3. Ethan
three
A few hours earlier
*
I’ve been volunteered to go help with the last odds and ends of set up. Turns out, there’s still a lot to do. Not just odds and ends. For one, delivery of the bleachers for the ox pulling was delayed until last night, so at the first sign of dawn—4 a.m. in Northern Vermont in the summer—a bunch of us get on that.
Someone already set down plywood sheets on the flattest surface of the field, and we tackle assembly of the bleachers right away.
“Ah, fuck.” My brother Logan throws a plank meant for seating to the side and grabs another. “Fuck! This one’s splintered too!”
“Lemme see?”
“It’s splintered, Ethan. We can’t use it.”
“Maybe we can fix it.”
He grumbles and walks to the pile of planks. “There’s no extra! That means we’ll be missing two benches.”
I pick up the two planks he’s shoved aside and go to a small shack where I noticed the guys were getting tools from. There’s a couple metal boxes with people’s names painted on them. I rummage through the largest one and find what I’m looking for.
“You wanna use this one,” someone behind me says, pointing over my shoulder to a big brand carpenter glue wax.
Owen Parker. Figures. “Hey, Owen. Yeah, that’s gonna take too long to cure and set.” I grab the one I’m looking for. It doesn’t specifically mention ‘wood’ on the labeling, but I know for a fact that’s the one we need to use if we want those bleachers to be ready in just a few hours. “That super glue gel will set in just a few seconds.”
“It doesn’t say wood on it,” he insists.
“I know. Wanna help me? I’m gonna make a Dutchman patch.” Looking through the shed, I take a piece of scrap wood that’s the thickness of the seat, a saw, and a chisel, set myself right out the shed and get to work while Parker walks away.
Some things never change.
I’m almost done when I hear footsteps behind me. “Dude named Owen Parker said you might need help, but it looks like you’re all set.”
I glance at the guy talking to me and tighten the clamp on the second repair. “Yeah. Hope it’s okay I helped myself.”
He shakes his head, a small smile on his face. “That’s what it’s for. Not everyone knows what they’re doing, though, but you—you a carpenter?”
I shrug. “Nah. Just… always liked working with wood.” The first seat is dry, so I sand it down.
“You’re Ethan, right? Ethan King.”
I straighten and extend my hand. “Yeah.”
“Lucas Hunt. We’re new in town.”
I nod. “I’d say welcome, but I’m not really from here anymore.” Then I start sanding the other plank.
“See you around,” Lucas says as a goodbye.
I tidy my workstation, put the tools and glue back, then grab both planks and haul them to the bleachers.
I’m not from here anymore. Shit.
Parker hollers, “No need, King, we just closed those down.” He points to the top bleachers, where there’s yellow tape across the gaping hole.
I smirk. “Gotcha.”
He looks at me. I know it’s useless telling him his setup is dangerous, and even more asking him to give me a hand with the planks. Everyone else is gone, so I climb the bleachers two by two.
Fuck.
I should have warmed up this morning.
My back is tight, and I feel the pain radiating down my spine to my leg.
Am I actually getting old, or is this from riding the bike? I set the planks nice and snug, admire my handiwork, then straighten, a hand on my lumbar region like that’s gonna help.
“Jeez, man, you look just like Dad,” Logan jokes.
“You got any Advil, smartass?”
“Nope. I think they have an emergency tent somewhere, though.”
Yeah, I don’t need that.
I wobble down the bleachers and walk around to see if anyone else needs help.
Cassandra, a woman I remember from way back when, stops me. I’m ashamed to say, my friends and I used to lurk around her lingerie shop, trying to get a glimpse at whatever she was selling inside. Her windows were always PG 13, showing only modest nightwear and photos of white wolves in snow-capped landscapes.
But somehow, we knew what was inside and we were insanely curious.
She asks me with genuine interest what I’ve been up to, then tells me, “you know, if your back is hurting, there’s someone over there giving free massages.” She points me to a tent where a few people are lined up. “You should try it.”
A massage, me? Not a chance. “Sure, thanks.”
I go toward the enclosures where the pigs are kept. Several people recognize me. “Hey man, you’re back! What’s with the limp?” someone I went to school with asks.
“Nothin’. Just my back. Carried too much shit.”
“Tell me about it. Some mornings I feel like I’m a hundred.” He waves toward the tent where the line is growing. “I just went there. She did a pretty good job. Plus it’s free. What’s her name again? She was a few years behind us… Anyway—Give it a try. I’ll see you around, I gotta catch up with someone.”
