by Eden Rayna
The scare has made my heart pound more furiously than when I was angry. The exasperated beats of seeing her on the roof bears no comparison to the rhythm of fear and anxiety. I make sure her leg is fine, prepared for fury to overtake as the dominant emotion once more if I see blood. Dust and debris cover her shoe and jeans to mid-thigh, but there’s no damage.
That could have been so much worse.
I squeeze her harder into my chest, swallowing the fear lodged in my throat.
“Just breathe,” I shush.
I smooth her hair away from her face and keep her in my stable embrace. A thin layer of sweat beads on her hairline and her body continues to quake from the adrenaline coursing through her.
“Are you okay?” the roofer asks at the precise moment I say, “You’re okay.” He comes forward, now watching where he lands each foot.
“You should know better.” I glare at him, closing my arms another inch around her, as if she needs to be protected from him as much as from the crumbling structure. This is more his fault than hers. What kind of roofer takes a client on a decaying roof, unsecured?
What if I hadn’t been here to catch her? A vision of her slipping the roof manifests in my mind and my heart rate races once more.
Princess unsticks her talons from my arms and tries to get out of my grasp, but I hold fast, only letting her get inches away from me. Her chin tilts and she sets her wide, fearful eyes on me.
“You’re okay,” I repeat, reminding both of us that the outcome was the best possibility. I smooth the hair away that’s stuck in the sweat on her temples.
“I’m fine.” She offers tight nods with her response, meant more for herself than for me.
Princess twists to see the crater and her body sags into my arms that grip her waist. Her hand clasps over mine, pressing it harder into her side. She doesn’t need to worry. I’ve got her. My other hand remains on the small of her back, nestled into the arch. Slowly, I guide her to the top of the ladder.
“Climb down and steady the ladder for her,” I say to the roofer.
I don’t let go completely until she has two hands and two feet gripping the rungs and rails.
I climb down last, still shaking my head at the state of this structure and the disaster that was narrowly avoided. Tommy comes rushing towards us and wraps his arms around Princess’ waist.
“You scared me, Izzy,” he says into her body. Her hands drop to his head and she combs her shaking fingers through his wild mane.
“Sorry, Tommy. I’m safe, though.” She tilts his head so she can look into his eyes. “Owen’s safe too.” He squeezes her again and she looks at me, shock and fear replaced with something that looks a little like concern over worrying this little boy so much.
“Owen’s always okay. He’s the toughest guy I know.”
I’m glad he didn’t recognise my weakness for what it is.
The roofer wastes no time grabbing a tarp from the bed of his truck. Princess watches him while I watch her from several feet away, examining her dishevelled form. Hair spills out in wisps from her topknot and catches in the breeze, fluttering around gently. One arm is wrapped snuggly around her waist, fingers digging into her ribs while she worries a manicured nail between her teeth, grinding side-to-side over the polished finish. The flush has returned to her cheeks, a sign I’m grateful for.
Tommy has tucked himself against her, like her protector. He’s told me he’s visited her house a few times. I wanted to get upset with him because he has no business going there, my initial rationale being that she would use him to get to me. I’m glad I didn’t say that out loud because it’s ridiculous to think she would do that to a child. He’s a kid who’s curious and is seeking adult attention. Something she’s happy to give.
I remember what it was like when I was young and Pops was busy during the summer construction months, working twelve or fourteen-hour days. I’d arrive on the job site after day camp and he’d always have a job for me to do right by his side. Something as menial as sorting nails by size was turned into a watchful lesson and time spent together.
I can do that for Tommy. I can do better.
When Izzy brings her focus away from the roofer back to me, she drops the nail from her mouth and places both hands on Tommy’s shoulders. She pulls her trembling bottom lip between her teeth to make it stop, but the emotion finds another way to escape and her eyes well with tears and cling to her lashes.
