CHAPTER SIX JAY
CHAPTER SIX
J AY
H ow in the hell do I collect all this junk?” I ask the empty garage.
I survey my day’s work. Three filled garbage bags, many empty boxes, and a Christmas tree that stopped lighting up two Christmases ago sit beside the open garage door. It took me most of the day to comb through the shelves lining the back wall. I could’ve been quicker, but cleaning always helps me feel more in control.
It also proved to be a good distraction.
Every time I stood still without particular focus, my mind would drift to the house next door.
I grin as I remember Gabrielle’s fieriness this morning. The way she stomped onto the deck with wild hair and sleep in her eyes. The coffee that stained her tank top. Her nipples pressed against the fabric.
My muscles tighten in my core. That woman is something else.
I dig into the final drawer in my toolbox, sorting nails and screws. With each bolt dropped into the proper bin, I’m reminded of another part of Gabrielle that I like. That I can’t stop thinking about.
The brightness of her smile when she’s teasing me.
Her full lips form a perfect pout when she’s thinking.
The richness of her personality, the sound of her laugh, and the look on her face when her son stormed into the room.
My stomach tightens at the memory.
“Their dad, his name was Christopher—he passed away.”
A screw pings against the container as it’s placed inside.
“So that’s what’s going on with the kid,” I say, heaving a breath.
It must be a total nightmare for the kids and Gabrielle not to have a male figure in the boys’ lives. They have no one to turn to for help when testosterone rages and questions arise about shit they don’t want to talk to their mother about. And Gabrielle has to deal with that on her own. I can only imagine how hard it is to navigate the emotions and situations—that is, I could imagine it if I wanted to.
I don’t.
I glance at the calendar hanging above my workbench. Next to the month’s inspirational saying is her picture. Big brown eyes. No front teeth. A smile as big as Texas. And like it always does, the image punches another hole in my heart.
“Hey, mister.” Gabrielle’s little boy stands in the driveway, holding a basketball. “I’m Carter, and I live by you. Do you have a pumper for my ball?”
Freckles lie across his nose and cheeks. His dark-blond hair is messy and curls at the ends. There’s a hole in the knee of his jeans, and his blue-and-white-striped hoodie is dirty.
“A pumper?” I ask.
“Yeah. Watch.” He drops the ball to the ground. It lands with a thud. “See? It doesn’t have enough air in it to bounce.”
“So you’re looking for an air compressor.”
He peels his hoodie off and tosses it on the ground. “Is that a pumper?”
“Yes. That’s a pumper.”
“Okay. Do you have one? Because my new friend Hayes is really good at basketball, and so are his friends. But I stink. I need to practice bouncing it.”
“Dribbling it.”
He tilts his head to the side like I speak a foreign language.
“When you bounce it, it’s called dribbling,” I say.
“Oh. So, can I use your pumper?”
I want to tell him no, to go home and forget I live here. The last thing I want, the last thing I need, is to be marked as the guy next door who can help with shit. Even though I’ve already done that. Twice.
Ugh. These people are going to drive me nuts.
I start to speak, but his toothless smile gets the best of me.
“Fine,” I say, shaking my head. I walk over to my air compressor and flip the switch. It kicks on. “We have to let it get to pressure first.”
“Okay.” Carter picks up his ball and comes into the garage. He gazes around with wide eyes. “ Wow. You have a lot of stuff.”
“Yeah.”
He points at a table saw in the back. “What’s that?”
“It’s a saw.”
“For what?”
I sigh. “Cutting wood.”
“Do you cut a lot of wood?”
“I’m a carpenter, so yeah. It’s my job.”
“Cool.” He nods, moseying around like he owns the place. “That’s a good job.”
“I’m glad you think so.”
“Do you think it’s a good job?”
What is this? An inquisition? “Yeah. I guess.”
“When I get older, I’m going to be a fireman.” He giggles, looking at me over his shoulder. His green eyes, the same color as his mother’s, twinkle. “Can I tell you a secret?”
No, you cannot tell me a secret.
“I really only wanna wear the costume and shoot water out of the big hose,” he says.
I can’t help myself. I laugh, motioning for him to come to me. “I understand how that’s appealing, but you should really want to do a job because you like the actual job.”
“What does appealing mean?”
This kid. “Give me your basketball.”
“It means give me your basketball ? That’s cool.”
“ No. Appealing means it sounds nice. Now give me your basketball.”
He shuffles the rest of the way across the floor and hands me his ball.
I place the needle into the rubber. It inflates in seconds. Carter watches with rapt attention.
“That’s magic,” he says, bouncing around on one foot. “I’d use that thing for all kinds of stuff.”
I hand him the basketball and then turn off the compressor. “Like what?”
“I bet I could use it to blow the food off the dishes when Mom makes me help her clean up after dinner.”
“Probably wouldn’t work.”
“Why not?”
“It’d break the dishes, and it wouldn’t sanitize them.”
He looks up at me through thick lashes. “What’s that mean?”
“What’s what mean?”
“Sanitize.”
His endless questions are annoying, so I try to hold on to that feeling. But the longer he stands in front of me with his curiosity and boundless energy, the harder it is to stay that way.
I fold my arms over my chest. “If you sanitize something, it means to kill all the things that might make you sick.”
He nods appreciatively. “That’s great.”
Carter drops the ball and begins to dribble it around the garage. I watch him, trying to figure out how to kick the kid out of here without being a dick. Because it isn’t his fault I don’t want him in my space. He didn’t do anything wrong.
Neither did I.
I watch as he tries to dribble between his legs but fails miserably. I want to give him pointers, to tell him to keep the ball bouncing steadily and closer to his body. But I don’t.
