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At least that's what I tell myself as I fix my runny mascara before getting out of my vehicle and crossing the dirt, making my way to a guy who's carrying a clipboard and wearing a hard hat who I'm assuming is the foreman.
You can do this, Avery.
Turns out, my positivity was a clear overshot because the kitchen fiasco pretty much sums up the first half of the morning. I drop a hammer on my toe, bash my thumb, break one of the boards, and spill nails on the ground. I'd be handling it just fine, except there's this guy who's not even in charge, but keeps chewing me out every time I mess up and all the people around us stare every time he raises his voice. Six years ago, I'd be able to handle a guy having a tizzy tantrum, but these days, every yell sets me off like the fire alarms did this morning. I hate when people raise their voices even more than I despise loud music and chaos.
"Would you chill out," I say in as calm of a voice as I can muster. I bend over to pick up the nails with the asshole's shadow casting over me. "I'm trying my best."
He's about two inches shorter than me, in his thirties, at least fifty pounds overweight, and has a stick up his ass apparently.
"I'll stop yelling at you girlie when you stop fucking up." He continues getting louder every time he talks down to me.
My hands tremble. I'm not afraid or anything, but it's a nervous tick I've developed over the last six years that emerges every time someone raises their voice to me--at least when a guy does.
"Really? Girlie?" I roll my eyes at him as I stand up, tucking a handful of nails back into my tool belt, realizing that we've drawn a little audience. "Seriously, who says that except sexist assholes with a short guy complex?"
A condescending look rises on his face and then he starts name bashing the crap out of me. It only takes about ten seconds before I have to drop the hammer and leave, otherwise I'll lose my shit.
Tears sting at my eyes as I dash toward the outhouses near the fence line. I can feel stares following me until I lock myself in the bathroom. Then I give myself exactly one minute to cry.
One minute. That's all.
"Get your shit together, Avery," I whisper. "That guy isn't Conner. He doesn't matter, just like the past doesn't matter. You have a new beginning which rarely happens and you need to make the most of it." I suck in a deep breath and finally get the tears to subside. Then I head out, wishing I hadn't put on the eyeliner because I look like a hot mess.
Wiping the smeared liner from the bottom of my eyes with my fingertips, I step into the sunlight and the busy sounds of power tools. I'm not watching where I'm going and end up running right into someone, my chest hitting their very sweaty one.
I have a flashback.
Not a good one.
And I almost run the other way.
Instead, I stumble back because someone pulls me forward, creating this strange push/pull balance. At first, I'm not sure what's causing it, but then I realize that the person I crashed into has grabbed my arm to steady me.
"Shit, I'm sorry." I regain my balance before I glance up at them. Then I trip over my feet again. "Tristan?" I'm at a loss for words as I stare into the sky blue eyes that belong to the guy who wrote the note I read every night.
The one exception guy.
The guy I've been telling myself was just one of those people who was meant to go in and out of my life. But now that he's here in front of me, I have to wonder if I've been wrong.
He takes a good look at me and then recognition clicks. He seems a little startled but not as much as he should be, which makes me wonder if he noticed me earlier.
"Are you okay?" Tristan asks concernedly.
I stare at him speechlessly. He's here and it's so... Well, I'm not sure what it is yet.
"Yeah, I'm fine," I manage to get out.
He looks the same; blonde hair, sky-blue eyes with a hint of darkness in them, and right now, a little bit of uneasiness. The only difference between now and three months ago is that he's scruffy around the jawline, like he's in the early stages of growing a beard. He's also much more underdressed than the last time I saw him, wearing a pair of worn-in jeans, work boots, and a tool belt that sits on his narrow hips. I never got to see his chest the first time we were acquainted and I find myself thinking what a shame that was as my gaze scrolls over his muscles and the intricate tattoo inking the damp flesh of his ribcage. It's absolutely stunning, colors and patterns that curve and collide with dark lines that form a face that looks half human, half skeletal. He told me once his tattoos have meanings. I wonder what that one in particular means. One word comes to mind when I look at it though. Death.
He wipes the sweat from his chest with the palm of his hands. "Why...What are you doing here?" he asks, running his fingers through his damp hair as his gaze lingers on my eyes for a beat or two--he can tell I've been crying. Thankfully, he doesn't say anything about it. He just stands there, nervously waiting for me to answer his question.
Why is he nervous?
Why am I nervous? Or at least my heart is.
And why is he here, standing in front of me?
"I'm here to work off my probation hours," I joke nervously. When puzzlement etches his face, I hurry and add, "I'm just kidding." I glance around at the worksite, at the saws, the drills, the people with bright yellow hardhats, and then my focus lands back on him. "I'm here to help build."
