by Mila Gray
A worm of discomfort wriggles through my insides.
He’s still standing there, holding my skates. I’m being stupid. Of course nothing is off or weird. He just took me by surprise. I thought everyone had left the building already.
“You want them or not?” he asks, dangling my skates like a carrot.
His smile is weird, I think to myself as I step toward him. It says one thing, but his eyes say something else. They’re not smiling.
It hits me then. Did he see me and Jake kissing? Is that why he’s acting so weird? Blood rushes to my cheeks at the thought he witnessed it. I don’t want anyone to know. The teasing would be even worse than it is now.
The voice in my head is getting louder, saying something to me. I can make out the urgency in the tone, but I can’t make out the words.
Emerson
It takes me a week before I notice what’s changed. The mailbox has been straightened. It takes me another week to notice that the gutters have been cleared and the loose step up to the front door nailed down. Even then I just figure my mom has finally gotten around to working through the list of chores that has been stuck to the refrigerator door for over a year. It’s only when I come home early from work one day and find Jake, with his shirt off, mowing the lawn, that I realize that he’s the handyman.
I screech to a halt on my bike, almost throwing myself over the handlebars. Partly it’s the shock of seeing him mowing the lawn mingled with embarrassment that he’s doing jobs around my house. But, if I’m being totally honest, it’s mainly the sight of him without his T-shirt on.
My inner voice yells at me to get a grip. Jake hasn’t heard me over the sound of the lawn mower’s engine, and my eyes linger on his back rippling with muscle and coated in a sheen of sweat. He turns, and I catch a brief glimpse of the rigid lines of his stomach, my eyes wandering to the shadows that dip below the waistband of his low-slung jeans. He looks up and catches me staring. I spin around to face the door. Shit.
The lawn mower engine cuts out. “Hey,” he calls.
I dart a glance over my shoulder. He’s using his forearm to wipe the sweat off his brow.
“Hey,” I answer, trying to sound aloof.
“I didn’t think you’d be home until six,” he says.
Is that what he’s been doing? Coming around when I’m not here? Why didn’t my mom say anything? I narrow my eyes. Maybe because they both knew I’d be pissed about it.
“You don’t have to do this,” I say, gesturing at the garden while trying not to look at him.
“It’s cool,” he says. “It needed doing.”
“I was going to get around to it this weekend,” I mumble, wheeling my bike toward the house. I lean it against the garage and head up the front steps, still trying not to look in his direction.
Jake jogs up to the porch and reaches for the glass of water sitting on the ledge. I drop my keys and have to stoop to pick them up. Jake reaches for them at the same time and I get hit of the way he smells—of cut grass, and sweat and something else—something that makes my throat go dry and my stomach do a triple somersault. I stand up way too fast and my head spins. Jake hands me my keys, and when I take them, our fingers touch. My hand jolts violently, almost making me drop the keys again. Does he notice? I could kick myself.
“It’s hot,” he says, downing the glass of water.
I can’t tear my eyes off him, off the beads of sweat rolling down his neck and glistening on his shoulders. For God’s sake! I force myself to look away. I’m thirteen all over again, but luckily Jake seems oblivious.
I point at the door. “I’m going to, uh, go and see if my mom needs anything.”
“Okay,” Jake says. “I’ll finish the lawn.”
Once inside the house, I lean against the front door, my heart stuttering and starting like an old car backfiring.
“Oh!”
I jump. It’s my mom. She’s frozen halfway across the hallway. Her eyes dart to the front door in fright. “You’re back early.”
“Yeah,” I say, rounding on her furiously. “What’s Jake doing?”
“Mowing the lawn.” She glances through the side window and smiles. Oh my God! Is my mom checking Jake out?
“He had an audience earlier,” she tells me. “Little Kerrie Dean from across the road and her friends kept riding past on their bikes.”
Kerrie Dean is not little. She’s fifteen. And for some reason, hearing this makes me mad.
My mom bustles into the front room. I follow behind her.
