by McLean, Jay
“So who’s John Sm—Oh!” His eyes narrow on the girl next to me, the debit card still tapping on the counter. “It’s Mia, right. Papa John’s Mia?”
“Uh-huh,” Mia says.
“You’ve, uh…” The guy’s generic smile turns sinister—at least in my eyes. “You’ve grown up.”
I face her, watch as the blush creeps to her cheeks. “It happens,” she says, shrugging.
The guy, whose name tag reads Brent, tells her, even though the order is in my name, “I’ve got your invoice right here.” He doesn’t look at me when he says, “Is your boyfriend paying, or…”
The dickhead’s smooth, I’ll give him that, but he’s also a shitbag, so fuck him.
“Not my boyfriend,” Mia responds, and is she… is she flirting?
I groan.
Now I want to take the two-by-four and slam it against my own head.
Brent calls out over his shoulder, “Hey, take over for me.” There’s no one behind him. “I’m going to help these guys load the timber.”
He doesn’t help me load the timber or anything else that we’ve ordered. He stands next to my truck while Mia leans against it, and they make small talk, which leads to laughter, which leads to me wanting to put a nail through my ears and my eyeballs, and then he asks for her number, and she gives it to him, and—“I’m done!” I shout, my words echoing off the steel walls. I jump off the bed of the truck, ignoring their shared looks of surprise as I move to stand between them. Then I reach around Mia, opening her door, while simultaneously stepping back and shoving shitbag out of the way. “Let’s go. Your grandpa’s waiting.”
Mia’s expression gives nothing away. She simply gets into the truck, sits with her hands on her lap, and looks out the windshield. As I’m closing the door, Brent calls out, “I’ll call you.”
I slam the door shut and turn to him. Now that we’re this close, I realize I have more than a few inches on him and use it to my advantage. I tower over him, give him the same look I give my brothers right before one of my many, many “outbursts.”
“No, you fucking won’t.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Mia
It’s been a week since our little trip to the hardware store, and every day since, from sunup to sundown, Leo has busied himself with the work he was sent here to do. Unfortunately, Holden’s also been busy working at his father’s nursery, which means that I have a lot more time on my hands.
From what I can tell, Leo’s replaced the posts holding up the roof of the porch with temporary ones, and he’s started to remove the floor, but I think he came across an issue because he and Papa stood on the driveway looking at it, and talking about it, for a good hour. Honestly, it’s kind of nice to watch them together, to see the way they are with each other. Papa would say something, and Leo would agree, and then they’d discuss it, occasionally moving to show each other something, and when Papa would cross his arms, Leo would, too. When Leo would adjust his cap, Papa would run a hand through what little hair is on his head. They mirror each other a lot, which I find fascinating. So fascinating, I looked it up. Apparently, it shows that there is “comfort, trust, and rapport among them.”
It’s… sweet.
I mainly watch from my bedroom window in the attic, so I can’t see the actual porch from there, but I can see Leo walk onto the driveway to cut wood or mess with his tools—tools he must’ve brought from home.
Most days he leaves for lunch, and going by the way Miss Sandra greeted him at the diner, I’m guessing that’s where he goes.
We don’t talk.
There’s nothing for us to say to each other.
And we don’t interact.
Because that would be pointless.
Every night, during dinner, Leo, again, makes himself scarce. I don’t know what he does or where he goes, but I’m grateful for the time I get to spend with my grandpa. Just like his trips to the bank or the shops, Papa gives me a rundown of his days, a play-by-play, verbatim, and since most of his days are spent with Leo, I get to hear about “The Boy” even though he’s not around.
Papa told me that Leo likes to ask him questions. Not about me, but about him. Leo had asked about his childhood in Budapest and what it was like growing up post-World War II in a country that defeated the Soviet Army. He’d told Leo about his family, being the youngest of four children, and about when his parents hid a family of Jews in a barn on their property. Papa was born in 1945, right at the end of the war, so his knowledge of these events is based purely on his father’s storytelling.
