I shove my fist into the bag two more times and then step back, swinging my back leg into the bag once. Then twice. And again.
And then I just let him leave and didn’t say anything, even when he instructed me on how he likes his damn bacon cooked. I mean, if someone is doing something nice for you—you know, like cooking breakfast—you don’t balk at how it’s cooked. You eat it.
God, I wish I had some vegan bacon to really make his day. Amusement pulls at my lips, but I force it back.
I keep hitting and kicking the bag, a light sweat grazing my brow as I think of all the things I could’ve responded with. Why does it bug me so much I didn’t get the last word?
Why do I let everything go and never say anything?
I throw my fist into the bag and someone is suddenly there, holding it from the other side.
“Hi,” Noah says, peering around the bag at me.
He looks amused, and I halt, standing up straight. Was he watching me? Was I talking to myself?
His eyes crinkle a little more, and I see a self-satisfied grin peek out. “Don’t stop,” he tells me.
The dark blue T-shirt sets off the color of his eyes, and the same baseball cap holds his hair back where it sits backward on his head. He and his father look a lot alike.
I drop my eyes and back off, breathing hard. The muscles in my stomach burn.
But he keeps egging me on. “Come on.” He pats the bag where my last punch landed. “He can piss off a saint. Why do you think I hung this punching bag up in the first place?”
I press my lips together, still not moving.
He sighs and stands up straight. “Okay. Are you making breakfast, then?”
I dig in my eyebrows, unable to stop myself, and twist my body, swinging my leg with full force into the punching bag. He shoves himself away from the bag just before my foot lands and stands back wide-eyed with his palms up. I watch the bag swing back and forth.
I wasn’t trying to hit him. It would’ve just been a happy coincidence.
But my legs still feel charged, and I almost wish my uncle would walk in right now, so I could ask him to hold the bag instead.
I’m angry.
I’m actually angry.
And it feels good.
I’m still here.
Noah breaks into a chuckle and comes forward, hooking an arm around my neck. “You’ve got spunk.”
I’m too spent to pull away and let him lead me around, walking us both into the house.
“Come on. Help me make breakfast,” he says.
I place the third plate on the table and drop a fork and butter knife next to it, moving to the cabinet to put that fourth plate away.
“No, no,” Noah says, kicking the fridge closed and dumping the butter and jam on the table. “Put the fourth plate down. Kaleb can show up anytime.”
I glance at the table and then turn back to the cabinet, slipping the extra plate back inside. “Kaleb has a plate on the table.”
“You’re not eating?”
“Yes, she is,” Jake suddenly says, walking into the kitchen.
He heads for the fridge and pulls out a pitcher of juice and places it in the center of the table, pouring himself a cup of coffee before he sits.
“I’m not hungry,” I tell him.
Moving to the sink, I rinse off the knife and spatula Noah just finished with.
“You didn’t have dinner,” Jake points outs. “Sit.”
“I’m not hungry.”
And before he says anything else, I stroll out of the kitchen and up the stairs. I feel his eyes on my back, and the farther I go away from them, the more I brace myself for a confrontation.
But he doesn’t chase after me.
He lets me go, and in a moment, I’m in my room, closing the door behind me.
The truth is I’m starving.
Pangs hit my stomach, and the scrambled eggs I made—while Noah was busy burning the bacon—looked amazing.
Luckily Noah didn’t press for much conversation while we were cooking, but if I eat with them, I’ll have to talk to them. I’ll wait until they’re back outside and then scrounge up something.
The green light on my phone flashes from where it lays on the bed, and I walk over and pick it up.
Unlocking the phone, I see my home screen with my email and social media apps, all dog-eared with dozens of notifications. Twitter alone has ninety-nine plus alerts.
A knot tightens in my stomach.
I rarely even use Facebook, Twitter seemed an efficient way to follow the news, and I got Instagram due to peer pressure to keep up with bunk-mates from summer camps whom I no longer remember.
My thumb hovers over Twitter, and I know I shouldn’t look. I’m not ready to face things.
But I tap the app on my screen anyway, the notification feed updating.
Condolences for your loss… says one person.
I scroll through the notifications, some of them direct tweets of sympathies and some of them where I’m tagged in the conversation.
Brave girl. Stay strong, writes RowdyRed.
And another directly to me. How does a mother decide to abandon her child for her husband? I’m so sorry. You deserved better.
Shut up! comes someone else’s response to that tweet. You have no idea what they were going through…
I scan tweet after tweet, and it doesn’t take long for me to lose what little interest I had in checking my DMs.
People yelling at me, because they can’t yell at my parents. People yelling at each other in conversation.
Suicide is self-murder. Murder is the gravest of sins.
Your body belongs to God. Taking your life away from him is stealing!
At least your mother made her contribution to the world, writes one asshole, captioning a nearly nude picture of my mother from one of her earlier films.
I close my eyes and don’t open them again until I’ve scrolled past.
And it just gets uglier as they carry on their conversation, either oblivious or too callous to care that I’m being tagged in everything they say.
