But men are gross. They leave the toilet seat up, and according to a study I once read, fecal matter sprays into the air when toilets flush. The bacteria can get on everything. No, thank you.
I brush out my hair, pull it up into a ponytail, and then look around the neat bedroom for something. Anything.
I don’t want to leave the room, and I might be repacking tomorrow, but if nothing else, at least I didn’t think about my parents while I was unpacking. Or while I was mad at Jake earlier.
Blowing out a breath, I walk out of the room, closing the door behind me, and head downstairs. A drill whirs from the shop, and I hear a pounding in the front of the house, so I head outside, knowing I don’t know shit about building motorcycles.
Jake stands off to my left, planting his arm against the house and hammering a piece of siding.
“Can I help?” I ask reluctantly.
But I don’t look him in the eye.
He stops hammering, and out of the corner of my eye I see him look over at me.
“Come and hold this,” he instructs.
I step down off the porch.
Treading through the grass, I approach his side and fit my hands next to his, taking over holding the board for him. He points a nail at the board and pounds that one in before adding two more.
He reaches down to pick up another piece of wood, and I follow his lead, helping him, but then I catch sight of something on his waist. His T-shirt is tucked back into his back pocket again, and I try to make out the tattoo.
My Mexico. It’s in dark blue script, an arch over his left hip, on the side of his torso, just above his jeans line.
I hold the next board for him as he puts a nail into the center, and then I spot another hammer in the nearby toolbox and take it out with a nail from the coffee can.
I place the point on the wood and Jake taps the space about an inch over from where I have it. “Right there,” he instructs and swipes his hand up, showing the line of nails on all the previous boards. “Follow the pattern.”
I nod, moving the nail. I tap, tap, tap, aware of his eyes on me.
“Here, like this,” he says and reaches toward me.
But I pull the hammer and nail away, seeing him immediately back off.
Putting it back in place, I hammer the nail into the house, accidently hitting the edge and bending the piece of metal. I clench my teeth and dig out the nail, replacing it with another and trying again.
He’s still staring at me.
“I won’t learn anything if you don’t give me a chance,” I tell him.
He moves, a hint of humor in his voice. “I didn’t say anything.”
We continue working in silence, both of us lifting board after board, pounding nail after nail. My pace quickens, and he watches me less and less, probably because I’m not slowing him down anymore, although this is a two-person job. Why wasn’t Noah helping him? He’s in the garage, but this would’ve moved a lot faster than trying to do it alone.
Noah’s words from this morning come back to me, and the meaning behind them finally hits me now, hours later.
They don’t get along, do they?
And I almost smile a little. I suddenly feel a slight measure of camaraderie with Noah.
Jake picks up a board, and I take my end, both of us fitting it right underneath the previous piece of siding, but as I slide my hand down its length for a better hold, something sharp digs into my skin, and I hiss.
I drop my end of the board and bring my hand up, seeing a long, thick piece of wood imbedded into my palm.
Wincing, I gently tug at the half still sticking out, increasing the force when it doesn’t budge. A sting shoots through my hand, and I need more light.
But before I can turn around to head into the house, Jake takes my hand and inspects the splinter.
I try to pull away. “I got it.”
But he ignores me.
Focusing on my hand, he presses down on my skin where the sliver is embedded, holding it in place before he snaps it in half, breaking off the slack.
I jerk, sucking in air between my teeth.
“Who taught you to shoot?” he asks, poking at the rest of the splinter. “I can’t imagine Hannes taking up any outdoor activity that didn’t include a yacht or a golf cart.”
I shoot my eyes up to his face. That’s two digs today.
Jake’s eyes flash to me for a moment like he’s waiting for me to say something. “You’re not sad at the mention of him.”
It’s an observation, not a question.
My shoulders tense, a little self-conscious, because I know what he expects.
I’m not acting right, and he’s noticed.