Gemotions

The afternoon sun, warm and inviting, did little to soothe the tension knotting in his shoulders. He threw the gardening gloves onto the table, the canvas dirty and stained. He had been enjoying the silence, the quiet satisfaction of working in his garden, until he saw the message pop up. It was from Lance Peterson. The boy who’d made his life a misery in junior high. The one who'd made sure he was always an outsider.

He sighed, the sound escaping him raggedly. He felt a prickling heat under his skin, as if a fever were rising. He ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the strands. He kicked a small, decorative pot, sending it flying across the patio.

He went inside the house, the sudden change in temperature a shock. He needed a distraction, something to take his mind off it. He poured himself a glass of iced tea, the clinking of the ice cubes a sharp, unwanted sound.