Reclaimed

by Sarah Guillory

Kyle loped up, his girlfriend trotting alongside. “New Guy!” he hollered. He was already drunk. I wondered if he even knew my name.

  “Drunk Guy!” I hollered back.

  Kyle laughed and slammed a large hand on my shoulder. “Where’s Oliver?” he asked. His girlfriend scowled.

  I shrugged, though I was pretty sure I’d seen her helping one of the girls who’d already had too much to drink. Jenna seemed to make taking care of people her responsibility.

  A scrawny boy walked up and tossed Kyle some tubing. “You’re up.” The circle moved around Kyle.

  I stood just outside it. I was used to being new, but this was different. They had a familiarity with each other that resembled family rather than friends, like cousins at a reunion. Most of these kids had been hanging together since kindergarten, and I couldn’t even begin to imagine all the memories they shared. It made me miss mine even more.

  The air was heavy and humid, and the fire just made it hotter. The flames glowed brighter and brighter until my eyes hurt. Pain blossomed in the center of my forehead, a pinprick of agony that grew until the edges of my vision went dark.

  Luke hooked the tube to a funnel. I blinked. It wasn’t possible—Luke wasn’t here. I closed my eyes, then opened them, the light stinging. Kyle was hooking the tube to the funnel. Of course. But there was an overwhelming sense of déjà vu, like I’d lived this life before. Like I’d failed the first test and was having to retake it.

  Beer spilled down the front of Kyle’s shirt, and Steven turned to say something, except I was hollow, and his words went straight through me. A blonde girl stood underneath the tree where the keg sat, but she wasn’t watching Kyle like everyone else was. She was watching me. She didn’t smile or scowl or move at all. Her feet were bare. She kept staring at me, and I knew I was supposed to know her. But I didn’t. She held something in her hand, and I had the craziest idea that it was for me, that if I could just reach out and take it, I would know her.

  And then the feeling was gone. Steven shouted again, and night sped back up, filling with sounds and those damn bright lights. When I looked back at the tree, the girl was gone, taking whatever she had with her.

  “You okay?” Jenna walked up behind me.

  “Of course.” It was almost the truth. I did feel better being near her. I could pretend that my life was normal, that my family wasn’t falling apart. I wanted to say something witty and intelligent. Instead, I just stood there.

  Jenna looked at Kyle with disgust. “Let’s get out of here.”

  I would have followed her anywhere.

  JENNA

  We wandered away from the party, leaving behind the noise and ritual, finding silence and stars on the other side of the island.

  “Crunchy or creamy?” Ian asked.

  I laughed. “What kind of question is that?”

  “I can tell everything about a person based on their choice of peanut butter,” he said.

  “Well, in that case,” I said, “both.” Ian tried to argue, but I interrupted him. “I’m sorry, but you can’t expect me to pick between the two. They each have their own distinct roles. Now analyze me.”

  “You didn’t answer fairly. Another question,” he argued.

  “Fine.”

  “Vanilla or chocolate?”

  “Vanilla. Why do all of your questions have only two answers? There’s more to life than either/or,” I insisted. At least, I was hoping there was. I didn’t want two roads. I wanted an interchange with endless possibilities.

  “You’re very hard to please,” he said. “Okay. Let me think.”

  A line of trees rose tall and dark in the center of the island, and cicadas interrupted the quiet.

  “One thing you really want to do before you die,” Ian finally said.

  “That’s not a peanut butter question.” I reached up and pulled my hair off the back of my neck, tying it into a knot. The air was sticky, with barely any breeze to stir it. I wasn’t sure how to answer his question. There was so much I wanted to do before I died. Hell, there were a million things I wanted to do before I was thirty.

  “Right now, I’d say swimming in Switzerland,” I told him. I walked to the edge of the water, taking off my shoes and letting the lake lap over my toes. “But I guess I’ll have to settle for tepid lake water for now.”

  Ian stepped closer and blew lightly on the back of my neck. Chills immediately erupted across my damp skin. “Better?” he asked.

