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averageamericanmale: I mean actually talk to. You know.

burnedoutgirl: Yeah, I know.

I watch my cursor blink for a minute, unsure how to end the conversation but also not wanting to let her go just yet. It feels like if we talk just a little bit more, one of us is going to say the perfect thing, the one that lifts the veil, frees us both, and lets us just be us, unapologetically.

burnedoutgirl: Sorry, I’ve got to go. I’ve got to finish an art project.

There’s a pause where I stare at her response and wish it was different, that something as inane as a school project should separate us feels like the real world intruding on this one, the one where we’re safe.

burnedoutgirl: But I really, really like talking to you.

I smile, see the reflection of it in my screen.

averageamericanmale: Well, I really, really, really like talking to you.

I’m such an idiot. The only way I could be more stupid would be if I put the last “really” in all caps. Wait, should I have?

burnedoutgirl: Really?

averageamericanmale: lol

averageamericanmale: YES

burnedoutgirl: Goodnight.

Tears prick my eyes, and the single word blurs. I don’t think anyone has told me good night since Mom stopped tucking me into bed around third grade. Sometimes Hailey will text me late. Her last one was—Hope your dick gets hard while you’re sleeping. 😘 This isn’t that; it’s better.

averageamericanmale: Goodnight.

Twenty-Three

Ava

“Shit never changes,” Widow says, tossing a shovel aside with disgust.

My quietly growing reservations that something is wrong at Restoration Acres haven’t found an outlet yet. Widow’s mood hasn’t been open and welcoming ever since Darryl murdered a snapping turtle, so I haven’t said anything. We’re at the back garden digging carrots because the Humane Society asked if we would shelter a horse that had been taken away from its owner. I expected her to tell them a horse isn’t wildlife—and I think she was about to—until they said they’d pay for the upkeep.

But the shit that never changes is rocks.

“I swear . . . to God . . .” Widow says through gritted teeth as she jams both her arms elbow-deep into the ground. “That a big old . . . frickin’ glacier melted . . . right on my property . . . a few thousand years ago . . . and took a shit . . . except its shit . . . was rocks.”

She emerges with the rock in question and tosses it aside. Before our excavation had begun she’d informed me she usually wouldn’t put this much work into getting a rock out of her garden, but this one had bent her shovel head, and it needed to be shown a thing or two. Since my hand is still bandaged, my job was to hold the carrots while she did the shoveling. Widow leans back on her heels, filthy to the elbows and very proud of herself.

“Feel better?” I ask.

“Yes. I got one over on this rock, which has been working its way to the surface for a few thousand years, waiting to meet its nemesis.”

“Which is you?” I ask.

“It’s me,” she confirms, and flexes her not inconsiderable bicep. Above us, some vultures circle. Widow glances up as a shadow passes over us. “Something’s dead or dying.”

“Bet they hope it’s me,” I say, shading my eyes as I look up.

“Birds don’t hate you,” Widow says.

“I don’t know,” I tell her. “I googled it the other day—”

“You asked a robot why birds hate you?” Widow asks.