It’s not my problem.
Still, he is so cute with his tongue hanging out while focusing on his coordination. His curls bounce right along with the ball. He gets the hang of it just before it hits his foot and rolls across the floor.
“Oops,” he says, chasing it.
I sort the last of the screws and nails and then close the lid to the toolbox.
“Hey, who is that?” Carter asks.
“Who?”
“That.” He points at the picture beside the calendar. “That girl. Is she your daughter?”
My heart pulls so tight in my chest that it knocks the wind out of me. Aside from Lark, I haven’t talked about her to anyone in four years. She’s resided in my heart and in my mind—a block of sweet memories that no one can take away from me. Not even Melody.
“Is she?” he asks again, his ball tucked under his arm.
I nod, staring at her picture. “Yeah. That’s my little girl.”
Hearing the words aloud sets a sharp pain in motion. It ricochets in my rib cage, puncturing me in as many places as it can.
“What’s her name?” he asks, unaware that his questions are slowly killing me.
He watches me closely, genuinely curious. I don’t know how to answer him. I don’t even know how I got this deep in a conversation with the kid from across the way, but I need to figure out how the fuck to get out of it.
And stay out of it.
“Does your mom know you’re here?” I ask, hoping he’ll take the bait.
“Um, no. She doesn’t know that. But she’s busy getting ready to go with Cricket and some other ladies for ... I don’t know what they’re doing. But they’re going to Della’s. Whoever that is.”
I glance at Della’s. “Are you supposed to be home with Dylan?”
“How do you know Dylan?”
“I met him today.”
“Was he a jerk face to you?”
I struggle not to laugh. “That’s not a nice thing to say about someone.”
“It’s the truth,” he says with more moxie than I’ve ever had. “If he doesn’t want to be called a jerk face, he shouldn’t be one.”
I have no idea what to say. Dylan is a jerk face, from what I can tell. So do I agree with him or try to dissuade him from calling his brother names?
Wait. This has nothing to do with me. Carter needs to go home.
“You know what? I have a bunch of stuff to do. Why don’t you head back home?” I ask.
Instead of leaving, he remains rooted in place. He furrows his little brows and studies me like I’m a puzzle he has to finish before going.
I sigh, hoping the sound encourages him to hurry.
It doesn’t.
“You give ... lonely vibes,” he says, satisfied.
It’s my turn to be puzzled. “Excuse me?”
“You’re lonely, huh?”
What? “Carter, it’s been good chatting with ya, kid, but it’s time for you to leave.”
He bounces his ball again. “You can come to dinner at our house. Mom always says we can fix an extra plate if someone needs it.”
“I have food, but thank you.”
“But you’re lonely.”
“I’m not lonely.”
He looks up and gives me a cheesy grin. “Yeah, you are. And you’re getting cranky.”
I snatch his ball midbounce and carry it to the grass by the driveway. There I set it gently on the ground.
“Your face doesn’t look happy, and you don’t want to talk about stuff,” he says, frowning. “You’re sad.”
This fucking kid. “I’m fine. And I’m closing this door.”
“Cran-ky.” He laughs wildly. “Thanks for pumping up my ball, Mr. Crankypants.”
My head hurts. “Goodbye.”
I press the button by the door leading into the house before Carter can come back in. The garage door begins to descend.
Carter crouches down from the other side and waves, bending until he’s on all fours. Finally, the door seals us apart.
“Your face doesn’t look happy, and you don’t want to talk about stuff. You’re sad.”
“Damn kid,” I say, marching into the house.
“You give . . . lonely vibes.”
Who does that kid think he is? Lonely vibes? Lonely vibes, my ass. And what kind of elementary school kid says things like that?
We’re gonna have to have some boundaries around here.
I grab a beer from the fridge and carry it into the living room. Instead of figuring out what I’m having for dinner, I plop on the recliner and flip on the television. I don’t bother finding a program to watch. That’s not the point.
The show makes noise in the house so it doesn’t feel so empty. It doesn’t seem as inviting for my thoughts to stray to things I don’t want to think about.
How will I survive, living by these people? One interaction with Carter and I’m afraid I’m going to crack. One interaction with Dylan and I want to whip him into shape. Every interaction with Gabrielle makes me want to have another.
Take a breath, Jay.
All that is superficial. I don’t really want any of it.
I don’t want to talk about my little girl. I don’t give a shit what Dylan does or does not do. And Gabrielle—I only think I want to see her again. Down deep, I don’t. Because I know what will happen if I do, and at the end of the day, being involved with anyone, let alone a woman with two kids, is the last thing in the world I’m interested in.
And that’s a fact.
I take a long pull of my beer.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, so I set my drink down and pull it out. The number shows the name of the owner of the farmhouse we’re supposed to start work on Monday.
“This is Jay,” I say into the line.
“Hey, Jay. This is Larry Harris.”
“Hi, Larry. What’s going on?”
“I have bad news. The permits for the remodel weren’t approved.”
My brows rise. “Really?”
“Yeah. I just found out. My wife went to pick them up this morning and was told there was a holdup. They said they’d call us on Monday to go over it.” He groans. “I’m sorry, Jay.”
I press my head against the chair and close my eyes. “Yeah. Me too. Keep me posted, I guess.”
“Absolutely.”
“This will throw off our schedule, but I’m sure you know that.”
“I do. Actually, is there any way we can set to start next Monday? To give me a week to get this fixed?”
“That’ll work. It’s not ideal, but I can make it happen.”
He sighs. “Thanks, Jay. Again, I’m sorry. I’ll be in touch.”
“Talk soon.”
I end the call.
A whole week with nothing to do and new neighbors already getting under my skin.
I better find something to keep me busy.