by Fields, MJ
I, on the other hand, am slave labor. Maybe if Toby goes home for the day, Adam will call it an early one, too. I can feel the crisp water on my skin as I just think about Jessica’s kidney-shaped pool.
Toby turns to me with downturned eyes. “No, Leah, we can’t waste a day. You see that house?” He points to the furthest one that has the most work that needs to be done. “That house is for Carrie Mikgus. She was severely beaten by her husband and has been living in a women’s shelter with her two kids since last summer. We promised her a home in time to start school in the fall.”
He turns to the middle house that is halfway complete. “That house is for the Framer family. They lost their home and their youngest daughter to a house fire two years ago. The three remaining kids were all burned severely. That house is supposed to be a new start for them.
“And this one”—he knocks on a post at the front entryway of the home—“is for Roger and Vivienne Montgomery. Roger was wounded in Afghanistan. Lost both legs. He needs a handicapped-accessible home. He fought for our country in the desert, for us. And if we can’t spend a few weeks in the heat, then what the hell are we good for? What kind of people are we?”
My fingers stop dancing with pool-inspired anticipation. Looking around at the homes, I take in what their true purpose is. We’re not just building houses for the sake of manual labor. We’re creating homes for people who have lost so much. Here I am, trying to get my margarita on with the girls, and there is a woman huddled with her kids at a shelter because she was violently abused by a man she loved, a family of children with burns all over their bodies, and an honorable service member who gave so much for our safety, waiting for a place to begin and end his day in peace.
Toby looks at me with a face laced with defeat. “We have volunteers here seven days a week, and I still don’t know if we’ll get these homes done on time.”
I watch the group of volunteers as they walk away. They’re not like me. They’re here on their own time. They chose to be here for a reason. A greater purpose. And they’re giving up.
Well, Leah Marie Paige does not give up.
“Toby, is there a radio anywhere?” I ask.
He just looks at me like it’s the oddest response to the sad stories he just told me. Okay, it’s not exactly what someone says after hearing such depressing stuff, but I have a point.
“Seriously, Toby, get me the damn radio.”
I turn around and walk to the water spigot that’s attached to the Montgomery home and turn it on. Grabbing the hose, I walk back to one of the folding tables with the hose unraveling from its holder.
I hold the gun of the hose up, take aim at Rick’s back, and shoot. I get a good shot and cascade him with ice-cold water, causing him to jump up and raise his arms like a bullet hit him.
Rick lets out a loud, womanly scream. “Jesus Christ! What the heck?”
The crowd stops to see what the hell is going on.
Climbing on top of the table, I hold the hose nozzle up like it’s a pistol. “You said you were hot. Just looking to cool you off a bit.” I give him a wide smile, the kind I give my customers from the oak top bar of The Bucking Bronco.
“Are you crazy?” Rick asks—not in a mean way, more in a I-can’t-believe-you-just-shot-me-with-a-hose way.
“Yep,” I say. I hose down the guy standing next to him, who lets out a yelp. “And you’re crazy for leaving. Why did you choose to volunteer here in the first place?”
Rick answers while pulling his wet shirt away form his torso, “Because my sister was abused by her husband. Homes for All Souls helped her get back on her feet, and now, I’m helping them.”
My heart drops a little. I wasn’t expecting him to say that. “Do you think the crew working on her home quit because they were hot?”
“No,” Rick says with a shake of the head and an understanding smile on his face.
“And you”—I point the hose to the other guy, who jumps behind Rick to avoid getting hit again—“why did you volunteer?”
The guy steps out of Rick’s shadow and looks around the crowd. With a stance that shows humility, he says, “I’m a recovering alcoholic. My counselor suggested I volunteer to keep myself busy, away from temptation.”
“Where are you gonna go if you leave here?”
The man chews on his lip, not wanting to answer my question.
Toby walks over with a radio and puts it on the table. Excited to see it’s a Bluetooth, I kneel down and turn it on.