I turn around to look at the piglets then figure, what the hell. My back isn’t getting any better. Might as well get a massage sooner than later.
There’s a line of people waiting in front of the tent, next to a small table where the high school girl working at Colton’s—Tracy?— is scribbling notes.
I limp to the tent. “My back is tight, and people said you could help?”
She flashes a bright smile. “Aww! Mister K! Sure thing! There’s a thirty-minute wait.”
“Can I put my name down and come back in thirty?”
A burly man at the head of the line cuts into our conversation. “You go on right ahead.” The people behind him nod. “Saw you help with all those tents the other day. And the bleachers now.”
The line shifts and someone says, “Thank you for your service.”
I nod to the man who said that. He looks vaguely familiar. I don’t want preferential treatment. It’s not right. It’s just a pulled muscle. It’s not like I got wounded in combat. “Nah, I’ll wait. Thank you, though.”
Ms. Angela comes out of the tent, patting her hair down, and stops when she sees me. “Massage table is ready. You’re up next.” Her tone accepts no discussion, and I’m her four-foot tall, obedient student again.
So I nod and go in.
It’s dark inside the tent, and my eyes strain to adjust. A sweet and relaxing scent fills the atmosphere. Oriental-type carpets cover the ground, giving the space a sense of being elsewhere. There’s a chair next to the entrance and a massage table in the center.
To the back, there’s the silhouette of a woman busying herself at a small console with lotions. My heart ba-booms at the shape of her shoulders, the tilt of her head. Jesus fucking Christ, she’s thousands of miles away. Not here. And even if she was here, what does it matter? Shake it off, man.
But her dark, curly hair stirs something deep inside me, and I hold my breath.
Am I hallucinating? It can’t be her, dammit.
It’s a trick of my imagination.
Shit.
It’s been so long.
But then she turns around, and my heart hammers in my chest.
The last time I saw this woman, she didn’t even have one word for me.
After everything we’d shared. After everything she’d told me.
She was walking down the aisle, holding some idiot’s arm, a stiff smile fooling only herself, her gaze glazing over me.
And she didn’t have one word for me.
Not one explanation.
Didn’t even bother trying to be my friend.
It was like I’d never existed.
I’d been on leave, decided four years without coming back to my hometown was enough. I had one week off, and god played a trick on me. It was the weekend she was marrying someone else.
She was supposed to be mine.
Always was.
She said so herself. So many times.
But after her wedding, didn’t she move to Texas? She’s not supposed to be here.
She does a double take. Her eyes round, her mouth gapes, her breath catches.
“Why are you here?” I ask right as she says, “What brings you here?”
I clear my throat. “I’m—I’m just visiting.” I should add something generic and half-assed polite, like It’s nice to see you, or How have you been, but the words stay stuck in my throat.
She’s supposed to be in fucking Texas.
She blinks several times, takes a small breath, shows me a list of services calligraphed on an elegant paper and framed in gold. “I mean, what type of massage would you like?”
Oh, really? Not even Hey, Ethan. Not even Wow, it’s been a while.
Granted, I’m not good at small talk either.
But really? “I dunno. My back is tight. It hurts down to my leg.”
I can’t believe we’re talking like we’re two fucking strangers.
I glance at the tent opening. I never should have come here. I should just go. It’s only gonna get weirder and weirder.
Her voice is melodious with a touch of coldness. Professional. “Strip down to your underwear and get under the sheet. Face down.” She turns around. “Let me know when you’re ready.”
Yeah, that’s not gonna work. “I-I… maybe I should just go.”
She whips around. Her eyes are shiny, her bottom lip trembles until she pulls herself together and snaps her mouth in a fine line. Her voice catches when she says, “Yeah, maybe you should.”
What the hell? I don’t think so. I pull my T-shirt off my back. Her eyes narrow on my torso, slide down to my abs, and even in the dimness of the tent I can see her cheeks turning a deep red. She catches herself and turns her back to me just as I unbuckle my jeans.
I fold my clothes neatly and place them on a stool. My hands don’t shake. My heartbeat doesn’t rattle the tent. Nothing betrays the anger boiling inside me. Then I slide under the cool sheet.
Face down. I turn on my belly. I wish I could look at her. Make her squirm under my gaze. Ask her to her face what the hell happened to her.
To us.
“Ready,” I grunt.