I should say something. I should do something because I understand the sense of defeat she feels right now. The pain that comes at the precise moment when you grasp your dream will never be your reality. For me, it was when I accepted my father would never teach me another thing. He wouldn’t build another house with me, and he’d never be able to tell me about my mother. That his memory is too far gone to be of use to either of us. That I failed her by waiting too long before asking the important questions.
Just like Pops doesn’t have the words for me, I don’t have the right words for Izzy. There are no words that can make it better for her.
Somehow, Tommy knows exactly what to do and he snuggles into her side again.
Absentmindedly, my thumb drags over the tattoo of my parents’ house. Her watery eyes follow my gesture, and I still.
I open my mouth to say the thing that everyone says when someone has experienced loss. I’m sorry.
She shakes her head at me. “Not today, Owen. I’m not interested in hearing your offer today.”
I’m too slow in choosing something better. She lets go of Tommy and opens her front door before I come up with I wouldn’t do that to you. The door shuts with a gentle clink and is followed by the much more troubling sound of her sobs.
Chapter 18
Owen
“How’s your dad?” Scott asks. I shrug a response. “Another bad day, hey?”
Perspective. It wasn’t worse than any other day. Some happen to be better than most.
“Sorry, man.” Scott claps me on the back. “Let’s go grab a beer and dinner at the pub. Even if you looked like you wanted to cook, you don’t have any food in the house.”
I normally go grocery shopping after my visit with Pops, but today I didn’t feel like it. He’s not doing well. I’ve had three calls this week saying the nurses have had to sedate him because he’s getting violent. His medical team has been telling me all along that this was likely to happen given the rapid decline in his mental condition. Still, it’s painful to hear.
“Are you having issues with his care?” Scott asks.
I shake my head. The staff there are incredible and I couldn’t do what they do for a single day, let alone every day.
I tell him about the sedation and he tells me he’ll visit Pops this week. They have their own special relationship. Given that Scott’s been working for Black Ladder since he was fifteen, it’s no surprise.
I make my way towards the door, signalling in my usual manner that I’m done talking. With Pops out to lunch most days, I fill the silence and talk more in my visit with him than I do in a week with my crew and buddies. It’s exhausting.
The pub is quiet, this being Sunday evening. A few tables are occupied and, after pouring our usual beers, the bartender slacks against the counter, watching the pre-season hockey game.
Scott racks the pool balls and I break. We each take a couple of turns in silence, stopping to sip our beer. He talks about work, knowing that if I’m going to say anything tonight, that’s the one topic I’ll contribute to. Scott leans across the table for his shot, then he stands without contacting the ball.
“Hey, isn’t that Izzy’s contractor friend?” Scott points towards the TV mounted in the corner with the tilt of his chin.
I look and sure enough, there’s Asher on the screen, grinning from the stands like a kid on a Ferris wheel for the first time. He exudes pure innocence as though he’s never experienced hardship. Newsflash: Only people who haven’t lived a real life are always smiling. I don’t get what Izzy sees in him. She’s way
too competent to fall for his fake charm.
The camera pans out and beside him sits Princess, beaming as broadly as he is. I don’t know what her deal is because she, for sure, has things to frown about. Her life is falling apart one shingle at a time. Asher’s arm slides around her shoulders before the camera changes to catch the face-off at centre ice.
I rub the back of my arm, feeling the four halfmoon scabbed marks from her nails digging into me on the roof.
“My turn?” I come back to the game that Scott and I are playing.
“I’d say it has been for quite some time.”
Every time Princess comes up in conversation, Scott finds some way to push the angle that I’m secretly in love with her. I’m not. I’ll never be in love with her or with anyone else. Too much can go wrong, and I will not go through life like Pops—waiting to die to be reunited with his one true love.
“Shut it,” I growl at him and drop on to a stool by the wall.
Scott perches himself in front of me, casually crossing his arms and ankles while leaning against the pool table.
“Does she know about your mom?”
