Kyle grunts.
There’s a click-click on the floor. I glance up and look away real fast. Miss Holly walks in wearing a skintight dress and towering heels, fluffing her hair, putting in earrings. I’ve never asked Kyle how old his mom is, but I’ve heard Cherry say she’s forty-four. I’m not sure if I’m into older women, but I’m into Kyle’s mom—not that I would ever, ever act on it.
“What are you boys doing?” she says, smiling brightly.
“Talking about how to make more money,” I say.
She grabs her purse from the table. “Why? Your grandma not doing well?”
I shake my head. “Cherry’s fine. I just fell short on my goal of four grand.”
Her brows lift ever so slightly. “Goodness, Jen, I didn’t know you’d had a birthday. Well, happy birthday. How short are you?”
“He’s about six-three,” says Kyle, not looking over.
“Shut up, honey,” says Miss Holly. “How much do you need to hit four grand?”
“About four hundred,” I say.
“Well, I got that job out in the backyard on the shed if you want it,” she says. “We had it put in for the gardening tools, but I’d like to renovate it, make it into a tiny house so we can rent it out.”
“I can do that,” I say, interested. “What’s it pay?”
“Probably like a week of work,” she says. “At a rush rate.”
I calculate. That’s almost a thousand dollars. Without thinking, I nod, turning to Kyle. “You want to do that with me and split it?”
Kyle jerks his head. “Sure, whatever.”
Overjoyed, I tell Cherry that night that I’m hitting my goals, albeit a little late. We toast with a splash of whiskey in the bottom of our coffee mugs. Then, I go to bed dreaming about finally having the freedom of four wheels. When I get up, it’s to a text from Kyle saying he isn't going to make it. He went up to Lexington last night and ended up taking on a construction job that pays double.
I’m pissed, but it’s fine. I won’t have to split with him that way.
I gather my shit and walk down the road to Holly’s house. The door to the shed is open. I go in and start taking measurements. I hear the back door open in the distance. Looking out, I see her standing on the back porch in a white bathrobe.
“I didn’t expect you so early,” she says. “You want some breakfast?”
I’ve spent so much time at her house the last two years, but for some reason, it feels weird today.
“I’m good,” I say. “I ate.”
“How about some coffee?” She cocks her head.
“Okay, that’s fine,” I call. “Just leave it on the porch.”
She gives me a strange look, brows furrowed. Then, she goes inside. For some reason, I feel guilty as I haul the table-saw out of the garage and get it set up. Maybe she was just being nice, like she usually is. After a while, I look on the back porch, and there’s a cup of coffee waiting for me.
I feel pretty bad about it. I think about it that evening and decide I’ll be nice tomorrow. But when tomorrow comes, she doesn’t offer me breakfast or coffee. Her car is gone when I get there, so I just start working on my own.
I break when the sun hits the middle of the sky. I sit in the shed with my back to the wall and open my cooler. Inside is the same meal I’ve been eating for lunch every day since I moved into Cherry’s trailer—bologna sandwich with Miracle Whip on white bread.
The floor creaks. I glance up and freeze. She’s standing there, looking like a million bucks in a tight shirt, her breasts overflowing like a badly poured beer, and high waisted jeans with flared legs. She smells like artificial cleanliness, lotion, soap, perfume. It’s nice, but as someone who sweats all day into the same dirty shirt, it’s jarring.
“How’s it going out here?” she asks.
I swallow my bite of sandwich. “Fine. Making good progress.”
“You can eat inside where it’s cool,” she says, turning on her heel and disappearing.
