The Rhubarb Patch

by Deanna Wadsworth

“I’m a very private person. If you’re meant to be in my life, you’ll be there. I don’t need a website to know who my friends are.”

  Scott had assumed Phin would have a story about being catfished or something, so the simple answer surprised him a little. “Well, you would like Pinterest, I’d bet. Lots of recipes.”

  “I am always looking for new recipes. Come August I have so many tomatoes I don’t know what to do with them.”

  “I don’t like tomatoes. I mean I love spaghetti and Campbell’s tomato soup, but raw tomatoes are nasty.”

  “What? Get out.” Phin pointed to the stairs. “Go back to your house and be blown to Oz. We can’t be friends anymore.”

  Scott laughed. “Seriously, they’re gross. They’re just sour, orange wedges.”

  “Um, a tomato should never be orange unless that’s the variety. And they’re not sour—they’re sweet. Haven’t you ever had a home-grown tomato?”

  Scott shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “I grow a tomato that will change your mind.” Phin sat next to him. The wind outside howled, creaking the old house.

  Fighting a shiver of apprehension, Scott inched closer to Sister Mary Katherine when she trembled. One hand on the pooch and trying to ignore the storm, he faced Phin. “What’s so wonderful about this tomato?”

  “When I was in college, a friend of mine named Jenny lived on a farm not far from here. I was just a city boy, grew up in Columbus. The last two weeks of summer break, my parents decided to go condo-shopping in Florida, so I spent some time with her family at their farm.”

  “Were you dating?”

  “Um, no. She knew I was gay. That’s the only reason her parents let me stay,” he said with a wink. “Anyway, they grew these tomatoes that were out of this world.” He grinned at Scott, getting excited. “But they didn’t know what kind of tomatoes they were.”

  “But they planted them, didn’t they?”

  “See, Jenny’s aunt lived in Dearborn and she had an old Italian woman who lived next door who said all the tomatoes in America were flavorless, so her sister sent seeds from back home. The old lady gave Jenny’s grandpa a few of the tomatoes and told him how to dry the seeds. Not knowing the variety, they called them Italians. When Tom and I got our condo, it had this great south-facing patio, so I asked Jenny’s father for some seeds. He did one better and gave me a plant and taught me how to save the seeds too. I’ve been growing them ever since.”

  Scott never tired of Phin’s stories. “I would be doing this legacy a disservice if I didn’t sample one of these mystery tomatoes, wouldn’t I?”

  He laughed. “You’ll do more than sample them. You’ll devour them when I start making BLTs.”

  Scott smiled, pleased the man enjoyed cooking for him because he sure loved the eating.

  Phin had casually tossed out the name of his partner who died ten years ago. Scott wanted to find out how long he’d been with Tom without directly asking. “So how long have you been growing these tomatoes?”

  “Tom got me some containers the first year we got our place in the Short North. That’s all I grew for a little while.”

  Well, that didn’t answer anything. Time to be blunt. “Do you mind if I ask how long you guys were together?”

  “Eleven years. We met freshman year of college, when we were nineteen. From the first moment we met, we were madly in love. Oh, we fought, but we never cheated on each other or broke up. We were in it for the long haul. It was real love. Till it ended.” His voice hitched, and he hastily went on. “Tom was in insurance, and I was in finance. Since we couldn’t get married back then, we made sure that if something happened to one of us, the other one would be protected. Set for life. I never thought I’d use it.”

  Scott supposed Phin would rather go to work every day and have his partner back than be financially set. But he didn’t say that, because if Tom were alive, then Scott never would’ve met Phin. And though such thoughts were selfish, he was glad to have Phin in his life. Even if they were just friends.

  “I’m sorry I asked,” Scott said truthfully. Both because of the sadness in Phin’s eyes and the jealousy he couldn’t help but feel when Phin talked about being in love with someone else.

  You’re jealous of a dead man!

  “It’s okay. That was ten years ago. We had a wonderful life. That’s what I try to focus on,” Phin told him, a faraway expression in his eyes. “I was depressed for a very long time after the accident. Angry and bitter too. I was in such a bad place, I needed to get away from everything. So I sold our home and bought this house. I didn’t care if I ever spoke to another person again. I just wanted to be in my garden.”

