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And I almost smile a little. I suddenly feel a slight measure of camaraderie with Noah.
Jake picks up a board, and I take my end, both of us fitting it right underneath the previous piece of siding, but as I slide my hand down its length for a better hold, something sharp digs into my skin, and I hiss.
I drop my end of the board and bring my hand up, seeing a long, thick piece of wood imbedded into my palm.
Wincing, I gently tug at the half still sticking out, increasing the force when it doesn’t budge. A sting shoots through my hand, and I need more light.
But before I can turn around to head into the house, Jake takes my hand and inspects the splinter.
I try to pull away. “I got it.”
But he ignores me.
Focusing on my hand, he presses down on my skin where the sliver is embedded, holding it in place before he snaps it in half, breaking off the slack.
I jerk, sucking in air between my teeth.
“Who taught you to shoot?” he asks, poking at the rest of the splinter. “I can’t imagine Hannes taking up any outdoor activity that didn’t include a yacht or a golf cart.”
I shoot my eyes up to his face. That’s two digs today.
Jake’s eyes flash to me for a moment like he’s waiting for me to say something. “You’re not sad at the mention of him.”
It’s an observation, not a question.
My shoulders tense, a little self-conscious, because I know what he expects.
I’m not acting right, and he’s noticed.
I look away, hearing the faint, high-pitched sounds of motorcycle engines growing closer. “I don’t want to talk about my father.”
“Yeah, me neither.”
He digs his thumb under the splinter, trying to push it up and out, and I try to yank my hand away. “Stop that.”
But he tightens his hold and pulls my hand back to him. “Stop moving.”
While he keeps working the splinter, trying to push it out, I hear the buzz of engines grow louder and spot a team of dirt bikes speeding up the gravel driveway. About five guys crowd the area behind my uncle’s truck and pull to a stop, pulling off helmets and chuckling to each other. They’re all dressed in colorful attire, looking very Motocross. Or Supercross or whatever it is they do here.
Noah trots out of the shop and approaches one of the guys. “Hey, man.”
They shake hands, and he continues wiping the grease off his fingers as he walks around the bikes, taking a look at what the guys are driving.
“Hey, how’s it going?” he greets another. “Did you run today?”
They talk, and Jake tightens his hold on my hand before spinning around and pulling me after him into the shop.
Heading over to a workbench, he flips on a lamp and holds my palm under it to get a better view.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
“What?”
I turn my eyes on him.
“The taunt about your dad,” he explains, still inspecting my splinter. “I’m a prick. I’m sure I screwed up my own kids ten different ways to Sunday, so I have no room to talk.”
I turn my head, seeing Noah make the rounds to his friends, one of them still straddling his bike and lighting a cigarette. He peers over at me.
