Burying Water
Page 24

And I hate it.
TWENTY-TWO
Water
now
I wake with the loud bang outside my open kitchen window. A sinking dread takes over as I lie frozen, not breathing.
And then the yelling starts.
“That’s what an agreement is, Jesse!”
“This changes everything!”
“No, it hasn’t. Not for her.”
“I’ve changed my mind.”
“You . . . you can’t just change your mind!” Though Sheriff Gabe’s voice is naturally commanding, he has always kept the volume of it in check. Until now. “This was your idea.”
“And it was a f**king stupid one, Dad.” A car door slams. “I can’t do it.”
“You don’t have a choice.”
“You’re right! I don’t. I’ve already quit my job and moved out of my apartment. I’ve got nowhere to go.”
Jesse’s moving back? A small thrill spikes in my chest with the prospect of seeing him every day, even as I wonder what caused it. Maybe it has something to do with that girl in Portland that Amber mentioned.
My curiosity pulls me out of bed. I run on tiptoes across my apartment to the kitchen window that offers a perfect view of the front of the garage. Jesse and Sheriff Gabe are facing off behind Ginny’s truck, the tail end peeking out from inside the garage. That means he got it working again. I don’t care as much about that right now, though.
“After all I have done . . .” Sheriff Gabe is saying. “Your sister’s in the dark! I’ve lied to my wife and when she finds out . . . I could lose everything with the things I’ve done for you. Things I still can’t believe I ever did. Have you forgotten?”
“How could I ever forget any of this?” Jesse launches the tool in his hand at the wall. Even from here, I can see the split in the plaster from the impact. He turns to rest his hands on the truck’s tailgate, his head bowed.
Sheriff Gabe finally reaches out to place a hand on his son’s shoulder. Jesse brushes his face against his own shoulder.
He’s crying. The cool, quiet guy who’s been in all kinds of trouble is crying.
Jesse steps away from his father and, grabbing a tool from the counter, moves inside the garage, out of view. Gabe follows him in.
I’m wide awake now. But if there’s any more conversation, it’s too quiet to catch. Sheriff Gabe walks back to his house, a flashlight guiding his way, leaving Jesse to toil on Ginny’s truck and me perched on the counter, watching. For hours.
At about three a.m. I catch myself nodding off in my sitting position and have to give my spot up, afraid I’ll fall asleep and tumble. I crawl back into bed, the image of Jesse wiping his tears away lingering as I drift off.
I drag my feet to the landing outside my front door just before eight, wishing I could sleep longer. It’s the first time I’ve actually lazed around in bed upon waking since coming to Ginny’s. Normally, reality hits me like a splash of cold water seconds after my eyes open and I have to get out of bed before I dwell too long on the bad stuff.
Maybe I’m finally settling in.
The horses are already kicking at their stable doors, eager to be free of their confines. I have exactly four minutes before Ginny heads down to the barn and sees that I don’t have them out and fed. I don’t want her to think I’m slacking.
Peering over at the Welleses’ house, I see that Sheriff Gabe’s cruiser is gone, which is normal by this time of day. Even on a Saturday. Amber’s and Meredith’s cars are parked. Amber would have already left for work, and Meredith is no doubt still sleeping. The sleek black car sits next to the closed garage, and the small window hidden within its steeply peaked roof is pushed open just enough to let the fresh air in. Will he be angry if I wake him up in an hour, to get my truck out?
I’ll admit that I’m more excited by the prospect than worried. Taking the steps down—much faster, now that I’m barely limping—I round the corner and discover that I won’t be knocking on Jesse’s door.
Ginny’s truck is already sitting beside our garage.
Jesse must have driven it here early this morning. Or maybe Sheriff Gabe did. That would be better for all involved, given Ginny’s issues. I don’t know how I didn’t hear it, though.
Inside, the keys dangle from the ignition and a small plastic container of blueberries sits on the seat, a piece of paper tucked beneath it. “Blueberries?” I frown as I unfold the paper.
In case you’re ever stuck again
Below it is a phone number. I run my fingers over the digits, my focus jumping back and forth between the words and the numbers, that constant weight in my chest lifting higher with each breath as a shiver simultaneously runs down my spine.
Because something tells me Jesse is the kind of guy that I can always count on. My gut must be telling me that I had someone just like him in my previous life. Someone I trusted.
I tuck the paper into the back pocket of my jeans, promising myself to program it into my phone as soon as I can. Then I turn the key. The truck comes to life instantly, the engine a low, smooth rumble, sounding better than it ever did before. Other things are different, too. The signal indicator has an actual plastic cover over the metal lever again. The missing heat vent has been replaced. And the radio . . . it’s completely new.
I sink back against the stiff, tan-colored bench. Jesse stayed up most of the night working on this truck, when he didn’t have to. And then he drove it up Ginny’s driveway in the wee hours of the morning. I shake my head. Sounds like he enjoys poking a wasp’s nest.
I’ll have to thank him later.
I get to the barn to take care of morning chores, receiving amorous nuzzles against my cheek in greeting from the Felixes. Though technically I could have both stalls cleaned and horses groomed faster, I take my time with the horses each morning and I think they appreciate the attention.
I know I do.
I’m just finishing up with their water buckets when Ginny’s rubber boots scrape against the barn’s dirt floor. Felix hobbles in, the old dog’s limbs stiff with arthritis. “So, the truck is working again?”
“Yup. Better than before, too.” She’s half an hour late. She’s never late. Even though I’ve taken over all of the work, she’s always still here. Out of habit, I’ve assumed. But something feels different today.