The pucker at Tristan's brows deepens. "You do this now? The whole Habitat thing?"
"It's kind of a deal since they built me my own house," I explain, scrubbing at a smudge of dirt on my forearm. "Give back what you're given."
"That's good, I guess."
"Yeah, it's good to give back, especially when it comes to houses. You can never be too grateful to have a roof over your head."
His lips tilt upward, but the silence that follows stretches on forever. He seems confused over something then he finally simply asks, "So then we'll both be here for a couple of months until the house is finished, right?" An adorable full smile appears again, the same one he tried to use on me the first time we hung out. That was when I'd explained to him that I don't do guys at all, especially cute pretty boy ones, which he seemed to find more amusing than I intended.
I fight a smile, but my mouth ends up matching his. "Well, I'll only be here in the mornings. I'm doing half days since I have work, school, and a ton of other crap." And suddenly my internal sunshine fades as I'm reminded that even though we're close in age and are doing something similar now, we are far from being on the same path in life. That guys aren't on my path.
"That's good... that I'll get to see you." He seems conflicted though, like he kind of wants to run away, and I kind of want him to because I'm having the same problem with him as I did the first time.
Push.
Pull.
Run.
Stay.
Tristan doesn't know much about my life, but he knows more than most, like how long I've been sober, how many tattoos I have, and then he met Conner. But he doesn't know the story behind Conner, or know about Mason, know what my story is, where my scars come from or how severe they are both mentally and physically. Then again, no one really knows my story.
Only me.
And the stars.
I also learned a few things about him, like how he used to be addicted to drugs. I wonder if he's clean right now. His eyes do seem clearer, and he doesn't appear twitchy or out of it. Still, sometimes it's difficult to tell.
Suddenly, his adorable smile enlarges and I realize I've been staring at him for at least a minute.
"Why are you looking at me like that?" he asks curiously.
I shrug with indifference even though my heart accelerates. "Like what?"
His eyes sparkle mischievously. "Like you're picturing me naked. You know, the same way you looked at me back when we first met."
The corners of my lips threaten to turn upward. "Not funny."
"Oh, I wasn't trying to be funny. Just stating a fact."
I roll my tongue in
my mouth, biting back a grin. "Cute. Really cute. I forgot how cute you are." My voice drips with sarcasm.
"Aw, and now she's calling me cute." He presses his hand to his chest, appearing touched, but his voice is playful, flirtatious. Still, beneath it is a hint of nerves just like there was the night we hung out.
Nervous or not, I'm already getting in over my head with him again so I do the only thing I can think of and change the subject.
"So have you been living in North Carolina for a while?"
He seems thrown off by my random, non-flirtatious question. "Yeah... I left for a little bit but have been back for a few weeks now."
I inch out of the way as an older guy walks up to go inside one of the outhouses. "Are Nova and Quinton with you?" I look around for them.
"Yeah, Nova and Quinton are here. I actually just got back here this weekend." He stuffs his hands into the pockets of his jeans and rocks back on his heels. "I had to go home for a little bit."
"Where's home exactly?"
His face twists with animosity, but it seems like a subconscious reaction. "Wyoming."
"Wyoming?" I slant my head to the side and inspect his expression intently. "Are you lying to me?"
"Um, no. Why?"
I point at myself. "Because that's where I'm from. I actually moved here like five years ago."
"Really?" His brow arches. "What town are you from?"
"Grey Oaks." I don't bother telling him that I'm technically from The Subs because even now I'm ashamed of that fact. Honestly, if I told him I was from there and then told him about my past, he probably wouldn't be that surprised.
"Get out," he says. "I'm from Star Grove."
"You're such a liar." How could that be possible? How could he possibly have lived only an hour away from where I grew up? "You are fucking with me, right?"
"I'm being serious." His expression matches his words, making me believe him.
"That's so weird that we only lived like an hour away from each other."
"I know," he agrees. "I'm surprised we never crossed paths."
I'm not, considering how many pretty boys stepped foot into The Subs. I only ever saw one and he's one I wish I'd never seen.
When thoughts of Conner claw into my mind, I try to clear my head. "I'm still confused though."
Now Tristan looks confused. "About what?"
"About you and Star Grove and the fact that I thought only cowboys lived there," I tease, unable to help myself. He's making me so anxious that I feel like I'm going to explode from the jitteriness.
"Well, maybe I'm a cowboy at heart," he says with a devilish grin. "Of course, that really all depends."
"On what?"
"On if you're into cowboys."
"I know you're not a cowboy." I hitch my thumb through the loop on the tool belt. "You don't have the look."
He chuckles, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "And what look would that be? Cowboy hats and cowboy boots?"