  Outside the wind increased, and Scott shivered, from both Phin’s story and the storm. Phin rested his arm behind Scott, and he ceased trembling. Where once his tone had been sad, a brightness now shone from his face as he smiled at Scott. “Then Nancy moved in next door. Between her and Sister Mary Katherine, they saved me. Katie gave me a reason to get up in the morning, and Nancy taught me I didn’t have to be guilty for being happy. That it was okay to start a new chapter of my life.”

  Phin was close, smiling at him, his arm around him. Could Scott be a part of this next chapter?

  Phin’s smile softened, his eyes suddenly heady.

  Scott’s heart skipped.

  Was it actually going to happen? Was Phin going to kiss him?

  He licked his lips, breath coming shallow. He wanted desperately to move in for the kiss, but after that first time, he didn’t want to make an ass of himself. Phin inched closer. Scott closed his eyes a bit, waiting.

  A bright light flashed above.

  “What the…?” Scott blinked hard in the sudden glaring light.

  “Power’s back on.” Phin stood abruptly, startling Scott. “Storm’s quieter too. Probably should see if anything’s damaged. Make sure the chickens are okay. Take Katie out to potty.”

  The moment was lost.

  Scott’s heart fell.

  Phin had talked about moving on with his life, possibly implying he might want to move on with Scott. But the intrusion of electricity doused whatever had been building between them as they snuggled on the tiny couch in the dark.

  Scott watched Phin busy himself with the dog, his body language awkward. As if reality had intruded on him much like the lights, reminding him that he wasn’t ready to move on.

  Or maybe he just isn’t that into you.

  Tamping down the sickening feeling of rejection in his gut, Scott stood and slipped his phone into his pocket. “Yeah, I should probably get home too.”

  He held his breath, hoping, praying Phin would ask him to stay. Tell him not to go. To walk over to him and fold him into those big arms and kiss him for all he was worth.

  But none of those things happened.

  Without meeting his eye, Phin nodded. “Yeah, that’s probably for the best.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  “MY PROPERTY comes all the way out to this fence.”

  “Haven’t you ever heard of a weed whacker?” Joe asked with a sneer of disapproval. “Look at this.” He flicked his hand into the tall, wispy asparagus tops. “It looks—ouch!”

  Scott tried not to laugh. “Watch out. Adult asparagus has thorns.”

  Joe sucked on his index finger, glowering at Scott. Mom was quick to play nursemaid, taking his hand and inspecting it. Then she frowned at Scott as if he knew Joe the Prick would get pricked by a thorn.

  Well, he hadn’t known, but he’d hoped.

  “All this wispy stuff is adult asparagus, not weeds,” Scott said, ignoring the douche-canoe’s theatrics.

  “Oh yeah?” Joe challenged, then laughed. “How do you know? Did you google it?”

  Mom had arrived with her idiot and Davis half an hour ago for the Fourth of July weekend. Joe had promptly situated himself on Scott’s last nerve. His patience was already thin from a lack of sleep last night after another nasty phone call from Mike.

  His cou
sin had spouted off more slurs and vague threats. “I’ll get you for this, faggot,” and other crap like that.

  If Joe hadn’t come, he would’ve asked Mom what he should do, but the last thing Scott wanted was for Joe to chime in. Phin had given him the sheriff’s number. Maybe he’d call him after his family went home. But they would take up all his time this weekend, so he had no energy to deal with a disgruntled relative and rude phone calls.

  Or sexy neighbors who were ignoring him.

  It had been several weeks since the night of the storm, and Phin had become extremely formal with Scott. Waving and saying hello but never lingering. Scott had planned to invite him over for dinner before he left for a five-day writing conference in Orlando, but now that his garden was in, Phin had been inside more than usual, and Scott hesitated to go over to his house. He’d hoped after he returned, things would be back to normal, but they weren’t.

  He had no doubt Phin was intentionally ignoring him.

  But why?

