come when I wipe the table with you at ping pong.”
We share a grin, and after a week of being cordial and distant, it’s nice. We’re going to be stuck together for quite a while. It’s good to know we can get along.
Day 15 of The Outside is Lava.
The words written on the whiteboard make me laugh. It looks like Patrick has grown tired of just keeping track of days with the number. The last week has passed a little more quickly than the first. I’ve fallen into a routine that’s not unpleasant, given the circumstances, and while this only means we can go out for necessities like food and exercise, I’m happy that we know we haven’t been infected.
My mornings usually start closer to noon since I don’t go to bed until late. The days have become warmer and after I eat, I spend the afternoons writing at the outdoor picnic table if it’s nice, or on the screened porch if it isn’t. Judging by the weather reports, it’s going to heat up soon, and it won’t be long before the pool will be another way to pass the time.