“Hey, Dad,” I say, stopping to kiss him on the head.
“Hi,” he slurs.
I notice that there’s a deck of cards on the table in front of him and a pile of quarters. Who? What? Are my dad and Jake playing cards?
“We’re paying him, right?” I say.
“Who?” my mom asks.
“Jake,” I say, going over and helping her change the sheets on the bed.
“I tried to pay him, but he won’t accept.”
“Well, make him accept it. Add it to his pay packet or something,” I say.
My mom sighs and whips off the pillowcases. “Emerson, when are you going to give him a chance?”
I gather up the dirty sheets in a bundle and cross to the door.
“Emerson?” she calls after me as I walk out.
I take the sheets down to the basement and shove them in the washer. I know my mom’s got a point, but when I told Jake that we couldn’t be friends, I meant it.
The last two weeks, I’ve managed to schedule it so that Jake and I only have a few afternoons working in the store at the same time, and thankfully we’ve been so busy during those times that we haven’t had to talk.
Toby was right. Jake’s presence has been good for business, annoying as that is to admit. Not only is he a draw because of who he is—national athletic champion and Bainbridge’s prodigal son returned!—but he’s also supernaturally great at customer service. Toby and I watch him from the sidelines in awe.
Merchandise, especially skates, seems to fly off the shelves. The cash register rings out like church bells at Christmas. I’ve had to reorder twice this week alone. Jake’s even started doing impromptu skateboarding and inline skating lessons down at the park. Toby swears that by the end of summer he’ll have his own cheerleading squad made up of both boys and girls. Kerrie Dean will probably be leading them.
I add the laundry detergent and punch the buttons. The lawn mower hums in the background, and the smell of cut grass wafts through the open basement door. I close my eyes and breathe in deeply. Jake’s torso, sweat-streaked and looking like it belongs on the front cover of an erotic novel, flashes before me like a neon sign.
I have to erase it. I can’t let myself think about him. At all. And definitely not in the way that Kerrie Dean and my mother are thinking about him. I’m angry at my brain for even going there.
When I come upstairs, I find my mom in the kitchen making a salad. “Oh, Emerson, can you set the table?”
“Sure,” I say, walking to the cutlery drawer.
“For three,” she adds.
“Hasn’t Dad already eaten?” I ask. He usually eats earlier than us because he gets so tired. I’m guessing he’s already asleep, in fact.
“Yes,” my mom says. “I invited Jake to stay for dinner.”
My hand freezes halfway to the knives. “What?”
“He’s just outside firing up the grill.”
I look out the window and see it’s true. Jake is out in the back fiddling with the gas canister. He’s put a T-shirt on. I’m both disappointed and relieved, getting used to the constant state of contradiction I feel around him.
“Are you okay?” my mom asks.
I press my lips together and reach for the extra cutlery. No, I’m not okay. I’m furious as hell that she’s invited him to dinner. I don’t want to sit and eat with him. I don’t want to be around him. “It’s just difficult, that’s all,” I mumble.
My mom pauses. “Have yo
u talked to him yet? About what happened?”
I shake my head vehemently. No. No way. My mom puts her hand on my arm, and I notice that I’m shaking.
“Maybe it would help to clear the air.”
I set the table, throwing Jake’s cutlery down. “I know what he thinks. I don’t need to talk to him about it.”
It’s not just that I don’t want to hear his excuses, it’s also that I hate conflict. I run away from it usually, or fall silent. I find it hard to articulate myself. I’ve learned it’s easier to say nothing. Do nothing. Then people leave you alone quicker.
“I think you should,” my mom says. “I think it would do you both good to get things out into the open and talk them through.”
Jake strolls through the back door just then. He looks faintly bashful and uncertain when he sees me. He hesitates on the threshold, his shoulders almost the width of the doorway. “The burgers are almost done,” he says.
“Great,” my mom says. “Emerson, have you finished setting the table?”
