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Plugging my phone back into the charger and far away from my person, I spend the next hour unpacking my suitcases and re-arranging the room, despite myself. I never actually decided I would stay, but I know I’m not leaving today, and I need something to do that keeps me away from them.
Underthings in the top drawer, then night clothes, workout clothes, and T-shirts. I hang up everything else—jackets, blouses, shirts, pants, jeans… Left to right, dark to light.
I arrange all of my shoes on the floor of the closet, knowing my heels won’t see the light of day here, but I expected as much. No one to dress for sounds fine to me.
I stick the few magazines and books I’d brought on the empty built-in bookshelf and set my make-up cases, hair dryer, and irons neatly next to the desk and then walk my shampoo and conditioner into the bathroom. I set my soaps on the edge of the tub before pulling out my toothbrush and swiping some toothpaste across the bristles.
Finishing my teeth, I secure my toothbrush back inside its travel tube and take that and my toothpaste back into my bedroom, setting them both on the bedside table. I always kept my toothbrush in my bathroom back home, but only because I was the only one to use the bathroom.
But men are gross. They leave the toilet seat up, and according to a study I once read, fecal matter sprays into the air when toilets flush. The bacteria can get on everything. No, thank you.
I brush out my hair, pull it up into a ponytail, and then look around the neat bedroom for something. Anything.
I don’t want to leave the room, and I might be repacking tomorrow, but if nothing else, at least I didn’t think about my parents while I was unpacking. Or while I was mad at Jake earlier.
Blowing out a breath, I walk out of the room, closing the door behind me, and head downstairs. A drill whirs from the shop, and I hear a pounding in the front of the house, so I head outside, knowing I don’t know shit about building motorcycles.
Jake stands off to my left, planting his arm against the house and hammering a piece of siding.
“Can I help?” I ask reluctantly.
But I don’t look him in the eye.
He stops hammering, and out of the corner of my eye I see him look over at me.
“Come and hold this,” he instructs.
I step down off the porch.
Treading through the grass, I approach his side and fit my hands next to his, taking over holding the board for him. He points a nail at the board and pounds that one in before adding two more.
He reaches down to pick up another piece of wood, and I follow his lead, helping him, but then I catch sight of something on his waist. His T-shirt is tucked back into his back pocket again, and I try to make out the tattoo.
My Mexico. It’s in dark blue script, an arch over his left hip, on the side of his torso, just above his jeans line.
I hold the next board for him as he puts a nail into the center, and then I spot another hammer in the nearby toolbox and take it out with a nail from the coffee can.
I place the point on the wood and Jake taps the space about an inch over from where I have it. “Right there,” he instructs and swipes his hand up, showing the line of nails on all the previous boards. “Follow the pattern.”
I nod, moving the nail. I tap, tap, tap, aware of his eyes on me.
“Here, like this,” he says and reaches toward me.
But I pull the hammer and nail away, seeing him immediately back off.
Putting it back in place, I hammer the nail into the house, accidently hitting the edge and bending the piece of metal. I clench my teeth and dig out the nail, replacing it with another and trying again.
He’s still staring at me.
“I won’t learn anything if you don’t give me a chance,” I tell him.
He moves, a hint of humor in his voice. “I didn’t say anything.”
We continue working in silence, both of us lifting board after board, pounding nail after nail. My pace quickens, and he watches me less and less, probably because I’m not slowing him down anymore, although this is a two-person job. Why wasn’t Noah helping him? He’s in the garage, but this would’ve moved a lot faster than trying to do it alone.
Noah’s words from this morning come back to me, and the meaning behind them finally hits me now, hours later.
They don’t get along, do they?