Yes, while we were knitting blankets for premature babies, I told her all about my childhood.
“She might appreciate a reason for your overreaction,” he continues.
“I didn’t overreact.”
If I hadn’t been on that roof, she might be dead now. Just like Mum. I saved her ass and anyone who sees it differently can fuck off.
THERE’S ACTION AT IZZY’S house. Yes, I’m keeping an eye on her place. I have a vested interest in this neighbourhood and want nothing to lower the property value, especially with showings going strong in my adjoining unit.
There’s been at least one daily inquiry and a couple of repeat visits. Despite Brett being a hell of a good realtor and putting a ton of deals together for me, I never believe him when he says a place will go quickly until I have hard evidence. Go ahead, call me a sceptic.
This time, I need it to sell quickly. I need to move on to my next project and put Izzy’s failure behind me. If not for me, then for Tommy. He needs a new project as well.
An old shack a few blocks away went on the market and Scott and I are going to see it. From the sounds of it, it’s perfect for Black Ladder.
As I’m opening windows in the house that’s for sale, trying to lessen the smell of fresh paint, I glance out the second-storey window into Princess’ backyard and see her raking leaves. It’s fresh out this morning and she has on a deep purple hand-knit toque, her long hair is braided and falls in a thick rope down her back. She’s wearing skinny jeans, like she always does when on the worksite, and camel-coloured steel-toed boots. She’s a contractor’s wet dream.
Like I need the reminder. It’s only been a couple hours since I rid myself of my morning hard-on courtesy of Princess. Today, I imagined the day she moved out and I got to give her the parting gift I’ve wanted to hand her all along. Hard and fast in every room of that ramshackle dwelling.
It doesn’t matter that she’s a pain in my ass and she has a boyfriend whose throat I want to squeeze simply to see something other than a smile on his face; I still wake with my dick in my hand every damn day. Every morning, I walk painfully to the bathroom and turn on the shower, stepping in while it’s still icy cold and hope that the stinging shards of water will douse the flames in my balls. And every morning I end up jerking off to imaginary sounds of her laughing and moaning my name while her boot-clad feet wrap around me, driving me deeper inside her while the signed house deed bounces around on the bed beside us.
Her shoulders shift and her head bobs as she sings and dances while working. I open the window, oddly curious about what kind of music she’s into. It’s probably some pop-y music-mill crap. The sound travels slowly to my ears. It’s not a boy band. Whiskey in a Teacup. I’m not surprised that she’s listening to a song about a sweet-looking girl who packs a punch.
She rakes a giant pile of leaves, then stands with one hand propped on her hip, resting her weight on the rake, admiring her handiwork. Too bad Tommy’s not here. He’d love to help out, then jump in that pile. There are no trees at my houses—a downfall of new builds.
Princess tosses the rake aside—tines up and waiting to be stepped on—and adjusts her toque then takes a running leap and spins, flopping on her back and hitting the peak of the pile with precision. A variation of the giggle I hear while stroking myself floats through my open window, causing things to stir below the belt all over again.
She lays in the pile, flapping her arms and legs wide, making an invisible angel, giggling again. So innocent and happy. Her lips move and I think she’s singing along until I’m pretty sure I hear my name.
“I said, you can join me, Owen.” She stares at the sky, like I can if I want to, and if not, no big deal. She’ll have as much fun on her own.
There are so many things wrong with this. Let’s start with why doesn’t she care that I’m creeping on her and finish with why is she being friendly?
Whiskey in a teacup.
Chapter 19
Izzy
I don’t get a response from Owen. He disappears into the house and I disappear into the pile of leaves, singing “suit yourself” to the song playing through my speaker. Each flap of my arms and legs buries me deeper and deeper until nothing but my head and part of my torso are visible. I’ve done a sufficient job destroying this pile. Gramps would be proud.