She hasn’t even made a statement. I think she has like Asperger’s or something.
Yeah, have you seen pictures of her? It’s like emotion doesn’t register.
And then ‘Deep State’ Tom chimes in with his gem of wisdom: Asperger’s is the modern-day pussy’s excuse for what we called back in my day being a cold bitch.
I’m not cold.
And, of course, others are worried about my father’s unfinished projects: Who’s finishing the Sun Hunter trilogy with de Haas gone now?
I feel like I should say something. One tweet or whatever, even though I don’t think it’s important for these people to hear me, but I feel compelled to remind them that a human is here, and I…
I shake my head, closing my eyes again.
I don’t want them to think I didn’t love my parents.
Even though I’m not sure I did.
I swallow and start typing out a tweet.
Thank you for all the support, everyone, as I…
As I what? Mourn their loss? I stop, my fingers hovering over the letters before I backspace and delete what I wrote.
I try again. Thank you for the thoughts and prayers during this difficult…
Nope. Delete. Everything I write feels insincere. I’m not emotional, especially publicly.
I wish I could express myself. I wish this were easier. I wish I was different and…
I wish… I type.
But nothing comes.
I hesitate a moment, the urge to speak there but not the courage, and I discard the draft, closing out the app.
Pressing my thumb to the Twitter icon, I drag it to the trash and do the same with my Facebook, Instagram, Snapchat, and email. Going into the app store, I uninstall each one, cutting myself off. I want to speak, but I’m not ready to deal with the response to whatever I say, so I take away the torture. The accounts still exist, just not my immediate access to them.<
br />
Plugging my phone back into the charger and far away from my person, I spend the next hour unpacking my suitcases and re-arranging the room, despite myself. I never actually decided I would stay, but I know I’m not leaving today, and I need something to do that keeps me away from them.
Underthings in the top drawer, then night clothes, workout clothes, and T-shirts. I hang up everything else—jackets, blouses, shirts, pants, jeans… Left to right, dark to light.
I arrange all of my shoes on the floor of the closet, knowing my heels won’t see the light of day here, but I expected as much. No one to dress for sounds fine to me.
I stick the few magazines and books I’d brought on the empty built-in bookshelf and set my make-up cases, hair dryer, and irons neatly next to the desk and then walk my shampoo and conditioner into the bathroom. I set my soaps on the edge of the tub before pulling out my toothbrush and swiping some toothpaste across the bristles.
Finishing my teeth, I secure my toothbrush back inside its travel tube and take that and my toothpaste back into my bedroom, setting them both on the bedside table. I always kept my toothbrush in my bathroom back home, but only because I was the only one to use the bathroom.
But men are gross. They leave the toilet seat up, and according to a study I once read, fecal matter sprays into the air when toilets flush. The bacteria can get on everything. No, thank you.
I brush out my hair, pull it up into a ponytail, and then look around the neat bedroom for something. Anything.
I don’t want to leave the room, and I might be repacking tomorrow, but if nothing else, at least I didn’t think about my parents while I was unpacking. Or while I was mad at Jake earlier.
Blowing out a breath, I walk out of the room, closing the door behind me, and head downstairs. A drill whirs from the shop, and I hear a pounding in the front of the house, so I head outside, knowing I don’t know shit about building motorcycles.
Jake stands off to my left, planting his arm against the house and hammering a piece of siding.
“Can I help?” I ask reluctantly.
But I don’t look him in the eye.
He stops hammering, and out of the corner of my eye I see him look over at me.
“Come and hold this,” he instructs.
I step down off the porch.
Treading through the grass, I approach his side and fit my hands next to his, taking over holding the board for him. He points a nail at the board and pounds that one in before adding two more.
He reaches down to pick up another piece of wood, and I follow his lead, helping him, but then I catch sight of something on his waist. His T-shirt is tucked back into his back pocket again, and I try to make out the tattoo.
My Mexico. It’s in dark blue script, an arch over his left hip, on the side of his torso, just above his jeans line.
I hold the next board for him as he puts a nail into the center, and then I spot another hammer in the nearby toolbox and take it out with a nail from the coffee can.
I place the point on the wood and Jake taps the space about an inch over from where I have it. “Right there,” he instructs and swipes his hand up, showing the line of nails on all the previous boards. “Follow the pattern.”
I nod, moving the nail. I tap, tap, tap, aware of his eyes on me.
“Here, like this,” he says and reaches toward me.
But I pull the hammer and nail away, seeing him immediately back off.
Putting it back in place, I hammer the nail into the house, accidently hitting the edge and bending the piece of metal. I clench my teeth and dig out the nail, replacing it with another and trying again.
He’s still staring at me.
“I won’t learn anything if you don’t give me a chance,” I tell him.
He moves, a hint of humor in his voice. “I didn’t say anything.”
We continue working in silence, both of us lifting board after board, pounding nail after nail. My pace quickens, and he watches me less and less, probably because I’m not slowing him down anymore, although this is a two-person job. Why wasn’t Noah helping him? He’s in the garage, but this would’ve moved a lot faster than trying to do it alone.
