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His hand tightens around the railing next to my leg. “I don’t need to be special and remembered for generations. I just want to be happy and make memories with the people I care about.” His ears are getting red in the cold, and he rubs them absently. “I wish I could run Dad’s business, both the shop work and the behind the scenes.”
“That would put your college degree to good use. What if you apprenticed at a mechanic shop for a while to get some experience? You were great with my car.”
He snorts. “Wow, I know where the dipstick is. I’m a prodigy.” When I just frown at him, he sighs. “I’d love to. But my parents always freaked out if I went into the tractor barn or visited the auto shop in town. It has to scar you, seeing your kid screaming with his arm torn to pieces and feeling like it’s your fault. They told me it’s not safe for someone with one arm to work with machines. They demanded I go to school and have abetter lifethan them, whatever the hell that means.”
“Have you never tried just talking to them? People can’t help you if you don’t communicate.”
“Let me know if you think of a good way to sayMom, Dad, I want to throw away years of higher education to fix tractors. Oh, and by the way, I’m bi. You don’t even know what that is. It’s part of the rainbow flag, but we don’t have those in Hollow Creek, Iowa.”
“Jonah,” I say gently, but when he looks up, it’s all masked behind a lazy smile. He offers his beer can in a toast.
“Cheers.”
Pulling a can out of the box, I tap it silently to his without opening it. He scrambles to his feet, making the whole fire escape shudder, and balances on the edge, looking up. “Here it comes.”
“Here what comes?” I ask, just as a snowflake lands on my sleeve. The light on the side of the building catches thick, white flakes dancing silently through its yellow beam. Jonah stretches out his stump and watches them gather and melt on his jacket.
“Does this mean we can go inside?”
Leaning over the railing, he slips his finger under the tab of my beer can and pops it open. “We have to drink while we watch the snow. I guarantee you my dad did this and thought about me.”
I groan as sticky beer bubbles over my fingers. “Only if you get off the edge.”
Frowning, he leans back over empty space, his fingers tightening on the rail. “Are you scared I’m gonna fall?”
“Yes. Especially after two beers.”
“I promise I won’t.”
Unimpressed, I look him up and down. “That means nothing.”
“You can’t fly until you climb high enough to fall. It feels good. You should try it.”
“I hate adrenaline and I hate adrenaline junkies even more.” I put my hand over his on the rail. “Be nice to me, please.”
“Alright, alright.” He scrambles over and stands next to me as we watch the snow collect on the lids of the garbage cans below us.
“Do you have somewhere to go tonight besides a park bench?” I ask. Snowflakes cling to each of Jonah’s short, dark hairs until he shakes his head to dislodge them. I can picture him sitting in a dusty screened-in porch, surrounded by broken furniture and paint cans and spiderwebs with a man who looks a little like him, but heavyset and weathered. They drink cheap beer and watch the snow pile up outside on the tractors and husks of dead corn, with owls huddled up in the barn. It fits, like it explains a lot about him, and yet it feels incredibly lonely. He’s so much bigger and brighter than a one stoplight town and parents who don’t understand him.
“I’m going to stay on Elliott’s couch until I sort out what’s next. Fuck.” He leans forward and rests his forehead on his folded arms. “I’m so sorry, Gray. I’d never hurt you on purpose. I truly wanted the internship to change my mind, then I got too far into the lie and I panicked.”
“You did hurt me,” I say.
He makes a pained sound in his throat, then straightens up and meets my eyes. “I—”
“Look. If you want to make it up to me, then be honest with people and get your life sorted out.”
“I’ll try. And if you want to make it up to me for being an incredibly difficult boss—” I make an incredulous sound, and his dimples pop out “—then get over that shithead and find a way to be happy.”
“Did you just call my ex-husband a shithead?”
“I’m not apologizing for that. Anyway, I just needed to put everything right before I go. And to say thanks for taking a chance on me, even though I didn't deserve it.” Pushing away from the railing, he scoops up the half-empty box of beer with one finger. “I don’t imagine you’re going to want these.”
“You can stay here tonight.”
Straightening up, he studies me uncertainly. “I’m not continuing the internship. It’s over.”
“I know.”
