by Ginger Scott
I lean back, sitting on my bumper, and consider how this might go. I want—no I need—to borrow a truck. And Cody’s the only person I know with one. I’m chewing on my fingernails when I hear the rumble of his engine and see his truck start to back out of the garage. I’m blatantly staring, still considering my approach, as he loops around the circle driveway and stops in front of me. I try to turn away and measure my trunk once more, hoping maybe he’ll ask what I’m doing and give me the opening I need, when I accidentally drop the tape measure under my car.
“You measuring that for a body?” he asks through his window, the growl of his motor slowing down as he idles next to me. I purse my lips in response.
“A desk, not a body,” I say, short again. Why am I so rude to him? “Of course, I’m not measuring anything now that I’ve dropped the tape under my car.”
I bend down and reach under the trunk to see if I can grab it, but in my flustered state, my arm rubs along the exhaust pipe. “Shit! Damn, shit, shit, shit!” I’m screaming, and my eyes are tearing up from the searing pain. I’m spinning around, holding my arm, but afraid to look at it, when suddenly I stop in Cody’s arms.
“Slow down!” he’s shouting at me. Why is he yelling? “Hold still, damn it. You’re burned; let me see it for a sec.”
It’s not his words that stop me, but rather his touch. I won’t admit it to him, but the pain—that seconds ago was killing me—is gone. All I can feel now is the grip of his hands along my arm and the beat of his heart near my shoulder. His breath is hot, his mouth close to my neck.
He’s tugging at my arm now, leading me, and I’m following as if I’m in a trance. He pushes me down on a folding chair in his garage, and finally lets go of my arm. The pain instantly starts to crawl back, and I’m now looking at the four-inch line of puffy redness and blistering along my forearm.
“Got it. Okay, now this is gonna hurt,” he says, kneeling in front of me and reaching for my arm, more gently this time. He looks up into my eyes, which are wide with worry and still in shock. “Charlie, I need you to do me a favor, okay? I’m going to fix this up for you. But I need to put some stuff on here that’s going to hurt like hell. I want you to focus on my face, though; don’t look at your arm, okay? Just look at me, and hold onto my shoulder with your other hand. You squeeze it as hard as you need to.”
“Don’t call me Charlie,” I say, my face flat and my tone direct. I can’t believe that’s what I say, but it is.
Cody sighs heavily, and looks down at my arm before looking back up to me. “Charlotte,” he sounds so pissed off as he says it, “just look here, and hold here, okay?”
I nod and turn my focus briefly to my other hand on his bare shoulder. He’s wearing a tank top, and his arms are covered in intricate patterns that seem to dive under his shirt and carry on to his chest and back. I’m trying to register everything, take the full picture in. There is one set of numbers, a date I think? Then I notice the name Jacob, followed by the words I promise. The words come in swirls and are surrounded by shaded figures that look sort of like angels. The picture is so beautiful, and so very sad. Realizing I’ve been staring at nothing but his arm, and digging my nails into his shoulder from the pain in my other arm, I dart my eyes back to his.
He’s still looking at me. I don’t think he ever stopped. I swallow hard, and I know he notices. Those damn blue eyes—they can’t lie.
He’s wrapping gauze around my arm, and I want to record everywhere he touches me so I can study it, memorize it, and know what our bodies look like together. For a moment, I’m lost in him.
“Now, why were you measuring your trunk?” he asks, ripping the final piece of tape for the gauze with his teeth, the noise bringing me back from somewhere I shouldn’t have been.
“Oh, it’s nothing. It’s stupid,” I say, suddenly shy and embarrassed, too ashamed to ask for his help now after I’ve forced him to become my own personal medic. He stands and drops the tape back into his toolbox, and I look down at my wrapped arm.
“Here, take two of these,” he says, holding a bottle of Ibuprofen out for me.” I grab the bottle and twist it open, dropping two pills in my hand. I look around for something to drink. I’ve never been good at swallowing pills. Mac would always let me chew them, and chase the foul taste with chocolate milk. I’ve learned to power through now as an adult. Cody must sense what I’m looking for, because he bends forward to reach into a small mini fridge and hands me a bottle of water.
