Page 29 of This Might Hurt
That might be the best thing anyone’s ever said to me, so I let it hang in the air while we both contemplate the conversation we just had.
Once we’ve loaded the wheelbarrow, Andrew grabs the empty plastic water bucket that weighs literally nothing and takes off, leaving me to struggle with everything else.
Halfway down the hill I check my phone to find a message from Ramona saying she’ll be back in fifteen minutes.
“What do you want for dinner?” I yell at his back.
“I think Ramona got steaks, but we can make a great salad.”
He checks the blue and gold watch I was supposed to fence somehow. I don’t know what information he thinks he’s going to get from it that isn’t already obvious from the sun dipping toward the horizon. “No. We need to get a flight to New York tonight.”
I take advantage of the distraction to push the wheelbarrow up next to him and catch my breath. “What do you mean? You said we’d get married tomorrow. We can drive over to the courthouse in Cody first thing in the morning.”
“I can’t sit around doing nothing,” he protests, shooting me a desperate look. “You don’t understand how important this is.”
Out of habit, I reach up and rest one grimy palm on the top of his head, the way I did to Lena whenever she got too worked up.
It always made her stop and giggle, because my huge hand would envelop the top half of her head.
Something in my chest cracks when I don’t feel her silky tangle against my palm, my fingers brushing the tips of her cute ears.
His head doesn’t fit nearly so well, but he goes still and stops babbling.
“I’m here,” I tell him firmly, tilting his head so he has to look at me.
“We’ll make this happen, I promise. But panicking and running around for no reason doesn’t help anything. ”
He searches my face, looking exhausted and almost perplexed, like trust and patience are strange concepts I just made up.
“My wedding’s supposed to be starting soon.
” He shakes off my hand and squints at the horizon.
“Can you imagine?” His laugh sounds strangled.
“Going to that hotel in Shanghai with Daxton?”
I pick up the handles of the wheelbarrow carefully. “If you say his name again, I’m gonna fucking kill someone. So maybe don’t.” I can feel his eyes on my back as I hurry down the trail.
Back at the garage, I hide the wheelbarrow behind a pile of Christmas decorations to clean up later and grab the green hose coiled at the side of the house. “Clean me off.” I hold out the spray nozzle to Andrew, then strip off my tank top and hold out my arms. “Go on. You know you want to.”
He examines the hose for a minute, like it’s a snake someone threw at him, then aims and unleashes a hard jet of freezing water straight into my face.
“Ow, fuck, stop it!” When I stumble back, throwing up my arms to protect myself, he redirects the spray directly at my dick and listens to my screech of pain.
“You’re right, this is great.”
“You piece of garbage.” I turn my back and cover my ass with my dripping hands, because I know that’s where he’s going next.
When he finally cuts the stream, I gasp for breath while he stands there and intently watches water run down my chest and hips into the soggy shorts that are glued to my thighs.
“I assume you’d rather use the shower?” I ask, shaking off like a dog in the slowly fading sunlight.
His pastel shirt is still shockingly clean besides the patches of sweat.
“Of course. I’m not a freak.” He drops the hose on the ground for someone else to tidy up, but I think it’s out of habit, not malice. “Let’s go.”
He balks at the front door, listening for Ramona’s car like he’s scared to get caught in someone else’s home.
His eyes rove over everything we pass, the books and plants and piles of unsorted mail, with the exact same confused fascination Ramona and I have when we watch house decorating shows about millionaires and their mansions.
I lead him to the upstairs hall bathroom, then bring him a blue t-shirt and denim cutoffs that are slightly too big for me. He shakes his head, his eyes puzzled. “Aren’t we having dinner?”
“Yeah? These are normal dinner clothes.” I gesture at his outfit. “If you show up looking like that, Ramona’s gonna have so many questions about who you are and where you came from.”
That last part seems to convince him. He grimaces as he gathers up the soft, worn fabric and holds it to his chest. The bathroom lock clicks very firmly behind him, as if the boy who probably lives in a mansion ten times this size finds a little Victorian house too overwhelming.
I prop my back firmly against the door with my ear to the wood until I hear the shower start.
I feel wild, like the water didn’t wash the heat off my skin.
That bottomless festering lake in my heart is collapsing more every time he looks at me like I can save him, like he missed me half as much as I missed him.
When it breaks open in an endless flood, I don’t know what’s going to happen to either of us.
I don’t care. I’m needed. The boy in the rain came back for me, and I suppose I’ll lose him eventually, but in the meantime I’ll do anything he asks of me.