  “I can’t believe you own a farm,” Davis said once more. He wore skinny pink shorts and a white tank with horizontal navy stripes. His blond hair was gelled and coiffed to perfection, and his white shades accented his fake-n-bake tan. Davis didn’t do the outdoors, so Scott had been pleasantly surprised he’d come to visit.

  “It’s not a farm. I don’t have any animals.”

  “You have a barn,” Davis insisted. “That makes it a farm in my book. Is that a farmer’s tan too?”

  “Nope, Florida.”

  “Bitch, I can’t believe you didn’t take me with you. You know I love your book cons.”

  “You couldn’t get off work, remember?”

  “I know. Life sucks.”

  “Hey, is that a new tattoo?” Scott noticed a four-leafed clover behind his left ear. Davis had quite a few tats: a biohazard symbol on his shoulder, a cross on the inside of his wrist, and a Pride flag on his calf. None of them were very original—all picked off the wall—but they were done well.

  “Got it right before Pride. Didn’t you see it on Instagram?”

  “No, sorry, I must’ve missed it.”

  “Bitch,” he said, but not meanly. Turning his head, he pushed his ear forward so Scott could inspect the ink. “Thought I’d give the boys something pretty to look at while they’re nibbling on my ear.”

  Scott laughed.

  “Oh come on,” Joe bitched. “You said I didn’t have to hear any queer shit.”

  Scott gaped at his mother. “Really, Mom?”

  “Would you guys just get along?” She ran a hand through her wavy, dark hair, then made a dismissive gesture and smiled wide. “This is supposed to be a family weekend. It’s a holiday.”

  “Not that it’s any of your business, Joe, but I do have queer shit,” Davis said with a superior arch of his plucked brows. “I poop glitter.”

  “Oh for God’s sake,” Joe muttered.

  “Davis, behave!” Mom said, smothering a laugh when Joe glared at her. She brushed her hair off her brow, fiddling with it.

  “Sorry, Mom!” Davis sang.

  Scott linked arms with his brother. “C’mon, let’s go back to the house.”

  “Yes, that’s a good idea,” Mom agreed, totally ignoring that she was dating a homophobe. The guy had never called Scott or Davis fags—at least not to their faces—so in Mom’s book he was a good guy. Once he’d made a stink about Brent kissing Scott in front of him, and Mom defended Joe with “He’s just a blue-collar guy. That’s how they are.” To which Scott had replied, “You have to have a job to have any kind of collar.”

  She had not been amused.

  Scott loved his mother, but he absolutely hated how she changed personalities for her boyfriends. And there had been plenty of them in Scott’s lifetime. Her girlfriend Sarah had called her Rach-Ho once, and the two women had gotten into a big fight because Scott overheard it. But he knew his mother dated. A lot. She couldn’t be alone. She always needed a man, even if he was a homophobic asshole.

  Well, he was sick of Joe. And he was sick of how she took his side in everything. He couldn’t wait until she broke up with him and got somebody new. But then again, that would mean her entire personality would change again, and it could end up being worse.

  Not for the first time, Scott was reminded of all the times he’d gone along with whatever some new guy liked. If a guy liked skiing, then Scott learned to ski. If he drank martinis, Scott drank martinis. But if a guy didn’t like Doctor Who, Scott would exert a pale imitation of independence by staying true to his fandoms.

  But liking a TV show didn’t mean he was independent.

  Scott had been just like his mother.

  He became whatever a boyfriend wanted him to be. He allowed dominant men to dictate his wants, his likes, and his beliefs. And dominate him they did. No wonder he’d never been happy.

  He’d always been exactly what everyone else wanted him to be.

  But he had not done that with Phin.

  Yes, he learned new things, but Phin hadn’t forced anything on him. In fact, when they argued about the Second Amendment, Phin had acted as though it was perfectly acceptable for Scott to dislike guns. If that situation had been with Brent, he would’ve mocked Scott’s stance until Scott felt ignorant, and then Scott would’ve been at the range shooting with him.

  Maybe Scott was changing, growing up.

  “There’s nothing you can do about Dumbass,” Davis whispered.

  Scott flinched. “What?”

  “Joe,” he explained. “You know, Dumbass?”