  “Um, yeah,” I said, clearing my throat. “Thanks.” I waded in past my ankles.

  “So what’s one thing you want to do before you die?” I asked him. It wasn’t fair that I was the one getting grilled. Nor was it fair that he could make my brain misfire like that. I was having a hard time focusing.

  “Graduate high school. Go to college. Become immortal.”

  I laughed. “How are you going to do that?”

  Ian walked closer and stood right behind me. “By building something that stands forever.”

  His words were pronouncements, and I could hear the conviction in his voice. He was going to do exactly what he said. I wanted that kind of certainty in my life.

  I didn’t want to speak my dreams out loud. Putting weight to my words might destroy their magic. I was such a coward. As much as I wanted to see the world and recreate it on the page, I was even more afraid of failure. I was terrified I wasn’t good enough to do all that I dreamed of doing. I couldn’t be sure I was strong enough to deal with the kind of disappointment that came from watching everything I ever wanted sail out of my reach. Having an audience for that would make it worse.

  I turned to look at Ian. It was hard to see him in the dark. He was a shadow, a line here, an angle there. He reached up and ran a finger along my cheek, and I shivered despite the heat. He leaned down, stopping just before his lips touched mine. Was he trying to kill me? I didn’t move, not even to breathe.

  “Do you think it would be okay if I kissed you?” he whispered. His breath tickled my face.

  I didn’t bother answering with words.

  TEN

  LUKE

  Mondays were my worst days. In the past, I’d nursed hangovers and struggled to recall all the trouble I’d gotten into, and out of, over the weekend. And while I didn’t have a hangover, I was going to spend this Monday trying to atone for my sins.

  I measured the kitchen wall again just to make sure, then rechecked the numbers I’d written down. They had to be exact—there was no room for screwing up in building. Even a quarter of an inch difference could throw everything horribly out of whack. I stuck the tip of the pencil underneath my hat, clipped the tape onto the waistband of my shorts, and grabbed my drawings. Rough sketches, actually. I wasn’t really artistic, but I was pretty good with lines and angles, and I could draft out the picture in my head. I took everything out back.

  The shop was a little eerie, like someone had walked away to answer the phone and never come back. There were piles of rusted junk in the corners, but there were also fishing poles propped against the back wall and jars of nails and screws organized by size. An old hat sat on a bench, its bill thick with dust. I also found some decent tools; once I’d cleaned the rust off, they worked pretty well.

  I was thrilled the day we’d moved in and I’d found the workshop. Being on house arrest sounded like certain death, but the tools promised an outlet for my energy. I’d always been good with my hands, and Uncle Danny had taught me how to build cabinets. I’d never done a job this big by myself before. But I didn’t have a choice—I’d put holes in the existing kitchen cabinets. Guilt was a great motivator.

  Working in the shop was relaxing. I had to focus on what I was doing so that I didn’t screw up by cutting the boards the wrong length or taking off my thumb. When I was building, everything else became background noise. I didn’t have to worry about my parents or probation. I didn’t have to think about the girl in the thrift store, the one I couldn’t stop thinking about, the one I shouldn’t have been thinking about.
She’d already met Ian, which put me at a severe disadvantage. Besides, I was supposed to be hiding out and pretending I didn’t exist. So if I didn’t have to think about all of this, why was I? I just needed to focus on one thing and get it right. That I could do.

  I began building the boxes for the cabinets. Nothing fancy, just a frame for the shelves and around the dishwasher. Another one to go around the stove. There wasn’t all that much room. I was going to have to install some of the boxes before I built the others. Systematic steps. Order always made me feel better. More in control.

  Which was ironic, since most people who thought they knew me would disagree if I told them I liked order. Chaos usually reigned in my world, but that wasn’t the way I wanted it. I didn’t know why I kept making choices I knew were bad, as if I had no choice at all. Maybe there was something fundamentally wrong with me. Like Ian got all the good genes, and I got the junk left over. We’d been so similar when we were young, but at some point I quit being able to keep up. I was always just behind him, in grades and sports and my dad’s eyes, and while what I was accomplishing was pretty good on its own, when compared to Ian’s achievements, it looked like moldy leftovers. So I quit trying to compete. I found my own sport, one I excelled in—deviance. And sometimes it just felt really good to piss off my dad. But sometimes even that fell flat. And it didn’t take some catastrophe to make me realize my mistakes. I’d known them all along. But I was only just paying for them.