“Thanks,” I say, holding the bottle up as if to say cheers! I fill my mouth with water, and drop the pills in and feel them float against my teeth. I swallow once, but they don’t go down. I drink more water, and they still swirl in my mouth, dissolving but not following the water down. I’m guzzling now, mortified that Cody is seeing this, and finally feel the pills rush down my throat. I put the cap on, and hand it back to him. He’s just shaking his head and staring in disbelief.
“Do you…not know how to take medicine?” he laughs, holding his hand up to the side of his face.
“I have a fear of choking,” I say, seriously. I do—I cut my steak into the tiniest of bites. “Don’t laugh. It’s not funny.”
The more I protest and beg, the more Cody fights his laughter, until finally he’s cackling out loud, and the sound of him is echoing throughout the garage. Done with being a joke, I stand up and walk quickly back out to the driveway. “Thanks for the help,” I say sarcastically, over my shoulder.
I’m almost back to my car when Cody catches up to me. “Charlie, come on. I didn’t mean anything by it,” he says, his voice sounds genuine. His hand touches my shoulder, and I’m instantly apt to forgive. I don’t even comment on my name this time, I’m too wrapped up in his chase.
“It’s okay, I get it. It’s funny,” I say, shrugging as I look at him. “I just never learned, really. My dad…” I pause bringing up Mac. I don’t talk about him much with anyone, yet, strangely, I can’t wait to share bits and pieces of him with Cody. “My dad was a single dad. He didn’t really know what he was doing with the whole parenting thing. I mean…don’t get me wrong…he was amazing. He just didn’t really go the typical route, and there’s a lot I never learned.”
Cody’s silence makes me feel foolish and uncomfortable. I apologize again and turn to kneel behind my car to see how far the tape measure rolled. It’s in the center, so I’m better off pulling forward. I’m about to stand and reach for my keys when I see Cody’s back, his body low to the ground and his chest dragging along the concrete as he reaches under for my tape.
“Here,” he says, handing it to me as he brushes the dirt from his front. “Now, seriously, why are you measuring your trunk?”
“I need to get my desk,” I say. I’m beyond asking for help at this point, and Cody’s earned my blunt honesty. “It won’t fit.”
I look directly at his truck, still rumbling behind him, and then back into his eyes.
“Come on, where’s this desk?” he says, urging me to hop in on the passenger side as he rounds the front and gets in the driver’s seat.
My smile is huge. I don’t know what I’m smiling for—my desk coming home, or the fact that I’m now in Cody’s truck. My mind is screaming Trevor!—but I keep pushing that away, convincing myself I’m being innocent. And I am.
The storage facility isn’t far, which is good, as our ride is mostly silent. I hand Cody the key card, and he scans it at the front gate. We drive to the back row of storage lockers until we get to mine. It’s not very large, but it is air-conditioned.
It takes me a while to remember exactly what key is right—I still have my keys to Mac’s house along with our old mailbox key on my ring. I finally turn the latch and roll the door up. My desk is up front, thankfully, and since we just moved my items in a few short weeks ago, nothing’s had a chance to get too dusty. I slide my hand along the top of the wood, and instantly, I feel home.
“You’re smiling,” Cody says, and I nod looking up at him and then back down at my d
esk. “You don’t do that much.”
His remark catches me off guard, but I do well masking it. Do I really not smile much? I’m generally happy. What a statement to make. I’m starting to build with anger over it when Cody’s hand brushes against mine slightly. He’s rubbing the wood, tracing the initials carved on top.
“It’s a beautiful piece. How long have you had it?” he smiles at me through his words.
“I’m not sure, really. Years, I guess?” I say, trying to remember when Mac moved it from his room to mine. “It was my dad’s. MJH.”
I’m staring at his initials, and watching Cody feel them with his hands—the carved letters almost looking like an extension of the artwork and scrolls of text on his skin. “MJH? What’s it stand for?” he asks.
“Maxwell Jacob Hudson, but we all called him Mac,” I say, a pinch stinging my eyes for the first time in months. I clear my throat a little, and turn to look away. But Cody doesn’t stop there.
“Your dad…he died?” he asks, still looking down at the initials.