  “Oh yeah,” he said, back in the now as they walked to the house. Davis had given each of Mom’s new men a nickname, and Dumbass was totally appropriate for Joe.

  “Just ignore him.”

  “But he’s such an asshole. And that pederast mustache has got to go.”

  “Right?” Davis laughed.

  Scott glanced over his shoulder to see if Mom and Joe were keeping up. They held hands, and he fought the urge to gag. She smiled, as if imagining this was a Brady Bunch family picnic while Joe pouted about being wounded by a vegetable.

  “Anyways….” Davis tugged on his arm. “I’m here, so you can spend all day entertaining me.”

  “Thank you for that privilege.”

  “It is a privilege.”

  He smiled up at Davis, studying his face and wishing he didn’t have on shades. “You okay? Everything going good?”

  Davis made a face and shrugged, knowing what Scott asked. “I’m getting closer to being undetectable again. Not quite, but much better than last summer. I feel fine, though.”

  “You sure?”

  “Ugh!” he groaned. “Yes, I’m fine. Can we just let it go?”

  “I love you, and I care about you, so no, probably won’t ever let it go.”

  “Fine,” he relented. “Now are there any gay bars in this town? It’s been far too long since we’ve gone out, and I think these two bottoms,” he bumped Scott’s hip, “need to go on the prowl tonight. Find some big country tops to knock boots with.”

  Scott laughed. “Sorry, no gay bars in Gilead. Guess there’s one an hour from here.”

  “Is it any good?”

  “Actually, I’ve been too busy trying to clean out the house, so I haven’t explored much.”

  He’d been sorting out the junk, room by room, and had already made two trips to that church to donate for their rummage sale. The house wasn’t his yet—the pink-striped paper was still up—but eliminating all the clutter had made it easier to breathe. Nancy had about a hundred Precious Moments figurines sprinkled throughout the house, which he unfortunately discovered were not worth selling. However, as Scott studied them—and returned them to their original boxes that she’d kept—he’d discovered each one was a memento commemorating an event. There were birthday ones, wedding ones, grandma ones, and a fiftieth wedding anniversary one. Together and individually they told a little bit more of Nancy’s story, special moments in a life Scott could only exper
ience through pastel figurines of children. When he found the little angel holding a kitten, he realized she must’ve bought it when the gray tabby cat in her photo albums died. His name had been Dozer. There was probably a story behind that name, but sadly Scott might never learn it.

  He’d felt guilty donating them all to the church, so impulsively he’d kept the one for Dozer. He liked to think Nancy would’ve been pleased.

  But he didn’t have the same attachment to some of the furniture. Since he always ate in the kitchen, he sold the country-style dining room set on Craigslist and put his weight bench in its place. He’d also built an IKEA bookshelf in the dining room for his books and some sci-fi collectibles. He was thinking of repainting the room but hadn’t decided on a color.

  “Maybe you can help me pick out paint colors?” Scott said to Davis. “I really need to redecorate.”

  Davis had a YouTube channel where he gave fashion and decorating advice. He didn’t have too many subscribers, but he was really good with colors. “Are you thinking of staying here?”

  He shrugged, smiling. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  Davis gave him an exaggerated incredulous look.

  He elbowed his brother. “Don’t look at me like that. You gonna help me pick out colors or what?”

  “Of course! That house is totally 1994 country bumpkin chic! And what’s with that creepy doll in the master bedroom?”

  “What creepy doll?”

  “That white Mrs. Butterworth with the wood bowl. She watches you wherever you go. It’s übercreepy. Mom turned it to face the wall so it wouldn’t watch her sleep.”

  “What?” Scott said, shocked. There was another granny doll?

  “So what are we doing today?” Mom called up to them.

  Dismissing duplicate dolls—Nancy had so much crap it wouldn’t surprise him if there were two. He stopped at the screened-in porch and faced Mom and her idiot. “I thought we’d go into Gilead, have lunch at the Riverbend Diner, and wander around town until the fireworks. Maybe we can get a beer at the Six-Shooter Saloon. That’s where Jimmy Hart used to play.”

  “Jimmy Hart! I love him!” Mom gushed. “I voted for him from the first episode. I told you boys he was gonna be famous.”