“First of the season,” Dad said. “My wife planted these. Best strawberries in the county, if I do say so. You’re welcome to them.”
Brent looked at the strawberries. He looked at Dad. He looked at the garden, all those rows, all that dirt.
“No, thanks,” he said. “I’m not big on fruit.”
Dad lowered the basket a little.
“Well,” he said. “Offer stands. Anytime you want something. Tomatoes will be ready in July. Beans in August. Just holler.”
Brent nodded once. He didn’t smile. He went back inside and slid the glass door shut behind him.
Dad stood at the fence for a moment, holding the little basket of strawberries.
Then he walked back over to me and set it down in the dirt.
“Not big on fruit,” he said. “Huh.”
“Dad, he was rude.”
“He was busy.”
“He was standing on his deck doing nothing.”