Noah’s words from this morning come back to me, and the meaning behind them finally hits me now, hours later.
They don’t get along, do they?
And I almost smile a little. I suddenly feel a slight measure of camaraderie with Noah.
Jake picks up a board, and I take my end, both of us fitting it right underneath the previous piece of siding, but as I slide my hand down its length for a better hold, something sharp digs into my skin, and I hiss.
I drop my end of the board and bring my hand up, seeing a long, thick piece of wood imbedded into my palm.
Wincing, I gently tug at the half still sticking out, increasing the force when it doesn’t budge. A sting shoots through my hand, and I need more light.
But before I can turn around to head into the house, Jake takes my hand and inspects the splinter.
I try to pull away. “I got it.”
But he ignores me.
Focusing on my hand, he presses down on my skin where the sliver is embedded, holding it in place before he snaps it in half, breaking off the slack.
I jerk, sucking in air between my teeth.
“Who taught you to shoot?” he asks, poking at the rest of the splinter. “I can’t imagine Hannes taking up any outdoor activity that didn’t include a yacht or a golf cart.”
I shoot my eyes up to his face. That’s two digs today.
Jake’s eyes flash to me for a moment like he’s waiting for me to say something. “You’re not sad at the mention of him.”
It’s an observation, not a question.
My shoulders tense, a little self-conscious, because I know what he expects.
I’m not acting right, and he’s noticed.
I look away, hearing the faint, high-pitched sounds of motorcycle engines growing closer. “I don’t want to talk about my father.”
“Yeah, me neither.”
He digs his thumb under the splinter, trying to push it up and out, and I try to yank my hand away. “Stop that.”
But he tightens his hold and pulls my hand back to him. “Stop moving.”
While he keeps working the splinter, trying to push it out, I hear the buzz of engines grow louder and spot a team of dirt bikes speeding up the gravel driveway. About five guys crowd the area behind my uncle’s truck and pull to a stop, pulling off helmets and chuckling to each other. They’re all dressed in colorful attire, looking very Motocross. Or Supercross or whatever it is they do here.
Noah trots out of the shop and approaches one of the guys. “Hey, man.”
They shake hands, and he continues wiping the grease off his fingers as he walks around the bikes, taking a look at what the guys are driving.
“Hey, how’s it going?” he greets another. “Did you run today?”
They talk, and Jake tightens his hold on my hand before spinning around and pulling me after him into the shop.
Heading over to a workbench, he flips on a lamp and holds my palm under it to get a better view.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
“What?”
I turn my eyes on him.
“The taunt about your dad,” he explains, still inspecting my splinter. “I’m a prick. I’m sure I screwed up my own kids ten different ways to Sunday, so I have no room to talk.”
I turn my head, seeing Noah make the rounds to his friends, one of them still straddling his bike and lighting a cigarette. He peers over at me.
“You’re different than I thought you’d be,” Jake says softly.
I look back to him.
“Complicated,” he explains. “Tough to read. And even if I could read you, I’m not sure I can be a comfort to you.” He gives a weak smirk. “I’m not upset by their deaths, Tiernan, but I am sorry you are.”
I turn my eyes away again, toward the guys outside. “I’m not upset
.”
The guy in Noah’s group of friends with the frat boy haircut and crystal eyes is still staring at me, a mischievous smile playing on his lips as he smokes. Is that Kaleb?
I feel Jake’s eyes on me, too.
“I don’t want to talk about my father,” I state again before he has the chance to keep going.
But pain slices though my hand like a spider bite, and I hiss, meeting his eyes again.
What the hell? That hurt!
But as I glare up at him, the splinter is forgotten, and I stop breathing for a moment.
Warmth spreads up my neck as his gaze hovers down on mine, hard and angry, but… kind of puzzled, too. Like he’s trying to figure me out.
His eyes aren’t blue. I thought they were. Like Noah’s. They’re green. Like summer grass.
A breeze blows through the open doors of the shop, the chatter and laughter outside miles away as a wisp of my hair, loose from the ponytail, blows across my lips.
His eyes drop to my mouth, and I stop breathing, everything getting warm.
A trickle of sweat glides down his neck, and the hair on my arms stands on end, aware of his naked chest.
We’re too close.
I…
I swallow, my mouth sandy and dry.
He finally blinks a few times, and then he brings the palm of my hand up to his lips, the warmth of his mouth trying to suck the wood from my hand.
My mouth falls open a little as his teeth gnaw and tease the splinter, and my skin is sucked and tickled.
My fingertips graze the scruff on his cheek.
I can do that. I don’t need your help.
But I can’t manage to say it out loud.
“Oh, shit,” I hear someone say outside.
Pulling my attention away from my uncle, I look outside to see Noah checking out someone’s bike.
The magazine cover turns his eyes on me again. “Who’s that?” he asks Noah.
Noah follows his gaze and sees me but ignores him.
Credence Page 6