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“Everyone knows my brother plays football for Ohio State. It’s not hard to recognize him since he’s the QB1.
I never got to see him play college ball after everything with Zack happened. I watched him play once at a college bar. It was a twenty-one and older joint, and they kicked me out when I admitted I didn’t have an ID. I don’t have a TV in the trailer or a subscription on my phone to watch him play, so I rely on the stats I find online.
“Yeah, that's my brother.”
Relief washes over his features, followed by a hint of surprise. “Oh, is everything okay?”
I return the propane key to its hook. “He likes to check on me,” I explain, hoping he changes the subject.
I have a hard time trusting people.
Ariel stares at me for a second too long. I always try to avoid his gaze. I don’t want him to think I’m interested in him when instead I’m counting the pimples on his face. I’m not judging him for it. It’s a fucked-up thing to do. He is kind of cute. He tries to hide the emo look when he’s at work. He would look better if he would take care of his acne.
All the dust and dirt working in the hardware store doesn’t help the cause, but I can’t help it when he’s talking directly at me. I count the red dots. At least they aren’t infected, full of puss, or anything. I think he’s self-conscious about it with the way he averts his eyes when someone stares straight at him.
The echoes of past words and actions cast a heavy burden of insecurity. It's a shared affliction, I believe, gripping most of us in its suffocating embrace. Yet the roots of insecurity vary, with each person carrying their own unique burdens hidden behind veils of silence. We all bear different scars, silent testimonies to the battles we've fought, the wounds we've endured, and the fears we dare not voice aloud.
I don’t like looking at myself in the mirror.
Ariel doesn’t like the acne on his face and how people might think it’s gross.
“You like working here so far, right?” he says, pushing his hands into the front pockets of his jeans.
“Of course.”
“If a customer gives you a hard time or anything, you can call me. I’ll come right over,” he says.
He’s trying to be nice, Melody. Give him a break. This is work.
I smile politely. “Thank you, Ariel.”
He smiles. “Anything you need"—he points his thumb to his chest—"I'm your guy,” he says, with red blotches appearing over his cheeks on the last part.
After my shift ends, Ariel stands at the door while I walk to my car, taking longer than necessary to lock up. Or maybe it’s all in my mind, and I’m being paranoid.
I head to the trailer three miles down the road. It’s dark, with the silvery glow of the moon peering through the dense canopy of trees. I pull into the rocky driveway and spot Adam’s truck.
I pull up beside him, get out, and open the door to the trailer, not bothering to wait for him to get out. I don’t want to hear more about my living situation. I want to know what he meant when he said I had school tomorrow.
I place the keys on the peeled-off Formica top. I left the door to the trailer open behind me. Adam takes two steps and ducks inside.
He looks funny inside the small trailer. My brother is six-two and wide compared to my five-foot-one small frame.
I place my hand over my mouth to stifle a laugh. “Oh, you think this is funny,” he says with a smile.
“I would love to see you try to get in the bathroom.”
“I’ll pass. You would probably have to call the fire department to get me out.” He looks around. “This thing is a hazard to humans.”
“It’s been fine so far.”
He snorts and bumps into the ceiling when he tries to run his fingers through his hair.
It isn’t ideal, but no one knows where I am except for Adam and Mr. Colby. It isn’t pretty to look at, but it’s my hidden oasis. A place where I can lick my wounds in private.
He clears his throat. “I pulled some strings and got you back in school.”
I sit on my sleeping bag. “You got me back in all my classes?”
