You Promised

The wood had been in the garden shed since Wednesday: four boards, a sheet of plywood, two hinges, and a bag of straw, paid for out of the guinea pig fund, 37 euros. Christian had filed the receipt. On the shed door hung his plan for the three-level hutch, with measurements down to a quarter inch, so Rocky, Mr. Grey, Toffy, and Mojito could spend the winter indoors. On Thursday at the hedge he had said, “Saturday at nine. Promise.” Handshake, high five. The first frost was forecast for Saturday night.

On Saturday at twenty to nine, Daria had already fed the guinea pigs and laid out the tools on the garden table, in a row, the way Christian liked it. Then he came through the gap in the hedge, no work gloves. Over his shoulder was the drawstring bag nobody was allowed to open, because his dance shoes were in it. Daria saw the bag and knew before he said a word.

“Mr. Ivanov called last night,” Christian said. “Extra rehearsal for the recital. Ten to two. Marie can’t rehearse without me.” “Last night? And you’re telling me now?” “I spent half the night trying to decide whether to cancel on you or on him.” “And?” Christian looked at her, not at his shoes. “I picked rehearsal.” He said it with no “but” and no “I mean,” and that made it harder for Daria to be mad, and easier at the same time.

“You promised,” she said. “We shook on it.” “I know.” “It’s going to freeze tonight.” “I know. I’ll be back at two thirty.” “It’ll be half dark by then.” He didn’t have an answer for that. He stood there for another moment, his hand on the strap of his bag, then went back through the hedge, and a minute later Daria heard his mom’s car.

“How hard can it be,” Daria said out loud, and took the plan off the door. She measured the first board, drew a line, and sawed. She measured once. The board was almost an inch too short. She kicked the bucket, and the guinea pigs squealed. Rocky looked at her like he was about to give a speech. “He promised,” Daria told him. Rocky kept eating.

On the second board, which she measured twice this time, she remembered the summer. Her mom had taken her away for a weekend to a big festival she was organizing, and Daria had told Christian one hour before they left that he’d have to do all the feeding by himself. Two days, morning and evening. When she got back, the weight chart was filled in, and all Christian said was, “Good to have you back.” She hadn’t thought about it since. Now she thought about it, and she didn’t like it.

At two thirty Christian came back, like he’d said. By then Daria’s dad had already helped carry the carrier with all four guinea pigs into the front hall for the night, in between the shoes. Christian saw the too-short board and didn’t say anything about it. “Tomorrow at eight?” he asked. Daria shrugged. “If you don’t have to go dance again.” It was mean, and she knew it the second it came out. Christian just nodded and left.

That evening Daria sat in her room and could see through the hedge into Christian’s window. His light was on. He was standing in front of the mirror, headphones on, arms raised like he was holding someone, turning, stopping, moving his lips like he was counting, and starting over. He looked tired. The same turn, again and again, until it was right. Daria had never watched him for that long. She didn’t close her curtain until his light went out.

On Sunday, Christian was at the gate at ten to eight, earlier than they’d said. He had the plan, a thermos of hot chocolate, and an idea: the too-short board was exactly right for a ramp between the levels; he had measured it last night. Then he worked all day. He sawed, he screwed, he did the hard parts, and Daria handed him screws and talked. At lunch he said, “I’ll do the feeding this week. Mornings too.” “Mornings are mine.” “Not this week.” And after a while: “I should have told you last night, not this morning. The rest I’d do the same way again.” “That’s a terrible apology,” Daria said. “It’s not an apology. It’s the truth.” She had to laugh, even though she didn’t want to.

That evening the four of them were in the new hutch in the shed, Mr. Grey on the top level like he’d never lived anywhere else. Daria leaned against the door. “When’s the recital?” Christian looked up. “December fourteenth. Same as every year. Why?” “Because I’ll be in the front row. Same as every year. And I’m not planning anything else with you that day.”

Christian was quiet for a long time. Then he said, “The fourteenth.” And after a pause, so quietly that maybe only Mr. Grey heard it: “Maybe you can come after all. I’m still thinking about it.”