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Sparks fly from Jimmy’s welding gun as he continues with the blowtorch for a few more seconds before switching it off and lifting his goggles.
“Sorry,” I tell him, stepping inside. “I got caught up.” And bycaught up, I mean Holden came home on his lunch break just as I was leaving and the only meal he was craving wasme. I can still feel his hands, his mouth, touching and tasting me in places currently causing me to blush.
“You got any work for me to do?” I ask.
“Nah.” He jerks his head toward my workbench where I’ve started and stopped far too many projects in the weeks I’ve come and gone. “You just keep working on whatever you’re working on.”
When Big H brought me here the first time, I was so fascinated with the place, I didn’t want to leave. Jimmy said I could stay if I helped him out with a few tasks around the place, and that he would evenpayme. I didn’t want his money, so we negotiated. For a few hours twice a week, he teaches me his craft, and I do whatever menial jobs need doing.
Personally, I consider it a win.
Sometimes we talk.
Sometimes we don’t.
Sometimes I help him hold things in place or polish his finished work.
And, sometimes, I’m just happy to be around him.
Today, though… today feels like a talking day.
I wait until he’s finished welding and ask, “Why do people call you Peg-leg Jimmy?”
He freezes mid-movement, and I think maybe I’ve overstepped. No one I’ve asked seems to know the reason, and I’ve been curious, but perhaps I should’ve kept my mouth shut.
Jimmy removes his helmet, his cheeks and forehead stained with oil and sweat. “Why do you ask?” he questions, removing his gloves as he pins me with his stare.
I lean back on my workbench, my head lowered. “I was just wondering,” I murmur. “You don’t have to answer.”
From the corner of my eye, I see him move, and so I lift my gaze, track him from his work area to the fridge, where he pulls out a beer and offers me one. I shake my head. He uncaps the beer, throws the cap in a bucket with a pile of other metal bottle caps he’ll no doubt do something with at some point. After a long swig, he keeps his eyes locked on me while he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “I love this town,” he starts, running a finger along a metal pipe. “If I didn’t, I would’ve left a long time ago. Too much talk. Too much gossip.” He heaves out a breath, his chest deflating beneath his overalls. “My mama was young when she had me. Fifteen. She was slow…intellectually, I mean. She died during childbirth, and my grandparents raised me. They lived on this property until they died. They didn’t much like socializing and kept to themselves, mainly because people in town would make fun of my mama. So, I guess the townsfolk considered them odd. Everyone always treated my family like outcasts, and it’s trickled down to me.”
“I’m so sorry,” I breathe out, a knot clogging my airways.
“Anyway, no one knew who my dad was besides my mama, but people around here guessed it was this young man, Jimmy, who walked with a limp and worked at the paper mill. If you believe the rumors, he left town soon after my mama started showing.”
I put a hand to my heart to ease the ache there.
“So, anyway,” he continues, “whenever my grandparents would bring me to town, the gossip would start, and they’d all whisper, ‘That’sPeg-leg Jimmy’s boy.’ My grandparents never corrected them, and over time, theboypart was dropped, and it became ‘That’sPeg-leg Jimmy!’And now here I am.” He throws his arms in the air. “Peg-leg fucking Jimmy.” He laughs once. “Such a stupid way to earn a nickname.”
Shaking my head, I ask, “Do you mind being called Peg-leg Jimmy?”
“Of course, but what am I going to do?” He heaves out a sigh. “I think the worst part is that it’s not the name my mama gave me. And it would be real nice if people around here respected that. Respectedher.”
I can’t help but frown. “I’m sorry you and your family went through that.”
“It ain’t so bad,” he says, shrugging. “I’m happy. Healthy. Get to have a pretty girl in my studio to keep me company.”
“I love coming here,” I admit.
“Good to know.”
“And thank you for the compliment,Paul,” I say, using the name his mama gave him. “You sly dog.”
He chuckles, moving to turn up the stereo. Taylor Swift’s “Blank Space” plays through the air, and I smile, watching him pretend to hit drums in the air. “Are you a Swiftie?” I shout over the music, and Paul laughs.
“I like the melodies in this song,” he replies.
“Sure.” And then I realize, as I watch him, that even though he seems happy, he’s living the exact life I tried so hard to run from. To hide from. Being judged and ostracized felt like such a monumental burden—a burden I fought so hard to escape.