“Yeah, he did,” I say, praying he’ll let it go, that he won’t push any further. He doesn’t, but I’m still surprised by what he says next.
“My dad’s name was Jacob. We all called him Jake,” he says, turning now so we’re face-to-face. I don’t know what to say to him, so I don’t speak at all. The silence is palpable, but it’s not uneasy. I don’t know what makes me do it, but I lean forward and brush my hand down Cody’s chest, stopping at his heart. I flash to his face when reality hits me, and I notice that he’s staring at my hand…flat on his chest. I’m about to pull it away when he places his hand over mine, and continues to stare at it for a few seconds. “Yeah, it still hurts,” he says, avoiding my eyes and taking in a deep, stuttered breath. I can tell he’s fighting tears.
We back away from each other suddenly and simultaneously. I can hear the sound of wood sliding along the floor, and I realize Cody is trying to lift the desk without me. I put my hands under the other end, and we nudge it forward until it’s outside the storage room. I slide the door shut again and turn to see Cody climbing into the back of his truck.
His movements are so laborious. Everything seems so hard, only one leg strong enough to carry his body weight, and barely at that. I want to ask about it, but I bite my tongue. I’ve been bold enough today.
We get the desk loaded in the back and tied down with some twine. We’re on our way back to the Appleton’s when I see Cody’s wallet sitting on the dashboard. Feeling curious, and admittedly a little flirtatious and playful, I reach for it and flip it open. “Hey, nice driver’s license picture,” I tease.
“Oh, hey man, that’s not cool. I help you with your desk, and you snag my DMV photo? That’s dirty, Charlie,” he says, and I wince at my name. I let it go. Things are going well, and for some reason, I need them to.
After I take in his photo, which, truthfully, was not that bad, I start to read all of his details to him. “You’re a donor? Wow, how very chivalrous of you,” I say, honestly impressed, but still in my teasing mode.
“Yeah, yeah. I’m a giver. Come on, give it back,” he says, reaching over and grabbing my arm. I jerk away, but not before making a mental snapshot of our latest touch.
“You weigh 170? Hmmmm, I’m not seeing it,” I tease, and he just rolls his eyes before moving his arm to the side and flexing a little for me. I feel tingles travel down my spine when he does. “Hair, brown? Yep, check. Eyes, blue? Yep, check. You’re 23? Hmmm, you seem so much younger,” I joke, but the truth is he seems so much older, like he’s lived—hard.
“Name, Cody Carmichael?” I stall after reading his name. “Carmichael?”
“Yeah, I sure as hell am not an Appleton,” he says, his voice suddenly irritated.
“No, I didn’t mean that. I just…it’s strange. I swear, I know your name,” I say, searching my mind for a reason, but also making a mental note of his disdain for the Appletons. Why would I know his name?
“X games,” he says, and I squint my eye and look at him sideways.
“What games?” I say, not quite following.
“X games, I was in the X games. For about three years,” he says, looking over at me to see if I’m following. I’m not. “I rode motocross. Freestyle. You know, the guys that flip and shit with their motorcycles in the air?”
Then it hits me. Mac loved that stuff—and that’s why I recognize his name. “That’s it!” I slap at his shoulder as I shout, and he jolts in his seat with surprise. “My dad—he loved watching you! I remember your name. You were good.”
I don’t really remember if he was good or not, but the fact that I recognize his name must mean something. He’s smiling now, and I realize then that he doesn’t smile much either. I decide not to tell him though, because I didn’t like how it made me feel when he said the same thing to me.
“Thanks, I was a’right,” he says, his face turning a little pink from my attention. “I was trying to become great, though. That’s how this happened,” he adds, slapping his hand along his thigh. I just bunch my brows and look at him, not understanding.
“I had a little bit of an accident. Sort of didn’t make a trick. Cut my leg to shit. Tendons. Everywhere. Almost lost it,” he says. My mind instantly visualizes him hurting, and I’m pained at the thought. I want to fix him. He’s always wearing jeans, so I don’t know what his injury looks like, but I’ve seen the limp. “I don’t rehab as much as I should, so that’s why I still use the chair sometimes. I get…tired.”
