The trees with branches thick and course, barely move when children swing from them.
Those trees have strong, deep roots that won’t let a child fall.
            Such trees have branches that can hold the weight of an argument over who did the dishes last.
            Such trees can stand to have the very bark torn from their bodies over screams of ‘I hate you’ and ‘just leave me alone.’ Such trees know how to bounce back and start a fresh the next day.
            Trees like that, solid and unmoving, can handle weather changes—cold stares and burning tension.
            Trees with roots that cannot be ripped from the ground are able to handle the heat of a good old fiery career change.
            But there are trees that haven’t grown to be so resilient.
            There are trees with fragile branches that snap from just the weight of a gaze, and flinch when a voice is raised.
            Children are not allowed to swing from such branches as it is too difficult to know which branches to trust. Children must stay far, far away from trees that don’t understand how to hold something so innocent.
            Such trees shrivel away when the weather is too unpredictable and groan and moan and do everything in their power to keep you up at night.
            Everyone in our neighbourhood has a tree in their front yards and on quiet mornings, when even the sun is tucked away sleeping, I sit on the gravelly road of my little street and stare up.
            I watch as the silhouettes of each tree changes in the shadows.
            The tiniest of branches grows upward from Suzy and Bianca’s Birch tree, like a finger reaching up to the sky. They’ve finally had their baby girl.

            Old Mr Collins’ tree has almost become a pile of broken sticks on the dying grass of his lawn. Even in the darkness of the morning, the tree is a dull, grey thing with a bony frame and roots that slowly push their way up from the earth—hands of the dead clawing their way out to haunt Mr Collins and scratch at his bedroom window to remind him he is alone.
            Behind me, someone is yelling. The window of Lily and Mark’s house glows as the couple stomp around their kitchen, pointing fingers in each other’s faces, screaming and screaming and screaming.
            Lily still has her sleep mask pushed up into her long hair, while Mark’s neck is turning red beneath the top button of his dress shirt.
            A single branch outside their house shakes, almost buzzes, and I think it might snap.
            Lily stops screaming.
            Mark stops screaming.
            The branch stops shaking.
            Lily turns away and Mark wraps his arms around her shoulders, pulling her close until she turns back to him and they hug.
            They stay like that for as long as it takes for the branch to grow sturdy, and stronger than ever. Forgive. Forget. Grow.
            I don’t like to look at my own yard. There isn’t much to look at anyway. The grass is dying, just like the grass in Mr Collins’ yard. I’ve stuffed flowers into mugs, but they are all dying without having anywhere for their roots to go deeper and become permanent. Everything in my yard is temporary.
            There is no tree in my yard. No matter how hard I try. No matter how many seeds I force into the dying soil. The connections are too weak and the earth too broken, cracked like a drought-stricken land. I have not much water to give after my landlord shut off my water.
            ‘You can’t live alone,’ my landlord tells me. ‘I’ll find you someone to share the house with. You’ll be able to pay me on time then, yeah?’
            ‘Yeah,’ I say. But I don’t want to live with anyone else. I don’t want them to be subjected to my dull, treeless front yard. I don’t want to feel the need to hide out in my room and only come out to eat when I know they are gone, like when there are unsuspected guests at my mother’s house and I have to choose between starving and small talk.
            But then my new roommate arrives on my doorstep the next day, with her hands tucked deep into the front pocket of her overalls, and I can’t do anything but let her—and her one suitcase of belongings—into my house.
            Laurel is her name and her hair is greener than the wallpaper I tried putting up a week before.
            Her smile is wide and she doesn’t look over her shoulder to the front-facing window in the living room. She doesn’t mention my empty yard.
            The first night we spend together is quiet. She likes to cook; I discover when she pulls out a ratty folder held together by bits of string and tape.
            ‘My friend gave me these recipes. She made the whole book for me,’ she says, shaking the folder so it wobbles and releases one of the recipes.
            I watch as the paper floats to the floor.
            Laurel snatches the paper from the air, seconds before it can hit the floorboards.
            She takes the recipe to the kitchen where she spreads the paper onto the laminate benchtop and taps her almond fingernails against the title ‘Spaghetti Bolognese.’
            The page is decorated in stickers and coloured markers that shape lines into hearts.
            I wonder what it would be like to put so much effort into something for someone else. I wonder what kind of person Laurel is to make someone want to do something so special for her.
            My chest tightens. I want to reach out and scratch one of the stickers and see if Laurel is the kind of person that others will give up their special strawberry-scented stickers for.
            ‘Did you want to help me cook this?’ She’s looking at me with that wide smile again, like she really means it. Like she really wants me to cook with her the same way she would have cooked with her family growing up.
            I have to look away.
            ‘No thanks,’ I say and spend the rest of the night in my room trying not to think of how my tone of voice came across. Did I sound rude? Does she think I’m a horrible person for not boiling spaghetti for her?
            Laurel brings me a plate to my room and asks if I’m alright. I tell her I’m fine and thank her for the food.
            She leaves me, but not before telling me she’ll be in the living room watching a movie, if I want to join her.
            Outside my window, a little sapling has started to grow—for Laurel.
            She has already decided to stay in this house then. She has already decided to deepen her roots in this soil and bring her family here and maybe start a family of her own. All the while I slowly decompose in the background.
            Laurel has a tree in the front yard, but how long will it be before she works out I’m no good company and plants her seed elsewhere?
            How long before she realises trees don’t grow when they are close to me? I am the salt in soil. I don’t join her in the lounge room, but I picture what it would be like to sit by her side, blankets in laps, claiming we’ve seen that actor in another film before going on our phones to check.

