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“I do, now can I finish my run?”
“I would just hate to see you get hurt by something out there.”
“I can take care of myself, Ryan, I promise,” I snapped.
“Well, okay then. Sorry for trying to care about you. Jesus, can any of us get a break? You know... this is why Luke thinks you don’t like him. You have to understand something, Emmy,” he said with a kind tone. “We’re a small community that takes care of our own, and since you live here now, you have become a part of it. It isn't about you not being able to do things; it's about not having to do it alone. Think about that next time someone offers you help.”
He offered a smile that I didn’t deserve and then took off running, catching up to Luke who was pretty far ahead of me in no time. I felt small and a little ashamed of myself. I had been fighting something that I didn't need to fight. I understood what he was saying, but I had always just done things for myself.
I finished my run, thinking about what Ryan had said. When I made it back to the house, I walked the long driveway trying to figure out a way to apologize to Ryan and Luke, but they weren’t there. Luke’s truck was gone, so I knew they had to be driving down one of the roads on the property. They would have passed me on the road had they headed for town, and Ryan wouldn't take his truck into the woods.
I grabbed a shower, put on a pair of pajama shorts and a t-shirt, made myself a bite to eat, and plopped on the loveseat. The sound of chainsaws echoed in the distance, and I wondered if they were practicing for the competitions Ryan and his grandmother had talked about. I wasn't exactly sure what the competitions were, but I knew a little about it based on a few conversations I’d had with Ryan.
Since I didn’t have any actual work that had to be done, I got comfortable and began reading the book I had tried to read the night before. A couple of hours in, Ryan and Luke returned. It sounded like they’d both left again in Ryan’s truck this time. I thought about trying to catch Ryan and apologize, but I decided to give it a little time and apologize later.
After a few more chapters of my book, I heard an unfamiliar truck coming down the driveway. A bigger truck. I jumped from my seat and ran to the door. The big orange logo let me know that my things were finally here. Since I didn’t want to answer the door in my PJs, I ran upstairs, pulled on a pair of jeans, and made it to the door just as the driver was about to knock.
“Miss Myers?”
“That's me.” I wanted to bounce up and down and clap, but I restrained myself.
“We can leave the truck here for two days to give you time to unload it. I can show you how to work the plank that should make things easier to unload. I'll back the trailer up as close as I can to the door.” He handed me a form, and I signed it, handing it back to him.
“Do you have someone to help you?”
“I can get most of it by myself.” He looked at me and then looked back at the truck.
“Okay, then.” He turned and walked back to the truck. I pulled my phone from my pocket and quickly called the closest moving company I’d researched before the move and was informed that the soonest they could provide a couple of guys to come out would be three days from now.
I hung up and glanced next door. I could ask and he and Ryan would probably help me, but I didn't want to. I watched as the driver turned the truck around and slowly backed up until he was less than a foot from my steps. He hopped out and placed blocks at the tires, pushed some buttons, and then disengaged the truck from the trailer.
“I’ll be back early on Thursday morning to pick up the trailer. Here’s our card. If you find you need help unloading anything, let us know, and we can arrange something for Thursday when we come back to pick up the truck. Have a nice day.”
“Thank you.” I took the card and considered that hiring them to unload my furniture might be my best option.
I cut the zip tie on the latch that I had placed before they left my apartment in Maine and pushed the door up. I extended the ramp and placed it on the porch so I could walk straight across. The truck wasn't even half full, and I was having a hard time getting the placer moved. I wiggled and shimmied it, but it wouldn't budge.
“Son of a...” I mumbled.
“You need some help?” I heard from behind me. I looked over my shoulder, and Luke was standing there with his hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans. His beard had been trimmed, and he had on a white button up shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows. I sucked in a breath, trying not to be obvious, but the man was beautiful.
“I—I can't get this loose,” I sighed.
He walked over to me. “Here, you have to push this in and then up.” He made easy work of the placer and moved it to the side. I saw my favorite lamp teeter and start to fall, but he turned and caught it before it c
rashed to the floor. He handed it to me, and I turned and walked down the ramp and took it in the house. I unhooked the spring from the door and let it drift back to the wall so I wouldn’t have to worry about the door shutting on me as I brought boxes in. When I looked up to start back to the truck, Luke had several boxes in his arms and was walking toward me.
“You don't have to help me,” I said as he looked around the boxes making sure he was on the ramp.
“I know that, but I'm here, and I’m going to help if you’ll let me,” he said, giving me a look that was both questioning and affirming.
“Well, thank you.” I smiled up at him.
He sat the boxes down and removed his button-up, revealing a white v-neck t-shirt beneath that pulled across his broad shoulders in all the right places. I forced myself to look away.
We worked for the next three hours, moving most of the stuff into the house. He must have sent a text to Ryan at some point because he came over and they moved all of my bedroom furniture upstairs and the larger pieces of furniture as well. It hadn't taken very long with the three of us working. A little less than four hours after we started, I was pulling the last of the stuff from a box in the kitchen while the guys put my sofa, the last of the furniture, against a wall in the living room.
I heard someone outside, pushing the ramp to the truck back in place, as I reached into my last kitchen box and pulled out the glass pitcher my grandmother had given me years ago. I was pushed up on my tiptoes, trying to push the pitcher onto the shelf above the stove when I felt the warmth of him behind me. Taking the pitcher, he set it on the shelf for me, pressing closer to me in the process. The closeness was alarming and settling all at once. When he stepped away, I turned to say thank you, and heat flushed through my cheeks.
