knows what she wants to do. And, more, is at peace with it.
It’s that peace, and the fact that she’s obviously trying—with Sarah, with me, and with the universe—that has me moving over to hug her. It isn’t something I do often, so I’m not sure who’s more startled by the action, my mom or me.
Still, she hugs me back and even pats my arm. “Eat your pancakes before they get cold.”
It’s pretty much as close to an I love you as my mother gets on non-holidays, so I take it.
Breakfast is a lot more subdued than most of yesterday, but once my stomach is full and the Tylenol has kicked in, I feel a million times better. Which is a good thing because, even though I have a hangover and the mother of all cricks in my neck, I still have a job to do. A job that starts with raiding Nick’s garage for his lawn mower and ends with my grass actually getting cut.
A deal is a deal, after all, and he stuck around through way more yesterday than I would ever have asked him to. And since I start work in the morning, it’s time I keep up my end of the bargain.
After taking care of the breakfast dishes—Sarah and Mom cooked, so I cleaned—I run upstairs and change into a red tank top and my most comfortable pair of shorts. Then I grab my phone and head out the door and over to Nick’s.
Before he left last night, Nick mentioned that he’d be running errands most of the morning. I insisted he text me the code to his garage so I can get the mower, and he humored me—even though the look on his face said he didn’t expect me to be in any condition to mow the yard.
I may not be in any condition to mow, but I am going to do it anyway. After pulling up the text on my way across the street, I get into the garage without a problem. And since I’m braced for it, I’m not even surprised by the obsessive neatness of the space, complete with printed labels above each of the tools he has hanging over his large workbench.
I am, however, shocked by the size of his lawn mower. And sadly, that isn’t even a euphemism.
To begin with, the thing is a Honda, and forget a lawn mower, the engine on it looks like it could probably power a small SUV. Plus, it’s wide. Like really, really wide. And I know it says it’s self-propelled like my vacuum, but I’d be lying if I admitted I don’t have a few doubts about how I’m going to control this thing.
I glance over at my grass. Each green blade looks like it has somehow managed to grow another six inches overnight. Maybe it’s good that he has a giant metal beast like this. I’m not sure anything else would get through my mini jungle.
The only problem? I have no clue how to get this bad boy to move.
Still, Google exists for a reason.
After I roll the mower across the street to my yard, I pull out my phone and technology teaches me how to start the beast and how to keep it revving afterward. Thank God for YouTube parents who post how-to videos.
Following the steps Ed from Topeka showcases in his video, I turn the fuel valve, move the flywheel break control to the run position, and then yank the starter cord. Nothing happens. Not a thing. I try again. And again. And again. My right arm is jelly now, so I try with my left until it is marshmallow fluff. I’m mentally running through every curse word I know, but I refuse to let this beast defeat me.
My breath is coming out in hard puffs when I turn back to Ed, saving a few curse words just for him. Forty-seven seconds into the video, I spot my mistake. I turn the fuel valve, adjust the choke throttle lever, move the flywheel break control to the run position, and pull the starter cord. The sound of the beast’s motor coming to life almost makes me pass out in joy.
It’s a helluva lot better than actually pushing the mower through my unruly grass. After three feet, though, I realize pretty much nothing is cut. What the actual fuck. So I turn back to Ed, who it’s clear now has left out some pretty important steps.