—

Three days after Laurel moved in, I come home from work to find more people in my house than I expected.
            Laurel sits between two other girls on the couch. They’re all laughing and, when their eyes land on me, every single smile widens.
            ‘Hey!’ Laurel says.
            ‘Hi,’ I say and make my way to my room to get out of their way.
            ‘This is my roommate, Ainsley.’
            I turn and give them a small wave. ‘Hi.’ I shouldn’t have said hi twice, now I look stupid.
            The two girls wave back.
            ‘I’m Cara,’ says the girl with short hair and drawn-on freckles.
            ‘Nita,’ says the other girl who looks tall even seated.
            Cara and Nita live close by, Laurel tells me.
            Laurel had moved in with me to be closer to them.
            I wonder where Laurel lived before, and if her family minded her leaving them.
            ‘We’re going out for drinks later,’ Cara says to me. ‘You’re coming, right?’
            I shake my head. ‘I don’t drink.’
            ‘Neither does Nita, but there’s some really cool arcade games there.’
            Does she want me to come? She can’t actually want me to come. She’s just met me so she’s trying to be nice. Surely Laurel told them all about how uninteresting I am. Surely, she has told them about how I never continue small talk, or make extra coffee for her, or offer a smile when Laurel knocks on my doorframe—holding a cup of honey water—and says goodnight.
            Surely, they know I am not good company.
            ‘Maybe next time,’ I say, chewing on my thumbnail before ripping my hand out of my mouth so they don’t think I’m disgusting.
            ‘We’ll hold you to that,’ Laurel says and gets up to wrap an arm around my shoulder.
            The touch is enough to make me lose my words. Her warmth is enough to make butterflies slam against my stomach and swarm up into my throat so I only manage to choke out an ‘Okay.’
            They get up and say their goodbyes before leaving me.       
            The couch is still warm where Laurel had sat. I press my hand to the leather seat and watch out the window, as Laurel and her friends stumble across my dying lawn, with their hands intertwined and their laughter echoing through the empty living room.
            Laurel trips and—when she turns back to look at the offending root sticking out from the ground—she locks eyes with me in a last offer for me to join her.
            I shake my head and drag my eyes to the ground where her sapling has grown tall, but it’s roots have not buried themselves deep into the earth.
            Laurel’s sapling has yet to find a home in my yard and it’s all my fault.
—
Two days later Laurel is knocking on my bedroom door telling me to get dressed.
            I peak over the top of my book. ‘Why?’
            She claps her hands once. ‘We’re going to the bar. Nita and Cara will be here in a minute so hurry.’
            She’s out of my room before I can open my mouth to argue. Her footsteps bound up and down the hall in a way that is becoming familiar to me.
            She is excited. She wants me to come out with her. I can’t let her down again.
            I force myself out of bed and sniff my way through a pile of clothes to find something somewhat clean. A shirt and jeans. Am I underdressed? What do people wear to bars?
            Outside, rain has started to sprinkle down my bedroom window.
            The front door slams open and closed as Nita and Cara rush inside, letting out exaggerated shivers.
            Nita’s voice carries through the whole house. ‘Uh, neither of us have raincoats. Please tell me you have something.’
            ‘Nope. We’re just going to have to brave the weather.’
            ‘Uh, but I literally just straightened my hair.’
            I hesitate for a second, my skin prickling with heat as it always does when I don’t know if I should open my mouth or not.
            I poke my head into the hallway. ‘I’ve got some coats.’
            Laurel grins. ‘Hell yeah. Best roommate ever.’
            I find myself smiling for the first time in a long time. I can do this. Laurel and her friends are easy to talk to because they do most of the talking. I can do this.
           