“You see,” I say while syncing my phone to the radio, “the problem is that your heart’s in the right place, but you’re not having any damn fun. Yes, it’s hot, and, yes, if you don’t hydrate, you will get heatstroke. But we’re not quitters.”
I put on a techno song called “Dive in the Pool (Let’s Get Soaking Wet).” We use it at the bar for wet T-shirt contests. The electronic music blasts through the speaker, and a woman starts talking over the music about everyone needing to get wet—obviously.
“You’re all here for a reason. I have to be here to serve my time. But we’ve all found something special in this project, and we will not stop until these homes are built. I say we take a break and get a little crazy!” I hit the nozzle on the hose and spray into the sky, making it pour down on the twenty or so people standing in front of me.
They’re staring at me. They look kinda stunned, probably wondering why there’s a blonde dancing on a folding table, making it rain. I think they’re about to freak out on me, but as the cold water hits their skin, they don’t get mad. They get…excited.
The music is bumping, and Toby makes it louder. A few people start laughing, and a couple shake their heads, not knowing what to make of the moment. I don’t care. I just hold the water up in the sky and start dancing on the table.
Toby shouts over to me, “I have an idea! I’ll be right back.”
He runs off to his truck, and I keep spraying and swaying.
People start to dance, and if I had a bottle of booze in my hand, I’d feel like I was at The Bucking Bronco, giving everyone shots—except to the guy who’s a recovering alcoholic, of course.
Toby runs back with a giant shopping bag. He pulls out this water-balloon contraption that’s supposed to fill up thirty balloons in seconds. He has dozens of them.
“Do you moonlight as a children’s party entertainer?” I ask sarcastically.
Toby lets out a laugh. “I bought these for my son’s birthday party. I’ll get more. Come on, the ground is going to turn to mud. Let’s take this to the field.”
Toby has an enthusiastic expression all over his face, and I freaking love it.
“To the field!” I shout with my arm in the air, like we’re going to battle.
We usher everyone to the grassy area, and within minutes, Toby and Rick are carrying hundreds of water balloons to us. Everyone arms themselves and scurries around. Like kids playing manhunt, they take aim and hide behind a tree or a boulder for cover. I get hit twice and get a few people, too.
Most people are running and playing. Some are just enjoying watching the debacle that is happening before them. Grown men and women are playing in a water-balloon fight on a hot day. Someone took over the radio, and it has been playing classic rock, which is an overall crowd pleaser. Almost everyone has taken off their shoes, running around like children.
It doesn’t take much to boost people’s spirits. As kids, we don’t care how silly we look or how wet or dirty we get. Nothing stops us. When we grow up, we become distracted and annoyed by the slightest inconvenience. We forget to stop and take a moment to find joy in the now.
It only lasts for twenty minutes, but everyone cools off as they get a little weird, like children do.
It’s crazy, and it’s beautiful.
When the balloons are gone, we sit in the sun and dry off. Water is passed around, jokes are told, and laughter is contagious.
Rick hits Toby’s leg and says, “Come on, let’s go put up that siding.”
Toby
nods with a smile, and the two take off for the last few hours of the workday. With our shoes back on, everyone goes back to their stations, not bothered by their wet clothes since the heat is still stifling.
I walk around the field, pick up the broken water balloon pieces, and put them in a trash bag. When I’m done, I start my walk back to the worksite but not before a silhouette catches my eye.
A man under the shade of a far-off tree is staring at me with onyx eyes.
I stop and look back at him, waiting for something—a movement, a wave, a smile, anything. Instead, I get nothing.
Seven
“Night, Leah,” Rick says as he slings his cooler strap over his shoulder.
“Safe drive home,” I say, sitting on the tailgate of Adam’s truck, my legs dangling.
Everyone has packed up and left. Well, almost everyone. Adam is sulking around here somewhere. I haven’t spoken to him since he nearly threw the folding table at me at lunch.
