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The doctor insisted that a sprained ankle needs at least a couple of weeks rest before I can walk on it again, but only three days after the incident, I’m agonizingly restless and my fingertips burn to be rid of this pent-up energy with some manual labor.
Penelope stands beside me in the barn, watching as I test the firmness of the ankle brace doc gave me inside my boot.
“See? Perfectly stable.” I’m hoping a broad smile will strengthen my case.
But Pen’s bullshit sensor is usually pretty spot on.
With a hiked brow, she crosses to one of the stable doors and knocks on the paint-peeled top to test its integrity. “You’re really that determined to restore this place?”
“Absolutely.” Starting with the workbench, I grab a beat-up waste bin and start filling it with stray parts, trash, and rusted cans. “Uncle Pat’s already given his blessing.”
“Why?”
Hostility heats the space between my shoulders, then the base of my neck. “He trusts me with the job, I guess.”
“No,” she answers quietly. “Why are you doing this, Marcus?”
My hand freezes around an empty can of WD40. When I turn, the genuine perplexity on her face pries open an already seeping wound.
How can she question me, knowing what this place means to us? What it means to me, at the very least.
“I think you’re asking the wrong question.”
Pen’s hand falls from the door, and she crosses her arms defensively. “All right. Just say what you need to say, then.”
With a flick of my wrists, the can bounces around the bottom of the bin. Sorrow clutches me in its unforgiving fist, but by the time I stalk toward her, she’s already meeting me halfway.
Here, it’s as if we’re kids again, gearing up to fight the way we used to.
It didn’t matter that she was a girl or that I was a boy. We settled disagreements the old-fashioned way—rolling in the dirt and beating the hell out of each other.
And her finishing move? Pulling my fucking hair.
My tone yields a sharpened edge. “Maybe you should ask yourself why you would agree to have it torn down.”
Heather chooses that moment to step in front of the open doors. “Uh, anybody home?”
Penelope’s gaze flutters to the ground where she finds a smile for our guest.
My shoulders deflate as regret assails me. “Pen, wait.”
“Hey, come on in,” she greets Heather, ignoring what would have been an apology with a discreet middle finger behind her back.
Heather cranes her neck, looking around the inside of the barn curiously. “Wow, it’s a lot bigger than it looks.”
“That’s what she said,” Penelope snorts.
They share a laugh, but I find it impossible to force the smallest amount of amusement.
Propping an elbow against the empty stall, I follow the dip of Heather’s thin, baby-blue tank top which frames her cleavage. The workout leggings she wears are equally thin, making me shake my head.
Not exactly working attire, but at least she was smart enough to wear boots.
Penelope clears her throat before shoving a piece of paper into Heather’s hand.
“I’ll be in town helping make props for the upcoming school play, then popping over to the group home to help Mrs. Sanchez with dinner for the kiddos.” She side-eyes me. “Marcus has insisted on working in here for the time being, so he shouldn’t be a bother.”
“Perfect,” Heather says, clasping her hands in front of her hips and accentuating her cleavage.