  I laid out my tools like a surgeon, setting my nail gun, wood glue, and drawings in a neat row on the shelf. I fastened the nail pouch around my waist and began sweating out my frustration. Just me and the work. I focused on what I was doing, soon finding a rhythm, cutting boards, fitting them together, driving the nails. I measured. Adjusted. Created. It was better than destroying, and my mind found that quiet place of contentment.

  And then she was there.

  JENNA

  I was on my way home from work Monday afternoon when the Bronco just steered its way over to Ian’s house. I wanted to turn around; I tried to focus on Ian’s strange behavior and my plans, which didn’t include him, but all I could think about was how easy it was to forget everything else when he smiled.

  I parked in front of the house, but I didn’t see his truck. I was starting to climb the steps to the porch when I heard hammering from around the back, in the direction of the shop.

  I stopped in the middle of the yard, not sure if I wanted to go in. I’d spent many afternoons watching Pops fix things in his shop. I’d smashed my finger with his hammer after he’d told me not to touch it. I’d found his stash of whiskey and kept it a secret, even from Mops. When Pops died, we’d simply shut the shop doors and left everything the way he had. It would be strange seeing Ian using his tools, but I wouldn’t be like Mom, afraid to move on.

  Both doors were propped open. Ian had his shirt off, his back to me. His shoulders were broad, and the muscles in his back moved as he cut a piece of wood. He couldn’t hear me over the whine of the blade and the roar of the fan. I watched him fit the pieces together, eye them, then pull the trigger on the nail gun. He eyed the wood again and nodded that it was right. He was graceful and fluid, skin on muscle on bone, his movements a dance. He was talented, and it wasn’t odd at all, seeing how easily Pops’s shop fit around him; he belonged there.

  Ian turned to grab another board and saw me. He froze and I blushed. I couldn’t help it—he’d caught me staring. The fact that he looked so amazing without a shirt made me blush even harder, as if he could read my mind.

  He wiped his hands and face with a towel, but didn’t say anything, just gave me a mysterious smile. What was that all about?

  “I was headed home from work and thought I’d stop by,” I told him. “But you look busy.”

  “No, it’s okay. I could use a break.”

  I followed him to the back porch. He leaned against the railing and took a deep drink from a water jug. I tried not to stare at his chest, which was nice and defined, or his abs. His shorts were slung low on his hips, revealing a long pink scar on his right side that I hadn’t noticed at the lake. I sat on the top step and tried looking back at his face.

  He smiled wickedly at me. “Ian’s not here.”

  I decided to play along. “Do you know when he might be back?”

  Ian shrugged. “I have no idea. Not for a while, I hope. He might get angry if he thought I was trying to seduce his girlfriend.”

  I didn’t have a response to that. I wasn’t sure which part I was supposed to be concerned about—the seducing, or the fact he’d called me his girlfriend. I didn’t know what to do with either.

  He must have seen how uncomfortable I was. “Sorry.” He raked a hand through his hair. “He’s really not here.” He did look serious. “Ah,” Ian said, his face changing to understanding. “He hasn’t mentioned me, has he?”

  I had absolutely no idea what he was talking about.

  “I’m Luke,” he said. “Ian’s brother. Twin brother, obviously.”

  Obviously. And I was staring. With my mouth open a little. “Sorry,” I mumbled. I shut my mouth with a snap. There were two of them?

  “No problem,” Luke said. “It happens all the time.”

  There were two of them. “I’m Jenna. But I…why wouldn’t Ian…” I still couldn’t make any sense of this. The fact that Ian had a brother he’d never mentioned was kind of hard to take in.

