Then it hits me. Mac loved that stuff—and that’s why I recognize his name. “That’s it!” I slap at his shoulder as I shout, and he jolts in his seat with surprise. “My dad—he loved watching you! I remember your name. You were good.”
I don’t really remember if he was good or not, but the fact that I recognize his name must mean something. He’s smiling now, and I realize then that he doesn’t smile much either. I decide not to tell him though, because I didn’t like how it made me feel when he said the same thing to me.
“Thanks, I was a’right,” he says, his face turning a little pink from my attention. “I was trying to become great, though. That’s how this happened,” he adds, slapping his hand along his thigh. I just bunch my brows and look at him, not understanding.
“I had a little bit of an accident. Sort of didn’t make a trick. Cut my leg to shit. Tendons. Everywhere. Almost lost it,” he says. My mind instantly visualizes him hurting, and I’m pained at the thought. I want to fix him. He’s always wearing jeans, so I don’t know what his injury looks like, but I’ve seen the limp. “I don’t rehab as much as I should, so that’s why I still use the chair sometimes. I get…tired.”
He becomes distant after that. I want to ask more questions—I always seem to when I’m with him—but I don’t. Instead, I make a mental list. Maybe I’ll have another day, another moment, like this.
We pull up to the driveway, and Cody backs in near the front door. He runs into the garage and comes out with a dolly, which he uses to help me haul the desk up to my room. He’s struggling at the stairs with the weight of the desk and his leg. I can tell he wants to do this on his own. I’m below him, pushing on the wheels to make them move a little easier, but I’m letting him believe it’s all his strength.
Once the desk is in my room, I busy myself immediately, putting my lamp in place and pulling out my boxes, paper, and drafting tools. I almost forget that Cody is in the room with me until I hear him chuckle at the door. He’s leaning against it, his frame filling it more than I thought it would—170 pounds seems reasonable now that I’m looking at the ridges of his muscles along his forearms and the tightness of his shirt around his chest.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to ignore you,” I say. “It’s just…I missed this desk.” I smile at it and move my hands along the dents one more time.
“Yeah, I can see why,” he says, stepping closer and touching it, too—almost lovingly. “It suits you.”
Somehow, I’ve come full circle with Cody again, my heart racing at his words. I instantly crave more conversation with him, but he’s out the door and down the hall the second I turn around. I finally collapse on my bed—the bed I share with Trevor, his brother, whom he hates. I slap my hand to my forehead and kick my shoes from my feet.
It’s time to call Aunt Caroline and take my penance for missing Mac’s ceremony last week. I might as well get all of my guilt over at once.
Chapter 4: Home Sweet Home
Caroline was more understanding than I had expected her to be when I told her I couldn’t make Mac’s ceremony. I was suspicious, but when I called her a week later, she still was willing to let me off the hook. I think she’s in one of her depressed phases—she’s always quieter and more forgiving then. And even though I was grateful that she wasn’t giving me a guilt trip this year, I was also worried—Caroline had a habit of spiraling downward when she got depressed. I made a mental note to call her again this weekend. But I wouldn’t visit—that was my line.
I had managed to busy myself enough with school and drafting over the last two weeks to make the time away from Trevor pass quickly. When he left, I had expected to feel sick with loneliness, missing him. But I didn’t. I think, perhaps, that first week, I used Cody as a distraction. But I hadn’t seen Cody since he helped me move my desk in, and last night was the first time in a week I didn’t spy on his garage from my window before I went to sleep. It seems my little infatuation had run its course, and I was thankful.
I’m cutting up tomatoes and cucumbers at the counter, looking periodically out the large window, when I hear the front door fly open and the sounds of travel bags roll in. I wipe my hands on my apron and run to the door to greet Trevor, kissing him with two week’s worth of pent-up sexual frustration. He finally stops me, grabbing my arm, and holding it out to the side.
“Hey, maybe next time you can kiss me without the knife in your hand,” he jokes, looking at the giant butcher knife held firmly in my grip.