He’d told Leo about his stint in the Navy and how he traveled the world afterward. How it didn’t take long for him to fall in love with the American life, fall in love with an American girl, and then build the American dream.
Papa mentioned that Leo didn’t talk much, which isn’t a surprise to me. Papa did most of the talking, and Leo did most of the asking. A part of me wondered if it was like the times when Papa would go into town and people would simply amuse him by listening to his ramblings. With Leo, I doubted it. Leo was always a good listener, always interested in what you had to say, even if it held no real significance. He liked to get lost in stories, in journeys and adventures, but he didn’t much like living his own.
Papa even told him about how he’d worked on this farm prior to the previous owner selling it to him. The old house was a shed, and a shed wasn’t good enough for his American wife, and so he built an American House, with his own hands, worthy of the love of his life. She passed when my dad was fifteen. I think a part of Papa died with her, and my dad? According to Papa, he was never the same.
Of course, I’d heard all the stories before, but hearing how Papa retold them to Leo and seeing the smile on his lips and the gleam in his eyes when he mentioned how enthralled Leo was, made my heart soften, just a tad.
I’m reminded of the boy who held my hand when I was sad, who took me to his special place for no other reason than his want to share it… with me. There was so much good in Leo, that’s undeniable, and maybe…
Maybe that good just wasn’t meant for me.
* * *
During the day, I watch Leo from afar. At night, when the world is dark and the house is quiet, I secretly get to admire the work that he’s done. It’s like a treat for me, a reward. I wait until I know Papa is asleep and Leo is in the spare bedroom, and then I slip on my running shoes and head outside. Like Leo, I don’t have a route. I don’t need one; I have a treadmill in the barn. Last year, I ran five miles a night. This year, I’m pushing seven. Back at school, I ran on the track. I did it at night there, too, which caused some issues at first. It was against the rules, and the school called my dad. When he asked me why I was doing it, I shrugged and told him, “I just want to.” He didn’t ask questions, because he didn’t have time, and so he “donated” an undisclosed amount to the school with the agreement that they’d let me break curfew. There were no limits to the contract. It wasn’t an “only to use the track” type deal. I could’ve come and gone how I pleased and money—money made all my insubordinations disappear.
I almost make it seven miles before my body breaks down. Drenched in sweat, my lungs burn, muscles weak from the abuse I’d just handed them. I slow the treadmill to a walking pace, and it takes less than a minute for nausea to kick in. On shaky legs, I push through the next few steps of my routine, satisfied, and can’t help the slight smile as I walk toward the half-finished porch. It’s stripped to the foundation, and lying on top is what looks like three different railing samples. I bend down, run my finger along one of the posts, and then jolt back when a throat clears. It’s pitch-black, and Leo is sitting on one of the beams, nothing in his hands, nothing to show what he’s doing here, like a creep, like a dang sociopath. He deadpans, “You having fun stroking my wood?”
I gasp, jaw unhinged.
“Sorry,” he says, a hand covering his face. “I couldn’t help it. The innuendo was right there.”
Ignoring him, I whisper
-yell, “What the heck are you doing? You scared me.”
“Sorry,” he says again, then shrugs. “I couldn’t sleep, so I came out here. Didn’t know you were out here, too.” He stands up on the beam and leaps from one to the next, jumping off the edge and landing next to me. “You been out running?” he asks, pointing a finger down my length.
Suddenly, I’m aware of how I look and what I’m not covering. I nod, cross my arms over my bare abdomen revealed by the short crop top. I’m grateful that it’s dark, that he can’t see the stretch marks on my hips and stomach.
“You shouldn’t be running on your own at night.”
“And you shouldn’t be worrying about me.” I don’t know why I’m so combative, and sure, I could tell him that there’s a treadmill in the barn, but that space is my solace. My secret.
Leo’s heavy breath lands on the top of my head, and I’m about to make an excuse to leave when he asks, “Which one do you like?” He’s pointing to the three different samples of railing.
