Woke Up Like This(19)

I note the golden ring around his irises. His lush lash line. The tiny half-moon scar above his brow. His lips look soft, almost pillowy.

Suddenly, I’m aware of the scratchy tag of my sweater, my saggy bun, and the clench of my jaw. I’m also mindful that he’s staring right back at me. His eyes fiercely search my face, probably judging my swollen eyes and puffy cheeks. He’s now seen me ugly cry. Before he can razz me about it, I take a stride backward and brush the dirt from my sweatpants.

He clears his throat and rocks on the balls of his feet, shoving his hands in his jean pockets. “So, uh, what can I do?”

I blink, making a concerted effort to push Dad and his do-over baby from my mind. I don’t have time to think about him. Over the years, I’ve learned that tucking these thoughts away is just easier. If I think about him for too long, it becomes overwhelming. Too heavy. Like a sharp ache that knocks the wind out of me.

“You can start securing the cardboard seaweed around the walls,” I instruct.

I expect him to give me a hard time. That’s just how he is. But he spins on his heel and dutifully starts on the opposite wall.

We work in silence for a good half hour, just the two of us, which is more comforting than I expected. I relish in the tranquility, knowing it’ll get rowdy when Kassie, Ollie, and Nori arrive.

“Kassie texted. She and Ollie are gonna be late,” I announce. She still hasn’t acknowledged my SOS text about Dad’s new girlfriend from this morning. No response. As usual. Meanwhile, I’m at her door with all her favorite snacks practically the moment she has the smallest fight with Ollie. The least she could do is respond to a text, especially since she’s been through it all with me. Since the summer Dad left. She saw how hurt I was when her dad snapped endless pictures at our middle school graduation while mine was nowhere to be seen, despite his promises.

Renner peers at me as he struggles to rip off a piece of tape with his teeth.

“This would go faster if we had scissors,” I note, heading for the supply closet.

Renner follows me inside, arrowing his chin toward the cobweb-laden boxes piled in the corner “I saw some in one of those boxes earlier.”

I almost rip the dusty flaps of a box as I slide it away from a corner, nearly throwing out my back in the process. It’s heavier than expected. Inside sits a shiny, cylindrical steel object.

Time Capsule—Class of 2024 is engraved in script across the front.

It’s tradition that each MHS graduating class buries a time capsule after the graduation ceremony filled with handwritten letters to ourselves at age thirty.

“It’s our time capsule,” I say. The moment I touch the cool metal, the pads of my fingers zing with electricity. Pinpricks roll from my neck down my back. “Ouch. Static shock.” I lift my hand for a moment, and when I run my finger over it again, the metal suddenly feels warm.

Of course, Renner doesn’t listen. Like a child shoving a fork into an outlet, he runs his hand along the metal, pulling back with a jolt.

“Told you,” I taunt, lifting my hand to massage my temple. I’m feeling weirdly light-headed all of a sudden.

He ignores me, setting it back in the box with a slight wobble of his own. “I assume you finished your letter already?”

“Not yet.” I retighten my bun, making a mental note to do that tonight. “Where will you be at thirty, Joshua Taylor Renner? Eating insta noodles in your underwear and rotting in your parents’ basement?” I venture, tamping down the urge to evil laugh. Last I heard, Renner was going to school in Boston. I haven’t the foggiest idea what he’s planning to major in. Probably something useless like underwater basket weaving or puppet entertainment arts.

He runs a calloused finger over his jaw as he heads back to the gym. Still light-headed, I follow at his heels, abandoning the time capsule in the supply closet.

We’re working on the same wall now, nearly side by side, when he finally answers my question. “I was thinking of majoring in business. Or maybe law. Though I’ve always wanted to coach a varsity team.” Renner spends his summers volunteering at the children’s rugby and track camp as an assistant coach. A far cry from the major league.

“Varsity? Please. Gym teacher, maybe.”

His eyes light up. “That’s high on my list of possibilities too, if the others don’t work out.”

“Convenient,” I say, snickering at the thought of a balding Renner with a wispy comb-over, donning an Adidas tracksuit that stretches over his beer gut, whistle around his neck, hell-bent on reliving his youth.

He furrows his brow. “What’s convenient?”

“That you want to be a teacher too.” I’ve always wanted to work with kids. In first grade, my grandparents bought me a sticker set, and I used all my parents’ printer paper making fake homework, slapping on stickers and pretending to grade them with a red pen.

My goals have changed throughout the years. I’ve gone from wanting to teach first grade, to being a principal, to high school English lit. After peer tutoring sophomore year, I found my true calling as a school counselor. What better way to flex my compulsion for planning than helping others find their paths?

One corner of his mouth tugs upward, amused. “Here we go again with the conspiracy theories. It’s really funny how you think I spend so much time thinking about you that I’d go so far as to copy your future career.”