It wasn’t our family’s nature to rake leaves, fill garbage bags, and set them on the curb for disposal. Gramps made an event of it. He would rake piles for Kelsey and me, and after careful measurement to make sure they were both the same height and width, we’d jump in and see who could flap themselves to the bottom of the pile first. The winner always got extra marshmallows in their hot chocolate.
I stare at the sky, ignoring the scratch of dead foliage on the back of my neck, saddened that this could be my last fall in this yard. If the latest round of quotes doesn’t come in much lower than I expect, I’m going to have to make a serious decision. It might be the final time I get to rake these leaves. The last season to sit on the porch swing and get high in Gran’s honour. That’s why I’m going to make the most of this activity and will revel in every second.
I love the smell of fall. It’s a little bit crisp with the cold air, and a titch sweet with the remnants of rotting tree fruit from the early frost, and all around perfect for my outdoor chore. I’m enjoying a few deep breaths when foot falls crunch through my scattered mess. I open my eyes to Owen towering above me. I shield my eyes from the sun behind his figure so I can see more than a blackened silhouette against the bright blue sky. It doesn’t help much. Clad in his usual black on black, the only difference is the small patch of skin on his face that isn’t covered by his beard and his colourful arms. I tuck my chin to my chest to get a better view and discover that he’s holding my rake in a tight fist.
“Don’t leave the rake on the ground with the tines up.”
I should have known he wouldn’t be able to see the fun in this activity. He came here to point out another thing that I’m either doing wrong or am unqualified to attempt.
“When was the last time you had fun?” I ask.
I will not let him ruin my day.
“What?”
I think Owen may have missed out on childhood experiences like the one I’m recreating. Maybe that’s why he hangs out with Tommy. To relive his youth.
“Fun. You know, enjoyed yourself. Laughed. Relaxed. Forgot about the archaic rules of pink jobs and blue jobs.”
After today we can go back to our stalemate, but today is a day for injecting some joy into his life.
“Pink jobs and blue jobs?” His eyes widen like he’s never heard the term before.
“You know, girl jobs and boy jobs?”
“There aren’t any.”
“Coulda fooled me,” I mumble.
He doesn’t answer, just continues to look at me with his stoic face.
I let a slow breath go. I’m here for amusement and if he wants to stay, he’s going to have to have fun too. I thrash my arms and legs, trying to kick up a storm, but I’m in too deep to be effective. So, I attempt the next best thing. I grab a fistful of leaves and throw them at him. After a spectacular explosion six inches above my hands, they flutter slowly, settling discretely into the gigantic pile.
Still no reaction from him.
I pick up two more handfuls and try again. Lo-and-behold, I’m met with the same result. Not a flinch, not a blink. Does this guy not have facial muscles like normal humans?
“You’re making me pull out the big guns, Owen.”
I stand and pretend to fix my gloves by pulling on the cuffs, then I roll my shoulders making myself look all tough—or as tough as a girl in skinny jeans and a crochet toque can against the backdrop of the Incredible Tattooed Hulk. I do a deep knee bend, scoop as many leaves as I can between my arms, and get right in Owen’s personal space before launching the bundle directly at him.
When they fall past his chin and I can evaluate the result of my antics, I’m pleased that there’s something other than neutral ambivalence to his appearance. I wouldn’t call what he’s doing smiling, but he’s not grimacing, and that’s a win, I’d say. One more thrust of leaves could tip the scales all the way.
I crouch, legs wide in a deep squat, arms stretched out as far as they can go. I am about to scoop an entire tree’s worth of leaves when a gentle nudge presses against my forehead. It’s not a shove or a thrust; it’s literally the force of a single finger to the centre of my forehead. It hits me in the exact spot that prevents all hope in hell of staying on my feet. I tumble over and land on my ass with a hard thump.
I’m initially shocked, then proud of myself for breaking him out of his iron bonds, then slightly nervous when he throws the rake off to the side and successfully does what I failed to do—shove an armload in my face.