“I don’t know,” I murmur, inconspicuously looking up at the attic window that’s not visible from where we stand. I want to be there. I long to be there.
“Well, your grandpa’s going to ask you to choose tomorrow. That’s why I have them all laid out.”
“He wants me to pick?”
“Yep.” His voice carries through the air, through my lungs, as if I breathe in the sound. Inhale it like oxygen.
“I’m not sure,” I say, turning and looking up at him. He’s focused on the railings; his profile lit only by the moonlight. His jaw’s square, nose narrow, eyes hidden behind the brim of his cap. After a beat, I add, “Which would you choose?”
“For me?” he says and points to the one on the left. “I’d choose that one.”
I look at the one he’s pointing at. It’s the most basic one of all. It’s nothing but square edges and symmetry. “It’s so plain,” I tell him.
“That’s why I said I’d choose it for me. For you, though”—he points to the one on the right, the most intricate of them all—“I’d choose that one.”
My breaths become shallow, my nerves shot, and even though I know I’ll regret asking, I do it anyway. “Why that one?”
He’s still focused on the railings when he answers, “It’s the most complicated one. But it’s by far the most beautiful. And even though it’ll take me a lot more work and a lot more time…” I’m already watching him when he faces me, his head tilted forward to meet my eyes. “It’ll be worth it, Mia. For you.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Leo
“I’ll come home next weekend,” I say into the phone, while simultaneously filling a glass from the tap. I’d just come back from my run a little later than usual, and as soon as I entered the house, my phone rang. It was Laney.
“You said that last weekend,” she says.
It’s true, I did, but I didn’t feel much like going home, so I told her I had shit to do. To my dad, I told the truth: that I just wasn’t ready.
Laney sighs. “Lachlan will want you there.”
By there, she means watching his baseball game. He already has Lucas and Logan, plus our brother-in-law, Cameron, running the team and highly doubt he’ll notice I’m not there.
“Plus, I miss you,” she adds, and there it is. I’d say that my friendship with Laney is complicated, but it really isn’t. Growing up, she was close with both Lucas and me, though it was apparent she saw him in a different light. Their connection was unbreakable, and ours was… convenient. She’d come to me whenever she needed advice, mainly about Lucas, and I’d go to her because—truthfully—she kind of reminded me of my mom, which means that I hated disappointing her.
“I…” I trail off because Mia’s just appeared from the stairs, and she’s in another dress. This one’s white, with light blue vertical stripes, buttons down the middle. It goes past her knees, the sleeves to the elbows, and there’s nothing at all revealing about it, but on her, it’s intoxicating. I’d never really noticed girls’ clothes before, at least not in the way I am right now. I’d been attracted to Mia since I was thirteen, and she wore nothing but oversized tees and shorts. But now? Now I’m convinced she’d look good wearing a potato sack.
“You what?” Laney asks, and I realize I’m staring at Mia, the glass halfway to my mouth. The odd part? Mia’s staring back.
“I, uh… I’ll call you back,” I say into the phone, and don’t wait for a response before hanging up. It’s as if my voice pulls Mia from her daze, and her eyes shut tight before opening again.
I down the water in one hit, then lower the glass. “You look nice.”
Mia looks down at herself. “Thank you,” she says, but it comes out a question.
Finally forcing my eyes to look anywhere but at her, I busy myself with rinsing out the glass, the entire time wondering why she’s dressed like that. Before I can ask, she calls out, “Papa! You ready?”
“You can’t rush handsome,” he says, appearing in the living room. He’s wearing slacks, a tweed jacket, and a bright red bow tie.
“You look dapper, Papa,” Mia says, moving toward him.
He looks cute. Like little old man cute. He reminds me of the old man in Up. Grinning at the thought, I ask, leaning on the kitchen sink with my arms and ankles crossed, “Where are you guys headed?”
Mia turns to me, and she’s smiling, too. “Church. You want to come?”
