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Everett
It’s a sawdust day. Building hand-carved furniture is always gritty work, but some days I can get away with a damp cloth wiped over my face afterward, and other times I think I’ll never get the dust from my beard. Tonight, I finish up with an icy cold shower, the water stinging against my back, and scrub myself down with soap until my skin’s pink and raw beneath the body hair.
But I still feel like there’s a layer of grit on my skin when I rub down with a towel. I still need to swill my mouth with mouthwash, wincing at the film of sawdust clinging to my teeth.
No wonder I’m out here all alone. Who wants a man who tastes like wood shavings?
I roll my eyes at myself, shrugging on my flannel shirt and doing up the buttons over the hard slab of my belly. The bathroom is choked with peppermint-scented mist. Talk about self pity.
I like being alone—and it’s not like I’ve never had any offers to change that fact. I just never took ‘em. Never wanted anyone at all.
No one I could have, anyway.
Floorboards creak as I step out into the bedroom, stroking a hand over my damp beard. Everything around me is faded and well-worn, lit by the golden glow of my bedside lamp, the dark bedspread tucked neatly around the mattress. A paperback rests on the nightstand, and my watch lies already unfastened beside it. There’s a telltale strip of paler skin on my wrist.
No alarm clock. Out here, I rise with the sun and go to bed when my body tells me.
Right now, my body is telling me that I’ve got more energy to burn off before I can turn in. Even though I worked hard all day on that custom dining table, got oiled up with sweat and gave myself a goddamn dust bath, I’m restless. There’s an itch under my skin.
I’ve been dreaming about her again lately. Josie Martin.
Not that I ever really stopped, but it’s getting worse. She’s haunting me.
“Prick,” I mutter, since there’s no one else here to do it for me. What kind of a man lusts after his nephew’s ex high school girlfriend? What kind of a man wants a girl who’s fifteen years younger than him?
Josie must be twenty one by now, because she was nineteen when she came to visit for Harry’s first summer home from college. Nineteen fucking years old when I first saw her and then did a double take. Nineteen years old when she damn near gave me a heart attack.
Before that, she was just Josie. A kid, and one of Harry’s little friends. Quieter than the others, maybe, and always extra polite when she stayed for dinner. Always quick to help with the dishes.
I liked her well enough—thought she was a good influence on Harry—but I never really saw her.
Then they both came for that visit, and my world fell off its axis. Hasn’t righted itself since.
Josie Martin.
Wonder what she’s doing now.
She’s probably got some fancy job and an apartment in the city. A rich boyfriend in a suit, too. Who wouldn’t want Josie? I bet she has her pick of ‘em out there. Bet she gets bored of turning them all down, telling them she’s not interested, stepping on men’s hearts with those white canvas sneakers she used to wear.
She doodled on the toes. Little cartoon hearts and flowers and shit.
I clear my throat, the sound echoing through the empty bedroom. I think about Josie Martin way too much to be healthy.
* * *
It’s a warm night, the air scented with honeysuckle and rich soil, and thousands of stars pulse overhead. My boots crunch against the gritty dirt path, and I shove my hands deep in my pockets as I stroll down to the creek.
It’s good to be out. Fresh air is the best medicine.
And there’s something about rushing water that cools the fever in my brain. Something about that gentle plunk, sploosh of water tripping over the creek bed that helps the chaos warring inside me to settle.
I’m not sure what got me thinking about Josie again this time. A memory, maybe—a glimpse of my old truck, and the flash of driving her back to her parents’ trailer after school. Or a patch of moss clinging to tree bark, the exact same shade as her deep green eyes.
Doesn’t really matter either way. Whatever it was, I’ve got no business thinking about that girl.
Better to focus on the waxy glow of the moon.
It’s always quiet out here on my property. The folks in town call it the Barns, on account of the wooden structures clustered around the end of the driveway. Every few years or so, I get the itch to build something big again, and another barn pops up on my land. Like mushrooms springing up from the soil.
