Free Over the Fence by Melanie Moreland

over the top of that fence. The urge to comfort her was overwhelming. Even though I knew she wasn’t ready for it, I wished I had bought a ladder so I could get to her.
    “Kourtney . . .”
    “Don’t,” she pleaded with me. “Don’t say it.”
    I shook my head in frustration. She was shutting down.
    “Nathan, do you miss your family?”
    “Every day.”
    Her voice was low and angry. “I don’t miss mine. Not one bit. In fact, every day I don’t have to be subjected to them is a good day.”
    I was speechless.
    “Do you have good memories?” she asked. “Laughter and happy times? Fun-filled holidays?”
    They were from a long time ago, but I did have good memories. “Yes.”
    “Hold onto them. The last happy memory I can think of, I was eight. After that, life was pretty wretched.”
    “Did you want to talk about it?”
    I heard her stand up. “I don’t even want to think about it. Are you done?”
    Without another word, I picked up my plate and walked over to the fence. I could hear her climb the ladder and I pushed my plate over the top.
    “Kourtney . . .” I beseeched her in a quiet voice.
    “What?” The word sounded tired—exhausted even.
    I tapped the top of the fence, holding out my hand. “Please.”
    She sighed and I felt her hand touch mine. I stretched my arm as far as I could and grasped her fingers tight. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m really sorry.”
    “I know. I’m not upset with you, but I don’t want to talk about it.”
    “Fair enough. But Kourtney, you’re an amazing woman. An incredible cook. Whatever their problem is, it’s obviously them, not you. Clearly they’re assholes.”
    Kourtney laughed without mirth. “Clearly.”
    I squeezed her hand. “I mean it—I think you’re wonderful.” I hesitated, afraid of saying too much. “I’m glad you’re in my life. That you moved in next door.”
    She didn’t respond, but her hand squeezed mine back. Finally she spoke. “Thank you, Nathan. You’re a good friend.” She withdrew her hand from mine. “I’m going in now. Goodnight.”
    I stood, listening to her gather up her plate and walk inside. The too quiet click of the door shutting seemed to echo in the still of the evening. It sounded as defeated as she did.
    I climbed off the chair and sat in it.
    A good friend—she thought of me as a friend. I leaned my head back and stared at the sky as I thought about it. I realized, despite what I had said to Grant earlier, I wasn’t happy with only being her friend. Somehow, in a ridiculously short period of time, she had grown to be more than that in my mind. I shook my head at the absurdity. We had never even seen each other, never sat face-to-face to talk, yet somehow I had developed feelings for the woman with the soft voice, sweet giggle and giving nature, who lived next door. Who was so skittish she would probably panic if I suggested we get together in a setting that didn’t include the barrier of a fence. It was what I wanted, though—more than anything.
    I wanted to get to know the woman behind the warm sound and thoughtful ways. I wanted her to know me. I groaned, thinking about what that meant. How would she feel about me if she knew about my past? I would have to tell her—it wasn’t something I could hide from her forever.
    I was surprised to discover I wanted to talk to her and tell her about my life. Be honest and up front. Grant constantly told me being honest was the best thing. He often said I still hadn’t faced my past since I refused to talk about it with anyone, unless I was forced to, as with him. Maybe he was right: I needed to tell someone else.
    Maybe I needed to tell Kourtney and see if she could accept me—past and all. Maybe if I shared with her, she would open up to me and we could both move on from our pasts.
    Together.
    My fingers drummed restlessly on my knee as I thought about it. Obviously, her past had left her with issues—the same way as mine. I felt my anger build at the