Page 3 of While the Sun Shines

“You’re welcome,” she says. “Keys, please.”

“In the truck,” he says and quickly kicks a rock behind the wheel of the mower. The last thing he needs is to watch it roll down the hill now that it’s finally free. And how fitting that would be—the icing on the cake of yet another workday he thought he had under control.

No, it’s fine. It’s going to be fine. The hay will be in the barn by the end of the week and summer will continue to unfurl from there, this season better than the last. He puts on a smile.

“And this is good,” he says, “Because I was getting real sick of all this fresh air, so I can’t wait for the gently wafting scent of a burning clutch.”

“Funny,” she says. “Farm regulation forty-seven point three, be nice to roommates who help you get the hay equipment ready.”

“Farm regulation forty-seven point four, safety first,” Drew says as he climbs into the passenger seat.

Normally, he’d ride back to the farm without bothering to fasten his seatbelt, what with the quiet roads in the neighborhood and the barnyard only a couple minutes down the hill, just past the neighbor’s house. But instead, he catches Penny’s eye and makes a show of strapping the seatbelt over his chest and clicking it in place.

“Fine,” she says, rolling her eyes as he tugs on the strap as if to check it, “but farm reg forty-seven point five—”

“Isn’t that one about not letting strangers wander around our house, eating all our strawberries?”

Penny pokes him, digging her fingers into his ribs. He bats at her, the back of his hand freckled and pale against the dark tan of her skin.

“Okay, but on the off chance we’re not currently being robbed,” Penny says, “here’s what I’m thinking. Strawberries. Rhubarb. Wait for it: pie.”

Drew grabs her wrist and sets her hand on the key in the ignition. Like goddamn clockwork another image rises in his mind, of her turning her hand over, lacing their fingers together. Using their grip to pull him across the cab, smiling at him, leaning in, lips parting, eyes closing—

Stop, he snaps at himself and jerks his hand away.

“Counterpoint, press the clutch in when you turn the key so the truck will actually start,” he says and tucks his hand safely, securely into his lap. “And counter-counterpoint, combining rhubarb and strawberries infringes upon the benefits of both.”

“Counter-counter-counterpoint, strawberry rhubarb pie is among the best of the foods ever conceived. And counter-counter-counter-counter-counterpoint, I’m becoming a pro at driving a manual, thank you very much for your encouraging feedback,” Penny says and when she twists the key in the ignition, the truck rumbles to life.

And then she lets out the clutch and the engine chokes and stops.

“That wasn’t the right number of counters,” he says.

“Shut up.”

“And make sure the truck’s in neutral, unless you’re going to keep the clutch in.”

“You know what?” Penny tugs at the shifter. “Nobody asked.”

“You did. Repeatedly. ‘Teach me how to drive the truck, Drew, please, please’—ow!”

Penny holds up a clenched fist in another clear threat to his arm. “You’d think since I can drive my motorcycle, I could do this too.”

“Here, we’re at the top of the hill. Just coast all the way down,” Drew says. “We might even catch that guy by the time we make it back next week.”

“You’re funny, Andrew, but looks aren’t everything.”

“Or hey, put the clutch in and I’ll jump out and push.”

“No, you stay put ’cause I’ve got you here before you can run back to your work, and this is my chance to make my case for a bathtub.”

She starts the truck again and this time, the engine stays on long enough she can coax out a halting, jerky couple feet of forward motion before it stalls once more.

She holds up a hand. “I don’t want to hear it.”

“About how a bathtub definitely won’t fit in your bathroom?”

“Don’t want to hear that, either.” Penny lays her hands on the wheel, takes a deep breath, and turns the truck back on. “I know what I deserve, and I deserve a bathtub. And an end to sharing a bathroom with Whit and Cooper. What was the timeline on their room? Sometime last week? Last month? Last decade?”