Un-Tying the Knot {h.s.}

Chapter 65

The afternoon sun beats down ruthlessly on Harry's bare shoulders, sweat trickling down his spine, his back aching as he reaches for a particularly stubborn weed near his grandmother's azalea bush. He can feel his scalp burning, his skin stinging as he tosses the clump of dirt and stringy roots into his basket. He stops to press a dirty finger to his bicep, watching the skin go white and then fade back to red under the smudge of earth he'd left on his skin.

He'd finished the mowing about an hour ago, and then went ahead and weed-eated around the trees and picnic tables in the backyard. Now the sun is high in the sky, the early June heat baking his skin, and he knows he should probably go in to put on some more sun block, but he's almost done with this bed.

He sighs, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand, and there's something oddly comforting about manual labor, the way it makes him unable to concentrate on anything but the fatigue of his muscles and the ache in his fingers. He likes the idea that if he pushes himself hard enough, he'll be so tired by the end of it, he'll fall into bed and sleep for days. Or at least that's the goal anyway.

"Harry!"

He looks up at the sound of his name, finding his grandfather striding towards him. Brian Selley is a tall man, his six foot two frame stretching long and straight despite his age. He's surprisingly lanky for a man of eighty-two, his movements fluid and easy as opposed to the jerky amble most men his age were prone to do. His work boots have seen better days, the toes dirty and cracked, laces pulled tight before they disappeared under his worn jeans. His olive button down shirt is pressed and clean, buttoned all the way to the neck, even though it's nearly ninety degrees, his silver hair neat and sleek. He has a glass of lemonade in his hand.

"Hey Pops," Harry says, looking back down and grabbing for another weed. He feels the coolness of his shadow as his grandfather stands next to him.

"Boy, you're gonna be crispy as a chippy if you don't put a shirt on," he says, and Harry feels a smile tug at his reluctant lips.

"Can't have any tan lines," he says tugging hard before reaching for the gardening fork, trying to loosen the soil.

"Yeah, the big day's comin up, eh?" Brian says, and Harry hums non-committally, continuing to dig at the earth, his grandfather's shadow weighing on him slightly. "Your Nan wanted me to bring you this," Brian says, and Harry can hear the ice jingle in the glass.

"Oh...thanks," Harry says, sitting back on the balls of his feet, reaching to take the glass.

"Why don't you take a break," Brian says, and before Harry can protest, he's already making his way over to the picnic table shaded by the large maple tree that Harry and Nick used to climb.

This was the part of this trip Harry had been avoiding at all costs. He'd been home nearly five days now, spending the majority of his time out of the house, exploring trails, doing a little fishing and impromptu swimming, smiling politely at the locals when they gawked at him in town.

He'd finally summoned the courage to return Eleanor's calls about a day or so in, listening to her rant and rave for the better part of an hour. He'd apologized profusely over and over, skating around her insistence that he come home immediately by telling her about everything he was doing here, how much better he felt just by getting away from the city. He liked to think that she'd stopped arguing finally because he'd told her it was something he needed to do, but realizes that it was probably more the promise that he'd be back by the next Wednesday at the very latest.

Since then, he'd eaten dinner with his parents every night, keeping his eyes on his food and answering their questions about his day with caution, not wanting to be rude, but also not wanting to prompt another probe into his life back in Los Angeles. It hadn't come up again, but he could tell they — his mother especially — were still concerned, but as the days passed, he remained closed off, and they didn't push.