The Swap - Robyn Harding Page 0,87

cars, trucks, and tractors was the train car, grad 2017 and fuck off prominently tagged on its side. Nice touch.

As I drove down the rutted drive, I was greeted by two large barking dogs, intent on eating my tires. Hopefully Thompson would emerge and shepherd me inside. Being torn apart by snarling mongrels was not the way I wanted to go out. I stopped my truck but kept it running while I waited for rescue.

A short, sinewy man in a dirty white undershirt walked onto the porch and glowered at me. He had a pistol in the waistband of his filthy jeans, and his hand rested on it, anticipating trouble. When he saw the tall, pale kid in his driveway, he whistled through two fingers and the dogs obediently galloped to his side. He disappeared back into the house with the animals, and moments later, Thompson came out. I turned off the ignition and opened the car door.

“Hi.” Thompson couldn’t hide his delight. “This is a nice surprise.”

“I came for a drink,” I said. “Can you get some of that grain alcohol?”

“Umm . . . sure.” He glanced over his shoulder. I could tell he didn’t want me to go inside his house. Neither did I. “I’ll get it and we can go down to the barn.”

Ten minutes later, we were perched on sawhorses in a dilapidated building cluttered with farming equipment, car parts, and empty beer cans. Thompson handed me a jar half filled with a cloudy liquid. The smell made my eyes water.

“Cheers,” he said, clinking his jar to mine. We drank then and both shuddered at the taste. The alcohol burned in my throat, chest, and stomach, but I felt myself relaxing, the anxiety seeping out of me. I hadn’t eaten since breakfast, the day’s dramatic events tying my guts in knots. The strong alcohol on an empty stomach hit me hard. After a few more gulps, my loss and sadness became more profound, more painful. I resigned myself to my tragic fate.

We drank in silence, Thompson matching me sip for sip. I had a reason to be getting wasted at six in the evening, but Thompson was being chivalrous again. I guess he didn’t want me to drink alone. Soon, I felt ready to execute my plan. And if I drank much more, I wouldn’t be able to pilot my truck back to the canyon. Setting my jar down on the concrete floor, I turned to say my goodbyes.

“I think I know why you came here,” Thompson said, his face pink, very pink. “We’ve been friends for a few months now. The chemistry has always been there, but it’s been building.” He was slurring slightly from the booze. “I don’t think either one us can ignore it anymore.”

Oh no.

He was leaning in, his straggly soul-patch whiskers straining toward me. He was going to kiss me! I would have considered it four years and six inches ago, but not now. No. No way. I shoved him in the chest.

“Back off.”

He looked genuinely shocked. “But I thought . . .”

“No,” I said firmly. “There is nothing between us. I’m in love with someone else.”

At first, he appeared confused, like I’d spoken the words in Cantonese. But then his expression darkened. “Is it Max? Or is it Freya?”

I may as well tell him. It would all come out when I was dead. “It’s Freya.”

He shook his head sadly. “You worship her and adore her and do everything for her. But she doesn’t care about you at all. That’s not love, Low. That’s obsession.”

“You don’t get it. You don’t know what we have.”

“You’re her nanny. She pays you.”

“Fuck you,” I muttered. “What would a short little dweeb like you know about love anyway?” The comment may have been unnecessary, but it hammered the message home.

Thompson jumped off the sawhorse (proving my point). “I’m not sure our friendship is such a good idea anymore.”

“Probably not.”

He pressed his lips together like he was keeping some cruel, hurtful words inside. And maybe he was. Finally, he mumbled, “Let yourself out.” And he hurried out of the barn.

Drunk and alone in the filthy chaotic workshop, I felt a lump of anguish crushing my chest. I’d had one person who cared about me, one person who saw something beautiful in me, and now he hated me. But, like everyone else, Thompson would be better off without me. And that made what I was about to do easier . . . emotionally at least. I was