—

I start to grow accustomed to Nita and Cara’s presence when I realise they come to visit Laurel most days. I start to grow accustomed to Laurel’s presence when, after two weeks living together, I realise she is as much of a homebody as I am.
            ‘Are Nita and Cara coming over tonight?’ I ask on instinct as I step through the front door after work to find Laurel sprawled out of the couch.
            ‘Yep. We’re doing a games night.’
            How long has it been since I’ve played a game? Years? ‘You should have come to games night, Ainsly. It was so fun.’ ‘But you didn’t invite me.’ I push down the old memories.
            I’m not sure if I’m invited to this games night but the trepidation must be clear on my face because Laurel sits up and pats the space next to her.
            ‘You’ll be on my team, right?’
            She’s just saying that to be nice. She doesn’t really want me to be on her team but there aren’t enough people to make even teams without me.
            ‘Yeah. Okay.’
            But, even if Laurel is just trying to be nice, there is no faking a smile that bright.
            She grabs both my hands and squeezes. ‘We’re so gonna win.’
            A piece of green hair escapes her ponytail and curls towards me. I want to grab the strand and run my fingers against the smoothness. I want to learn to braid just so I have an excuse to touch her hair.
            I don’t want Laurel to let go of my hands, but the door opens as Nita and Cara let themselves in with the spare key.
            Laurel breaks the connection to stand up and greet her friends.
            I squirm in my seat as I try to decide if I should stand up and say hello or just stay seated.
            What is more casual?
            What is more normal?
            I stay seated and avoid eye contact like I do when I see someone I know at the shops. Stupid, considering Nita and Cara are clearly standing right in front of me.
            ‘Hey,’ they both say like my ignoring them isn’t rude at all.
            I give them a little wave.
            ‘Uh,’ Laurel says, throwing herself down next to me. ‘Mum tried calling me again today.’
            ‘You need to block her,’ Nita says. ‘Or at least tell her you’ve made a new family for yourself.’ She gestures to herself and does a little spin.
            I want to ask her what she means. I want to make conversation. I keep my mouth shut. Laurel does not need my prying. She clearly doesn’t have as perfect of a life as I thought.
            ‘What games are we playing?’ I ask, shocking myself for the second time that night.
            Laurel holds up a finger in a silent gesture to wait and runs to her room. A second later she is back, balancing a stack of board game boxes in her arms.
            ‘Ainsley gets to pick first.’
           
—

The next morning I wake early, as I always do. Despite the late night I had, I can’t break the habit of waking before the rest of the world. And besides, my chest feels so light and the world around me doesn’t feel so daunting.
            I sit in the middle of the road and watch the trees and note how they have changed.
            There’s a leaf growing from Mr Collins’ dying tree. I wonder who this new person is in his life and if they own the silver BMW, I keep seeing parked in his driveway.
            Lily and Mark’s tree looks wonky, like it’s keeling over. It will righten itself tomorrow, I think. Lily and Mark always work things out in the end.
            Suzy and Bianca’s tree is taller than ever.
            Behind me, the gravel road crunches. I turn just as Laurel comes to sit next to me.
            ‘Whatcha doing?’
            ‘Just looking,’ I say.
            ‘At what?’ There are tears in her eyes. I think it has something to do with the person she was talking to on the phone—her mum, most likely. When everyone left last night, Laurel told me about her struggles with her family. Sometimes it feels like I can’t say or do anything right. I couldn’t believe her words when, to me, she did everything right—talked in a way that made me feel included, loved her friends endlessly, shined so bright. In that moment, she had looked so human to me, not the idolised and perfect version I had made up in my head. Not the version of her I was too scared to talk to—afraid of what she would think. That night I had been bold enough to reach out and hug her.
            Now, I turn to her. ‘Just looking at all the trees.’
            Laurel tilts her head back and the first bits of morning light glow against her skin.
            Her green hair is almost brown in the low light.
            ‘I wonder how tall our tree will grow.’
            I tilt my head to the side. ‘What?’
            ‘The tree in our yard. Our tree. Looks like it’s gonna grow pretty tall.’
            Our tree?
            In our yard grows a little tree, too big to be called a sapling anymore. The sunrise shines on the branches that are green and new and still slowly forming new leaves. The tree is as tall as a large dog and barely sways in the wind.
            Our tree?
            I reach out to where Laurel’s palm rests against the road. She flips her hand so that our fingers can intertwine. I give her a light squeeze to test how she will react and when she smiles at me, I smile back, wider than I ever thought was possible for me. It is as if our hands were always meant to connect.
            Behind us, the very top branch of our tree thickens and twists around itself in swirling pattern, reaching up to the sky.
            Yes. Our tree. How could I ever think of it as anything but?

– Sally Ryan