Work for It

by Talia Hibbert

I’m not supposed to care what the village thinks of me. Their shit doesn’t belong in my head. That’s how my mum raised me, or tried to. All you can ever be is yourself, so try not to second-guess it.

He’s a bit shitty—but just regular, rich-people-shitty, not kick-a-puppy shitty.

My mum would say: We’ll never know how big we could grow if we stunt ourselves. People are like plants. You gotta give us what we need, cross your fingers, and see what happens. I won’t be the reason Rebecca withers.

In this moment, I know Rebecca’s gone. Not completely, I tell myself. This is like moving a plant to a different side of the garden so it’ll get more sun. She’ll do better, and that’s what matters, even if I have to walk—or drive, in this case—a bit further to see her bloom.

While we work, we talk the way we did on Saturday: easy and eager, which I usually don’t have the energy for. But Keynes is energy, and he makes conversation even simpler than Rebecca does. Our chatter doesn’t feel like a weight or a landmine. It feels like being caught in the current of a lazy, winding stream, floating along under the sun, turning this way and that with every thoughtless word. It feels like nothing is—has ever been—could ever be—wrong.