Okay, he didn’t throw it at me, but he probably wanted to.
I take a sip from my water and put the cap back on. My pants are covered in dried mud, and I have Spackle smears on my forearms. There aren’t any mirrors around, but I’m pretty sure I look like a wreck. Running my fingers through my ponytail, I feel the matted ends. If the girls saw me, their jaws would drop for sure. I’m probably super smelly and gross, too. I lift an arm to take a whiff.
“There’s no way you smell as bad as you look,” Adam says as he approaches the truck, forcing me to jolt in my seat and plop my arm down.
“You should see yourself,” I say as a rebuttal. My words insinuate he looks like hell, but it’s quite the opposite.
Those low-hanging Levi’s with their stains and small tears are hugging his hips just right. His T-shirt is clinging to his chest, accentuating those strong shoulders at the top. His hair is messy but not like mine. He has this hot-guy-who’s-been-building-things-all-day look about him, and it’s—
Okay, gonna stop that thought right there.
Adam snaps his fingers in front of my face, pulling me out of my daydream and off the truck. He closes the tailgate and walks to the driver’s side. I go to my door and climb inside.
He starts the car, and we set off for the drive. After a hard day’s work, the air-conditioning feels like heaven. I run my fingers over the leather of my seat and let my head fall to the side. Looking out the window, I play a game with myself, making up the strangest names out of the license plates that we pass. The first plate is LZZ D498. Lizzy Fornicate pops in my head.
“Lazied Fortnight,” I say to myself, somewhat impressed.
“Slave Juice.”
I turn my head. “What?”
He nods toward the car in front of us. The plate is S7V J32C.
“Slang Jerk?” I try.
He shakes his head. “Mine’s better. There’s a V in there.” He dips into the middle lane and speeds up to see the plate of another car—NST YC4D.
“Nasty Seafood,” we say at the same time, laughing quietly to ourselves.
As we realize we’re not supposed to be having fun with each other in any way, we settle back into our respected positions—him stern and straight with his hands on ten and two, and me huddled in the corner of the seat as close to the door as possible.
I run my teeth along my bottom lip and go back to looking out the window.
“You still play that game a lot?” he asks.
I nod my head. “Not really. It just popped in my head.”
“Brad was insane at that. His brain was wired differently.”
I face him and agree, “He probably would have come up with something clever like No Safety Cadavers.”
He has a slight smile. “That was a good one.”
“Thanks.” I let out a deep exhale and put my hands under my thighs as I tap my heels.
We pass a sign for Cracker Barrel. I love how you can shop in the country store while you wait for your table. Between my adoration of country music and cowboy boots, I should have grown up in the South. My stomach makes a rumbling noise at the thought of their chicken salad.
Adam lets out a disgruntled groan. “You didn’t eat, did you?”
“Half of a banana.”
His hand leaves the steering wheel and rises up as he asks, “What about the lunch I packed you?”
“I wasn’t hungry anymore.”
He puts the blinker on, and we start to exit off the highway.
I look out the side to make sure we’re not gonna slam into a passing car. “Where are we going?”
“To feed you.”
I put my hand on his bicep. The barbed veins are pushing against his velvet skin.
“No. I’m okay. I’ll have something when I get home.”
His arm tenses beneath my hand, so I quickly remove it.
He steadies the car in the far right lane. “You sure?”
“Yes. Thank you. That was…very nice of you.”
His jaw is tight. His knuckles are white against the black steering wheel. It’s not like he’s scared or anything. It’s like he’s holding on to that wheel for control, afraid to let it go. His chest rises high and falls, the grip loosening with the exhale. He parts his lips. His mouth opens and closes and then opens once more.
“I shouldn’t have gotten so mad earlier.”
He’s right; he shouldn’t have. I agree in silence.
He adds, “But you shouldn’t have tested me the way you did.”
I practically bolt out of my seat. “Why does everything I do piss you off so much?”