  Luke’s face darkened. “We aren’t exactly getting along right now. He blames me for the move.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s my fault. Ian is perfect. I’m the outlaw. You picked the right brother.” Despite his crooked smile, Luke’s voice was black.

  “I didn’t pick anybody.” I wasn’t sure why I was protesting.

  He raised his eyebrows. “Oh? Still browsing? Maybe you’d like to try me on for size.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “You know, you could get dressed,” I said. His skin was making me uncomfortable.

  His smirk was pure arrogance. “Am I bothering you?” His tone suggested that was exactly what he hoped he was doing.

  “No, it’s just rude.”

  “Yeah, well, my brother got the manners. I got the looks.”

  “That’s really too bad,” I told him. “Seems like you got the short end of that stick.”

  “There’s nothing short about my—sorry.” He looked abashed. “Reflex.”

  “So how do people tell you two apart?” I asked, trying to change the subject. They couldn’t. I hadn’t. Right then I was having a hard time believing that Ian wasn’t playing some elaborate joke on me. They were beyond identical.

  “Easy,” Luke said. “I’m the one with all the girls following me.”

  “It doesn’t seem so in this case.”

  His grin was appreciative. “Touché. But you were not aware of my existence until ten minutes ago. Now that you’ve met me, you won’t be able to think of anything else.”

  “I’m sure I’ll manage.” Although I did find myself staring at his abs. It wouldn’t have killed him to put on a shirt.

  I jerked my chin in the direction of the shop, giving my eyes something else to do. “What are you working on?”

  His grin made his arrogance fall away, unmasking a big kid. “Wanna see?”

  “Sure.”

  I followed him into the shop. Almost everything was exactly where Pops had left it—even one of his hats. There were several piles of old wood on the floor, along with scraps and wood shavings. An outline of a box was sitting on the worktable.

  “What kind of wood is that?” I asked. It was full of nails and covered in old paint, chipped and peeling in places.

  “Old cypress. Some people call it reclaimed cypress. It’s just really old wood that’s worth a lot. It looks way better when it’s all cleaned up.”

  “Why would you use old wood?”

  “Because it’s pretty—and rare. It’s not like they’re making more of it. Imagine where this stuff has
been. What it saw. Once I get all the nails out and plane it down, it’ll look really good. And it’s worth more because of the nail holes and everything. I like taking something that’s all beaten up and making it better.”

  “Like redemption,” I said.

  Luke looked at me then, really looked at me, his eyes intense. “Exactly.”

  I broke his gaze, which made me feel like I was standing naked in church, by walking around and looking at all the memories piled in the back corner. The fishing poles and tackle box were as familiar to me as the Bronco. Pops used to take me fishing in the little pond down the hill. We threw most of the fish back, but every once in a while we’d keep the big ones and fry them up right there by the pond. Sometimes, Mops and Mom would come too, and we’d have fried potatoes and hush puppies. On those long afternoons, no one was drinking. On those days, we didn’t have to pretend everything was perfect.

  My little red wagon was propped in the corner, the bottom rusted out. Sometimes I had carted a stuffed animal or two, but usually I was wheeling around a frog or some lizards or, even once, a harmless grass snake. Mops had nearly fainted over that one. The rusted Coca-Cola sign was still there, as was the scar on my calf where it had sliced into me. I’d had to get a tetanus shot. There were so many other things, which, while I had no tale on them, probably had plenty of stories of their own.

  “I know, it’s a lot of junk,” said Luke. “I need to go through it and throw most of it out when I get a chance.”

  That comment, that people’s lives could be tossed aside so easily, made my heart hurt, even if we had left all of this stuff to rot. “It’s not junk,” I told him. “My grandpa owned this once, and it wouldn’t have been here if it hadn’t been important.”

  “Your grandfather?” he asked.

  “You didn’t know he used to live here? Your mom bought the house from my mom.”

  “Really?” He sounded interested—and surprised.

  “I guess Ian has been keeping us both a secret,” I said. “See that fishing pole back there?” I pointed to the one with the pink handle. “I’ve caught more fish with that pole than I can remember. And two snapping turtles. It’s not junk.”