I look up and meet Jake’s eyes. A hot sun rises in my chest. I quickly smother it to ash.
We eat mainly in silence. Or rather, Jake and I eat in silence. My mom won’t stop chatting. It’s as if someone has pulled a stopper. I guess she doesn’t get out all that much these days and we rarely have company.
“We got three more bookings today,” she informs us.
“That’s good news,” says Jake, sawing into his burger.
“Two half-day tours around Blakely Harbor.”
I sigh. I’m getting so tired of pointing out seals to tourists.
“I’ll do them,” Jake says quickly, noticing my shoulders slump. “Toby’s taught me the whole routine,” he adds, noting I’m about to protest.
“It’s fine,” I say. “I can do it.” I don’t want his help. I don’t want to get used to it either.
“Well, actually,” my mom says, giving me an apologetic wince, “they asked for Jake.”
“Oh,” I say.
There’s an awkward silence as I push my salad around my plate and Jake clears his throat and fills my mom’s water glass.
“The other good news,” my mom says, forging on, “is that we’ve got six people booked in for a three-night, four-day trip to Blake and Vashon next week.” My mom is beaming. The longer tours are worth a lot of money. “It’s a bachelor party.”
I freeze with my fork hovering over my plate. “We can’t do it. We need two guides for a tour that size,” I say. “And Toby can’t come. He has to be in Seattle next week for a conference.” And there’s absolutely no way I’m doing it on my own. Even the thought of being around a group of rowdy drunk guys makes me feel sick.
“I know,” my mom says smiling at me reassuringly. “I thought you and Jake could take them.”
“And who’ll look after the store?”
“I’ll manage,” my mom says. “I’ll get help with your dad.”
“From who?” I ask.
“I’ll manage,” she says again, firmly. “We can’t turn it down.” She widens her eyes at me, a sign that she wants me to drop it. I know we need the money, so I have no choice.
“Sounds fun,” Jake says. He’s looking at me with the beginnings of a smile on his lips and a dare in his eyes. “Don’t you think?”
Jake
The sun’s barely up, but I’ve been at the store already for an hour making sure we’ve got everything we need for the trip. Toby pulls up in his car as I’m dragging the kayaks to the shore.
“Hey,” he says, coming over to help.
“Hey,” I say.
“You all set?”
“Yeah, I think so. Did you double-check the bookings?”
Toby slaps me on the shoulder. “It’s all good. Tents will be ready when you get there, and all the provisions, too.”
“Great. Thanks.” I drop the oars alongside the kayaks and the waterproof bags.
We’re kayaking light with just water and energy bars. It’s a couple of hours’ paddle across to Blake Island, a state park with a few campsites dotted around it. We’re staying there overnight before crossing to Vashon the day after. Toby’s been in charge of the campsite bookings and arranging supplies.
“I’ve put you and Emerson in separate kayaks,” Toby tells me now, giving me an arch look. “I thought it was the wisest decision.”
I frown at him, but he’s already heading toward the store.
Once I’m done organizing the kayaks, I head into the store and find Em has arrived. She’s wearing just a pair of shorts and an oversize LOWE KAYAKING CO. T-shirt over a long-sleeved top. Her hair’s down, hanging past her shoulders in just-got-out-of-bed waves. I immediately picture her just getting out of my bed. She catches me staring and looks away fast. Shit. Did she catch me perving?
“Toby put us in the same kayak,” I tell her.
She looks up startled, no disguising the look of horror on her face.
“Joking,” I say quickly.
Is that a flash of disappointment? Or is it just plain old relief?
“Are we all set?” she asks.
I nod. “Think so.”
A car pulls into the lot. “That’ll be our group.”
Em quickly rearranges her features into a smile as a bunch of rowdy guys in their thirties tumble out of the SUV. The first guy is unshaven and wearing a rumpled T-shirt. He holds up a hand and squints against the rising sun. It looks like they’ve had beer for breakfast. I step past Em and head to greet them, so she’s not in the firing line.
