A Different Blue(123)

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