Wilson grabbed the end of two heavy, tangled branches I was struggling to hoist. Two separate branches had grown out of two different trees that had been growing side by side, and the branches had overlapped, wrapping around the other, the smaller branches tangling and intertwining. The branch from one tree had been damaged and was split at its base. Had it not been wrapped around the branch from the other tree it would have come down on its own. I had to climb both trees to cut each branch loose, sawing off the branch that wasn't split, and severing the few jagged connections of the one that was. It had cost me a hole in my jeans and a long scratch on my right cheek, but it would be worth it in the end.
The imagery of the fused branches was compelling and suggestive of something innate to every human heart – the need to touch, the need to connect – and I knew exactly what it would look like when I finished. When I'd first seen it, I had ached for something I had denied myself since I walked out of Mason's garage apartment a year ago. But it wasn't the physical release I yearned for. Not entirely. It was the closeness, the connection. But the thought of going back to a time when I'd slaked a physical need at the expense of an emotional one didn't appeal any longer. And so I was left with the ache and no idea how to soothe it.
Wilson and I teetered down the stairs, facing each other through scrubby branches and prickly bark. I led the way, placing my end gently on the floor by the workbench, and he followed suit, standing back and wiping his hands on his white tennis shorts. He had sap on his light blue shirt and grubby marks on his shorts where he had wiped his hands. I wondered if Pammy would want him to change. The thought made me inexplicably mournful, and I snatched up a chisel and mallet. I wanted to start removing bark and twigs and leaves immediately. Maybe I could work the ache away, focus the need and desire clawing at me into something productive, something beautiful, something that wouldn't leave me empty in the end.
“Can I leave my truck where it's at?” I asked Wilson, attacking the bark, my eyes on the branches.
“Are the keys in it?”
I patted my pockets and groaned. “Yeah. They are. Never mind. I'll go move it and lock it up.”
“I'll do it. I've seen that look before. Blue is in the zone,” Wilson commented wryly, and he turned and left without another word.
I worked frantically for several hours, stripping and snipping, sanding and shaving, until my embracing branches lay bare and naked on the concrete. My hands were raw and my back screamed when I stepped back to take a breather. I had pulled off my flannel shirt sometime in the course of the night, growing too warm from my labor and the small space heater that Wilson insisted I use, blasting in the corner. I'd twisted my hair into a sloppy braid to keep it out of my face and safe from the sander. It had grown so long that the braid kept falling over my left shoulder like a heavy vine. I was considering lopping it off when I heard a key scrape in the lock and the basement door swing open with a rush of cold air. Wilson shut the door behind him, shivering a little from the wintery blast. He wore a T-shirt and those low-slung jeans, the ones I had tried not to notice the first time he'd worn them. My keys were in his hand, and an irritated expression made a crease between his grey eyes.
“It's midnight, Blue. You've been down here working non-stop for five hours.”
“So?”
“So . . . it's midnight!”
“All right, Grandma.”
The scowl between Wilson's brows deepened. He closed the distance between us, his eyes taking in my unkempt appearance.
“You were gone for three days, and I'm guessing you hardly slept the whole time you were gone, yet here you are, working like you're under a deadline or something. Your jeans are torn, you were limping earlier, and your cheek is scratched,” Wilson argued. He ran a finger down the angry welt on my cheekbone. I reached up to push his hand away, but he captured my hand and turned it over, running his fingers over my palm, straightening my fingers, noting the callouses and the scrapes I had acquired in the last few days. Goose bumps rose on my arms and tickled my neck. I shivered and pulled my hand away. I crouched beside my project and resumed sanding.
“So why didn't you tell me?”
“Hmm?” I didn't stop working.
“You said you didn't leave without telling anyone where you were going. You just didn't tell me. Why?”
“You've been avoiding me for a while, Wilson, which gave me the impression that you wouldn't be bothered by my absence.” My words were blunt, and I boldly held his gaze.
Wilson nodded, pulling his lower lip into his mouth, chewing on my accusation. But he didn't deny that he had purposely stayed away.
“I thought maybe you and I needed some distance. It's been only two months since Melody was born. Our . . . relationship . . . has been forged on some pretty intense experiences.” Wilson formed his words carefully, pausing between thoughts. I didn't like that he was so deliberate. It felt patronizing. But he continued in the same tone, speaking precisely and slowly.