Feeling faint, I starfish down on the mat and cover my face with my hands. My cheeks are wet and my fingers blacken with mascara. The sight of my hands ignites a full-body sob.
Through my tears, I vaguely make out Renner hauling an old, rickety ladder from the storage room. He comes to an abrupt stop when he sees me.
“I—uhm . . . I can go, if you want?”
I eye him warily, not bothering to sit up. With one hand, Renner gives me three awkward pats on the shoulder. He wouldn’t dare touch me unless I were in dire straits, which only makes the whole situation feel even more pathetic. The last thing I need is pity comfort from J. T. Renner. He’s seen far too much of my life today.
When my tears return, he leaves the gym. For a moment, I assume he’s left entirely. But he returns with a handful of one-ply toilet paper from the bathroom and drops it in my lap.
“Thanks,” I manage before blowing my nose.
He props the ladder and stands over me. “Can I help you up?”
“I guess so.”
His mouth curls disarmingly and he tugs me by the arm without an ounce of delicacy, pulling me into a reluctant standing position. We’re mere inches from each other, almost chest to chest. I don’t think I’ve ever been so close to Renner. Two hits of his lemony scent and I’m stable on my feet.
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?”