My answer is instant. “No, thanks.”
Mia tilts her head, assessing me, and I don’t know what my reaction was or what vibe I’m giving off. “They have a potluck,” she tries to convince.
It’s the first time she’s willingly asked me to join her anywhere, and I should really make an effort. But I can’t. Not with this. “I’m good.”
“Okay,” she sing-songs and turns to fix her grandpa’s tie.
John smiles warmly at her. “You take good care of me, baba. Like your nagymama.”
“I try, Papa,” she says, then faces me again. “Papa visits with friends after church, and I hang out with Holden, so we won’t be back until after dinner.”
“Got it.”
* * *
I spend the rest of the day working on the porch and writing a list of other things that’ll need doing. Once this job is over, I plan on either fixing or replacing the gutters and then working on the siding. As I walk around the house, I notice the barn and question if there’s anything in there I can use to save John some money. When I go to open the door, it’s locked. I predicted it would be, but John showed me a set of keys that should open every lock. I go through each key one by one; some of them fit, but none actually turn. I’d seen Mia come out of there a few times now, mainly in the morning and sometimes at night, so maybe she took the key. Either way, I’ll be sure to check with John tomorrow.
The day goes by quickly, and before I realize, I’ve skipped lunch, and it’s already dinner time. As if on cue, my stomach rumbles. After packing up the tools, I take a quick shower and head off, ready to see my second favorite girl here.
Miss Sandra notices me as soon as I walk in, even though the diner is busy. Most of the people gather at the outside tables, so I still have the inside somewhat to myself. “Your booth’s free, baby, go ahead,” she calls out, and I nod, make my way to the same table I sit at every night. Miss Sandra already knows my order, so I know she won’t be back to ask.
I settle in, paperback in hand, and find where I dog-eared the page. I open it up, making sure I crack the spine. Lucy hates the way I treat her books. She wants them pristine, as if they’ve never been touched. I disagree. Books are meant to be read, spines worn from looking over the same passages over and over. Sometimes, when I’m really into a book, I highlight sentences and write in the margins. Those are the books she’ll inevitably gift me and buy another copy for herself that will sit on a shelf and never truly be appreciated.
I’m only two sentences in when the bell above the diner door dings, letting in an influx of nois
e from outside. I look out the window and realize the people hanging around outside are kids my age. I must’ve missed that detail on the walk from my truck to this seat. The three dudes walking through the door are all tall and broad-shouldered, like most of the guys around here. They walk past my booth on the way to the restroom, and I’ve never really understood guys who piss in groups. Like, why? To look at each other’s dicks? It doesn’t make sense.
More and more cars, mainly trucks, start to fill the parking lot, and more kids appear. I’d put money that 90 percent of the fourteen- to eighteen-year-olds in this town are right here, right now. The restroom door opens, and the closet dick measurers come out, talking as obnoxiously loud as they did when they walked in. “I swear to God; it’s her.”
“Mia?” one of them says, and I’m all fucking ears. “Papa John’s Mia?”
“Yep,” the first guy responds, popping the p.
“It can’t be. Wasn’t she a fat bitch?”
Heart pumping, jaw tense, I rest the book on the table, my fingers furled as I listen in on their bullshit. I don’t have to listen hard. They stop directly beside my booth, and one of them points. “See? The one in the blue and white dress.”
“Holy shit, it is!”
I look to where they’re pointing, and sure enough, Mia’s there. She’s sitting on a table outside, her feet on the bench seat. Alone. Holden’s nowhere that I can see, and I’m pissed that he’s left her there, vulnerable.
“Damn,” the third one speaks up.
“I wonder if she puts out,” one of them says, and I hold my breath, my anger building, building.
“Ten bucks says I’ll have her on her knees with my dick in her mouth by the end of the night.”
All the money in the world says she won’t fucking let you, I don’t say. Out loud. But I think it, and before I can do anything but let my rage simmer, they’re already walking to the door.