As I suspected, all of them have bloodshot eyes and five-o’clock shadows, and three of them are clutching half-empty bottles of Bud. It’s like my hockey team the morning after a big game.
“Gentlemen,” I say. “You ready to hit the water?”
They cheer in answer and clink their beer bottles.
Toby hands out Clif Bars and cups of coffee in a vain effort to sober up the group. I go around and make double sure they’ve signed the insurance disclaimer forms. Em slips into the storeroom and comes out a minute later wearing her shorts and a blue bikini top. She pauses in the middle of the store to pull her hair up into a ponytail. I must make a sound—a sigh perhaps, hopefully not a groan—because she whips around.
“What?” she asks, a flash of defiance in her eyes.
“Nothing,” I say, looking hastily away and catching Toby smirking at me.
Maybe it’s best she goes in another kayak after all. If she’s in front of me, there’s a real danger I’ll be so distracted I’ll steer us into the shipping channel. I turn around and see one of the bachelor party guys staring at Emerson with his mouth hanging open like he’s watching Kate Upton perform a striptease.
I step in front of him, blocking his view, and scowl until he looks away, abashed.
Em grabs two life jackets off the counter and tosses one to me. “Ready?” she asks.
“Definitely,” I say, pulling it on.
She gives me a questioning look, and . . . is that the very start, the tiniest hint, of a smile?
Emerson
Because we have to sober up the clients first, we don’t get to Blake until after lunch. We pull the kayaks up onto the spit. The men are still in high spirits thanks to the constant stream of energy drinks and Clif Bars we kept feeding them en route. I climb out of my kayak, gritting my teeth, and walk over to Jake, who is laughing about something with one of the clients. Seeing my expression, though, he instantly breaks off his conversation and strides toward me, his smile fading, replaced with a deep frown of concern. “You okay?” he asks.
“Yeah, fine,” I say, glancing over my shoulder at the sunburned, drooling idiot I just spent three hours stuck in a kayak with. “But tomorrow I’m in a kayak with you.”
Jake stares past me, a dark look transforming his face. “What did he do?”
I glance up at him in surprise. Is he being all alpha male protector-y? I’m not sure how I feel about that. I don’t need anyone to look out for me. I can look out
for myself. But at the same time, there’s something about the gesture that makes me almost smile.
“Nothing,” I say in a hurry. “He just would not stop talking about how much money he makes and how awesome it is to be him, and how women are constantly throwing themselves at him. I swear the only place I wanted to throw myself was out of the damn kayak. He didn’t shut up. Three hours,” I say. “Three whole hours of him talking at me. And he has no idea how to steer, either.”
“It’s okay,” Jake says. “Tomorrow we can put Casanova with Captain GoPro over there.”
I smile and gesture at the guy in the wet suit and thousand-dollar diver’s watch who’s now unstrapping his GoPro camera from the special helmet he’s wearing.
“The guy thinks he’s Bear Grylls. He spent three hours telling me about the time he nearly got eaten by a bear while white-water rafting in Alaska right after he nearly got killed by an anaconda canoeing in the Amazon.”
“Let’s call Toby and get him to arrange a bear attack,” I say, but secretly I’m worried. What if they think this trip is lame and don’t give us a good review? Maybe I should try harder to smile and act like I’m interested in Casanova’s stories.
“I’m just going to find out which are our tents,” Jake says to me.
I nod, watching him as he strolls through the campsite, and shake my head in wonder. If anyone had told me even three weeks ago that Jake McCallister and I would be in charge of a drunk bachelor party and camping together on Blake Island, I would have told them they were high. But here we are. And for the first time since my mom told me about the trip, I’m glad that Toby had a conference to go to in Seattle.
That all changes when Jake comes back ten minutes later with a very worried look on his face. I excuse myself—I’ve been caught by Captain GoPro, who is eagerly telling me all about the time he wrestled the anaconda—and walk over to Jake.
“Do you want the good news or the bad news?” he asks, looking nervous.