Page 67 of Missed Sunrise
Nodding, I started handing over the frames at a rapid pace, taking him in as much as I could through my stinging eyes.
AJ was terrified of storms, but there he was. Sitting in a tree during one, waiting for me.
I understood nothing.
After easing out of the window and onto the overhang, I pushed it closed, though I wasn’t sure it even mattered, and took a deep breath of thick, clean air.
I choked on it and had to endure several painful, raking coughs as AJ shimmied down the ladder, shaking like a leaf, with a stack of frames under one arm.
I perched halfway down the ladder and handed over the rest of the loot to him once he’d reached the ground, and we worked wordlessly until it was almost done. I was just pulling the last of the frames—the biggest and heaviest—across the branch and into my hands when the sky did another massive bass drop and evaporated my senses. The frame went flying like a frisbee, well past AJ’s shaking form, and I followed it, flinging myself off the ladder, the quietest whisper of grunt leaving me as I hit the ground and barrel-rolled across Miss Barb’s backyard.
Panting, I lay on my back and faced a stormy sky.
Miss Barb, was that you?
I hadn’t died, so perhaps she wasn’t that mad.
AJ’s face appeared above me, framed by turbulent clouds. “I hate you, Cody Desmond.”
An overdue burst of air left my lungs like a tractor-trailer releasing its brakes before I rasped, “Right back at you, Ace.”
He disappeared from view, and I closed my eyes as I tried to find the energy to get up, my body throbbing. Eventually, AJ plopped down beside me, and as one does after a perceivednear-death experience, I said things I normally wouldn’t have dreamed of saying.
“I don’t know why you did what you did. I’m not even sure I want to know.” I cracked my eyes open at him. “And honestly, I have a feeling you don’t know either. But it’s not up to me, or to her, to fix it. Or to even want to at this point.”
There. I could be mature.
A few long seconds of silence followed until, without a word, AJ got up and walked away, one hand in his pocket and the other clutching his soiled suit jacket.
I let him get a long head start before I ambled to my feet with a groan, taking it slowly as I reoriented myself to Earth. Then I scooped up the frame I’d thrown and headed back through the woods to my truck, where I found all the frames stacked neatly in my truck bed.
AJ was gone.
18
Liem
“We’re making photo frames today,”Uncle Gil announced with no pomp or preamble whatsoever.
Our lack of blood relation had never been so apparent.
“Stations have been set up at each table. For those of you who prefer to remain in your wheelchair or use your mobility aids, I’ve removed the chairs from a few stations, so just take one of those.”
Uncle Gil turned back to his sketch pad, on which he’d drafted a lesson plan on the way over here, and I beamed at him, approving of his thoughtful language, but he ignored me and stayed on task.
No, not a single shared gene.
Taking the hint, I left him to it and breezed around the room, chatting with the class participants and helping them get set up.
I thought back to the call Ari had received this morning that had led us to this moment. We’d almost finished eating breakfast together at the condo’s small dining table when Ari answered her phone and listened intently to the person on the other end,turned her wide eyes to me and Uncle Gil before she gasped, and declared that she knew just the two young men who could teach a class today.
Uncle Gil had begrudgingly agreed and mused out loud about the materials we’d need to grab from the hardware store, and within the hour, we were on our way to the Live Oak Community Center in Uncle Gil’s beautiful, older-model jeep. Jillie—the woman who had called Ari—was to the point and helpful as she let us in the front doors when we arrived. With its spacious rooms and hallways and meticulous cleaning protocols, the Locc was quite welcoming, but with its outdated wallpaper, stock depictions of the Gulf Coast and lighthouses mounted on just about every wall, and an unfortunate commitment to fluorescent lighting, it also was kind of drab.
I knew more than I should about the layout and décor of the place because of my minor B&E to get inside it when I’d been in Gulf Shores at New Year’s.
“Psssssst,” a voice beckoned from behind me. “Young man with the gorgeous tattoos.”
I pivoted on the spot, my new boots squeaking against the tile. Uncle Gil had pulled over at a store on the way to the Locc, insisting I pick up some boots after eyeballing the hole in my who-knows-how-many-years-old sneakers. He’d held back on his short but sweet spiel about safety when working with tools—the same one he’d given to me and Vinh a hundred times before—but I wouldn’t have minded if he had given the lecture. There were few things better than the experience of listening to someone speak on things from the rare platform of both passion and expertise.