He becomes distant after that. I want to ask more questions—I always seem to when I’m with him—but I don’t. Instead, I make a mental list. Maybe I’ll have another day, another moment, like this.
We pull up to the driveway, and Cody backs in near the front door. He runs into the garage and comes out with a dolly, which he uses to help me haul the desk up to my room. He’s struggling at the stairs with the weight of the desk and his leg. I can tell he wants to do this on his own. I’m below him, pushing on the wheels to make them move a little easier, but I’m letting him believe it’s all his strength.
Once the desk is in my room, I busy myself immediately, putting my lamp in place and pulling out my boxes, paper, and drafting tools. I almost forget that Cody is in the room with me until I hear him chuckle at the door. He’s leaning against it, his frame filling it more than I thought it would—170 pounds seems reasonable now that I’m looking at the ridges of his muscles along his forearms and the tightness of his shirt around his chest.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to ignore you,” I say. “It’s just…I missed this desk.” I smile at it and move my hands along the dents one more time.
“Yeah, I can see why,” he says, stepping closer and touching it, too—almost lovingly. “It suits you.”
Somehow, I’ve come full circle with Cody again, my heart racing at his words. I instantly crave more conversation with him, but he’s out the door and down the hall the second I turn around. I finally collapse on my bed—the bed I share with Trevor, his brother, whom he hates. I slap my hand to my forehead and kick my shoes from my feet.
It’s time to call Aunt Caroline and take my penance for missing Mac’s ceremony last week. I might as well get all of my guilt over at once.
Chapter 4: Home Sweet Home
Caroline was more understanding than I had expected her to be when I told her I couldn’t make Mac’s ceremony. I was suspicious, but when I called her a week later, she still was willing to let me off the hook. I think she’s in one of her depressed phases—she’s always quieter and more forgiving then. And even though I was grateful that she wasn’t giving me a guilt trip this year, I was also worried—Caroline had a habit of spiraling downward when she got depressed. I made a mental note to call her again this weekend. But I wouldn’t visit—that was my line.
I had managed to busy myself enough with school and drafting over the last two weeks to make the time away from Trevor pass quickly. When he left, I had expected to feel sick with
loneliness, missing him. But I didn’t. I think, perhaps, that first week, I used Cody as a distraction. But I hadn’t seen Cody since he helped me move my desk in, and last night was the first time in a week I didn’t spy on his garage from my window before I went to sleep. It seems my little infatuation had run its course, and I was thankful.
I’m cutting up tomatoes and cucumbers at the counter, looking periodically out the large window, when I hear the front door fly open and the sounds of travel bags roll in. I wipe my hands on my apron and run to the door to greet Trevor, kissing him with two week’s worth of pent-up sexual frustration. He finally stops me, grabbing my arm, and holding it out to the side.
“Hey, maybe next time you can kiss me without the knife in your hand,” he jokes, looking at the giant butcher knife held firmly in my grip.
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry,” I say, turning and heading back to the kitchen. Trevor follows. “I heard you come in and got excited. Not trying to stab you, I swear.”
I drop the knife in the sink, and turn into Trevor’s ready arms. He picks up where we left off, the weapon now out of my reach. I’m pressed firmly against the sink, and he’s slid his hands up the front of my apron and under my blouse, when we hear someone clear their throat.
“Sorry, just needed to brew some coffee. Don’t really have a pot in the garage,” Cody says, looking over my shoulder and out the window. I’m mortified, and instantly tend to my disheveled hair and clothing. Trevor seems less embarrassed, more bothered.
“Maybe you should buy your own damn coffee maker,” Trevor says, his voice sounds a little harsh, and his gaze turns back to the hallway where his bags still rest. He looks back to me and gives me a chaste kiss, I think a little put off that we had to cut our moment short. “I’m going to take my things upstairs. Come on up when you’re done here, we’ve got a lot of time to make up for.”
Trevor bites at my neck and smacks my ass a little as he leaves. I watch as he stares at Cody while he walks out of the room. Cody doesn’t take his eyes from the window, though. I can tell he’s fighting against something. His jaw is tight and twitching. He doesn’t move until Trevor’s completely gone.