He’s glaring at the road as he drives in complete silence. With a humph, I slam my back into my seat and fold my arms across my body. The cool cab that felt like nirvana minutes ago is now like the Arctic tundra. I rub my arms to tame the forming goose bumps.
“It’s so cold in here. I feel like a corpse.” My body starts to shake.
“That’s a terrible comparison.”
Leaning forward, I lower the air conditioner. He goes to put it up again, but I smack his hand away. Without a care, he moves my hand out of the way and puts the air on again.
“You are the most infuriating man I’ve ever met. As soon as these hours are up, I never want to see you again!”
“Same here, sweetheart. One hundred can’t come fast enough.”
“You know, you could make this go faster. Just pretend I served my time.”
He shakes his head. “And let you off the hook that easy?”
“I wasn’t the one driving!” I shout. “When are you going to get off your ass and actually look for Victoria? She’s been missing for a week, and no one seems to give a shit.”
“Why do you? If she really did crash and bolt, you should be happy she’s off somewhere, getting high and dying in a corner.”
“Just because she’s a bitch doesn’t mean she deserves to get hurt. She should be in rehab getting help.”
Adam lets out an audible gasp of air. His chest falls as his grip lightens on the wheel. “No, it doesn’t.”
I let out a heavy breath and turn away from him.
I know I’m a good person, yet he seems to try to knock me down every time. It’s the stares, the glares. The way he looks when he sees me out with my friends and bites his jaw. How he purposefully walks over when I’m pumping gas to make sure my registration and inspection are up-to-date because I’m incapable of doing so on my own. At least once a week, I catch him following me in his cruiser, trying to catch me speeding or running a red light. It’s in the way he’s always giving disapproving looks at my attire and the way he practically stalks my friends and gives them hell when they step out of line in the slightest. He’s been the bane of my existence for seven years, but if he thinks he’s going to tear this girl down, then he has another thing coming to him.
“We dissect failure a lot more than we dissect success,” I say toward my window.
“Those are profound words.”
“They’re McConaughey’s words,” I say. I see hi
s mouth start to move, so I hold my hand up to halt him from uttering a word. “Before you make some snide comment about how I’m not smart enough to come up with my own quote, let me just tell you that I’m sick of it—sick of you always finding the flaws in me instead of noticing anything good. I don’t need your approval, but I certainly don’t want your condescension either. I’m tired of trying to show you how spectacular I am. Because I’m pretty damn amazing in case you haven’t noticed.”
Adam exits off the highway, and I try to keep my lip from quivering. I look at the dashboard, the floor, the seat that I’m on. I look at anything but him. The inside of his truck is freaking pristine. It defeats the purpose of having this kind of car. It’s supposed to be messy and stained. But, no, not Adam Reingold. He has to have the squeaky clean pickup. The squeakiest, cleanest pickup in all of Ohio.
I hate him.
And I hate his truck.
We turn onto my street, and as soon as he pulls up to my house, my hand is on the handle.
I’m out of the car, but before I close the door, he calls my name, “Leah.”
I stop, my hand on the metal frame. I’m standing in the open area between the door and the car. I don’t want to look at him. So, I don’t. I stare at the black pavement beneath my feet. He’s not talking. But he called my name, so obviously he has something to say, but he’s not.
Despite my better judgment, I look up. Those coal-like irises are slightly glazed, and he’s biting his damn lip.
“We dissect failure a lot more than we dissect success,” he says.
I furrow my brows.
He places his elbow on the center console and leans toward me. “What you did today? That was…great.” His voice is deep, low, and full of meaning.
My heart drops a little into my stomach. I look to the side and breathe in to make sure I’m not showing him how much that simple admission means to me.
Or how confused it makes me.
Stepping aside, I close the door. It’s probably not the correct response to his words, but it’s what I did. I turn around and try not to trip up the walkway to my house. His truck is still on the curb as I climb the stairs to my house, insert my key into the lock, and then open the door.