I shake my head and do a little strut, exaggeratedly using my shoulders and legs. "First of all, you don't have the bow-legged walk." He laughs at me and I touch my hair. "And you don't have hat hair."
"Hat hair?" he questions. "What's that?"
I ruffle his hair, which is amazingly soft. "You know the flat style your hair gets when you wear a cowboy hat."
He's grinning at me, his eyes deepening to a shade of ocean blue as he gives me the same look guys do whenever they're getting turned on.
I quickly withdraw my hand, vowing to keep my fingers to myself from now on.
"Okay, you caught me," he says as his lustful gaze becomes more sweltering than the sun. "I'm not a cowboy."
"Good, because I'm not into cowboys." And now I'm flirting again. Great, just great. I'll be a disaster for repeating history if I'm not careful.
My scars suddenly feel ten times thicker and heavier, reminding me why I have the no guy's rule. Pull or not, I didn't come back to repeat my mistakes. I was given another chance at life and promised myself I'd do better and that it wouldn't be about me. Promised I'd figure out why I'm here, which isn't to flirt with guys, even hot, entertaining one's who protected me one night.
"So other than this and visiting home, what have you been up to?" I ask, desperate to keep the conversation simple.
He shrugs, seeming a little sad. "Not much, but that's kind of my M.O."
"I doubt that's true."
"Nope. It's totally true." He's attempting to smile it off, but it's clear he's bothered by his words.
"Well, what do you do in your free time now?" I ask, partially because I want to get to the bottom of if he's sober without actually having to flat out ask.
"Hang out with Nova and Quinton. Do school shit when I have classes." He shrugs. "There's not really much to me, Avery."
"Oh, I doubt that." The last thing I ever meant to do was make him depressed. "Everybody has layers. Some just don't like to show theirs as much as others."
He stares blankly at me. "I still see you're as blunt as ever."
I shake my head, even though it's kind of true. "No way. I'm not that blunt."
"No, you kind of are... but it's a good thing. I like it." He tousles his locks back into place as he considers something deeply. "So, how are you doing?" There's an edge to his voice. "I mean, for the last three months."
His words contain an underlying meaning. He's not just asking how I've been doing for the last three months, but how I've been doing the last three months after he had to stop Conner that day in the alleyway behind the bar. I don't really want to talk about that but the sincerity in his eyes almost makes me spill secrets that were never meant to be told.
"I... um..." I struggle with how to answer.
How can I lie to him?
When he knows so much.
About my secrets connected to my scars.
And the stars.
His blue eyes soften. "Avery, if there's something wrong, you can tell me. That night was intense and I... I just want to make sure you're okay."
Am I okay?
I'm not sure.
We look at each other.
Unsaid words.
Secrets.
Ones I don't want to share.
But kind of do.
The way he's looking at me, like he knows me and he genuinely wants to know only if I'm okay, makes it hard to fight keeping up the wall I placed around myself. There are no expectations in his eyes. No alternative motives.
I'm not one for discussing my problems, but if I was, I just might tell him everything right now.
About Conner.
My marriage.
My divorce.
My past and darkness of it.
And I just might tell him about the stars, too.
I just might tell him about...
Well, me.
My lips part. "I think you should know--"
My phone rings from inside my pocket. Thinking of the call this morning, I tensely fish it out but only grow more anxious when I see Mason's school's name flash on the screen.
"I have to take this," I tell Tristan then turn around and press talk, all my motherly instincts telling me something could be wrong. "Hello?" I answer worriedly.
"Is this Avery Hensley?" a woman asks from the other end of the line. "Mason Hensley's mother?"
I bite on my thumbnail. "Um, yeah."
"This is the secretary at your son's school. I was calling to let you know that there was an incident at the school this morning."
Panic flares like fire through my veins. "What kind of an incident?"
"He was involved in a fight with another student," she explains. "No one was hurt, but he's saying he's sick now and wants you to come pick him up."
I work to remain composed and force the internal fire to simmer out. But the fact that he got into a fight has me concerned and not in a normal, worrying mother kind of way. "What kind of a fight exactly?" I ask cautiously, my scars scorching from underneath my shirt. "Like an actual physical fight?"
"No, nothing like that," she replies and I slightly relax. "Just a little bickering over having to share something. I probably would just send him back to class but considering what was discussed with the principal when you registered him, I'm a little concerned."
"Concerned about what exactly?" I had to tell the school about Conner, because of the restraining order. The last thing I needed was Conner showing up and trying to pick up Mason from school.
"Well, I'm not a therapist, but--"
"No, you're not," I cut her off before she says something that will rile me up. "I'll be there to pick him up in like thirty minutes." I hang up and turn to leave, almost running into Tristan's sweaty chest again.