She wanders along one side of the barn, gazing over each stall and each name that hangs above it. She would have known each one of those horses—fed them, cared for them, bonded with them. While Ginny’s connections with other human beings are limited and awkward, I’ve watched the way she is around the animals, and how they are with her in turn. She has the dog at her heels all day long; I’ve seen the cat perched on the porch railing on more than one occasion and, though she verbally condemned the kittens to death-by-coyote, the colorful balls of yarn that she tosses them to play with tells me she doesn’t really want that. Even the horses will leave their patch of grass and trot over to greet her when she takes short quilting breaks and steps into the corral.
“I thought about what you said. You know . . . boarding horses.” She clears her throat heavily, as if getting these words out is difficult. “And having more horses in the pasture. It might be nice.”
I stand stock still, a mixture of surprise and excitement flooding through me.
She adds, “I still have to think about it some more.” Then she walks out quietly, her ever faithful canine companion at her heels.
Leaving me whistling a tune to myself as I finish up.
I’m freshly showered and heading down my stairs when I notice that the Welleses’ garage door is open again. A man’s voice over the radio is announcing concert dates.
A glance at my watch tells me I have maybe five minutes to spare.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I head for the property fence. The garage is set back about 150 feet from the house and surrounded by trees. By the time I reach it, I have full-on, ready-to-pee-my-pants jitters.
A guitar plays softly on the stereo as I step in. The garage itself is extremely tidy, all the tools lined up on a rustic wood table that stretches the length of the room. The concrete floors—painted a silvery blue—are swept clean. Posters of fancy old cars plaster the walls and a calendar with a curvy woman in a white string bikini hangs in the corner. Peering closer at it, I see that it’s from 2007. I guess Jesse either really likes those particular women or he doesn’t have much use for calendars.
My nose catches a sickly sweet smell as I pass by a giant jug of transmission fluid. Behind it is a shelf of various jars and containers, all neatly labeled with fractional numbers, filled with little nuts and bolts and metal rings.
There’s something oddly comfortable about the space. I could see myself sitting here, watching Jesse work. If he was here.
The ceiling creaks. He must be upstairs. I stop in front of the brown door at the back of the garage, deciding whether I should just leave a thank-you note or wait and talk to him in person. Footfalls sounding on the other side of the door, coming fast and hard, make my decision for me. The door flies open and Jesse barrels out, tugging a shirt down over his chest, giving me a quick glimpse of a sculpted body beneath.
He stops dead in his tracks, his eyes—lined with dark circles—widening with surprise. A drip of water runs down his cheek. I inhale the smell of soap, so masculine and clean. He just had a shower. “Ah . . . Water, what are you doing here?”
My cheeks are on fire. “Sorry, I was just here . . . I mean, I wanted to say thank you for the truck . . . for fixing it, I mean.” I’m suddenly stammering and I don’t know why. “It runs great now.”
He steps out of the doorway, pulling the door closed behind him. Though I know I should, I don’t step back. I hold my breath as he passes me, the smell of him stirring something deep in my belly.
There’s no point denying the fact that I’m attracted to Jesse. The heat that’s crawling up my thighs has confirmed that. But, what would it be like, being with a guy again after being raped? Would I enjoy it? Would it feel at all familiar? Would it trigger memories of what I don’t want to remember? How can something that intimate not?
And then I think of the unsightly thin line running down my face and I almost laugh. Besides, Jesse obviously has problems right now. Some of those problems may involve that girl he broke up with, but there must be more. The fight between him and his father last night was about something more serious than a bad breakup.
“How much do I owe you for the parts?” I ask, trailing him out of the garage.
“Nothing.”
“Seriously, Jesse.”
He stops with a hand on the handle of his driver’s-side door, his back to me, his head dipped forward. “Seriously, Water. It was nothing. A few cheap parts from the wreckers. I’ve gotta head out now, though.” He adds a soft, “Okay?”
“Sure, of course.” I hesitate and then ask, “Why blueberries?”
A long pause hangs between us and then he shrugs. “Because they’re my favorite.”
I watch until the back of the car disappears around the house and then I head back to the yellow truck. Ginny’s standing beside it, narrow eyes on me. “Did I just see you over next door with that boy?”
“I went to thank him for fixing the truck. I’ve gotta go, Ginny. I’ll be late for work.” I’m in no mood to appease Ginny’s foul temper.
The little container of blueberries still sits in the middle of the seat. With a shrug, I open it and pop one into my mouth, puckering against the pleasant tangy flavor. Pulling out my word association journal, I scribble down the word and say out loud, “Blueberry,” as if I’m quizzing myself. My pen curls around the letters of his name as I write down my one-word response. And then I shake my head and strike it out. I toss the book back into my purse.
On my way in to work, I devour the entire container. And I decide that blueberries are my favorite fruit, too.
TWENTY-THREE
Jesse
then
“Welles!” Miller’s booming voice pulls me from my brake job.
“Uh-oh . . . Teacher’s pet’s in trouble,” Zeke mumbles from beneath a hood.
I’d believe it, the way Miller is lumbering toward me. But for what, I have no idea. I’ve been here on time every day, even with the late nights over at Viktor’s. “Here.” He shoves a slip of paper at me. “You’re needed here before heading over to Mr. Petrova’s house.”
I frown at the address on the paper. “For what?”
“Do I look like your f**king secretary?” Miller snaps, turning around. “Boone. You’re busy with your thumb up your ass. Go finish up this car for him.”
Normally Boone would shoot a finger to Miller’s back, but right now he’s more interested in what I have in my hand, snatching it out of my grasp. “NoPo? What’s over there?”