Page 56 of The Tomorrows After You
“You should be proud. I know Iam.”
My heartclenched, and Iclutchedthe paper to my chest.
I think it’s just been a really long time...
I reminded myself that I was leaving. But I kept the note as proof that something had been real here.
The final walk-through made sure all the rides, games, A/V, and vendors were all set up. I gave an interview to one of the regional TV stations and the buzz around the event was surprising to all of us. The planning and last-minute setup had all gone so smoothly that it was hardly an hour before I returned to Riot’s house.
I pulled a fresh shirt on and caught a glimpse of him inside his work tent, with the flaps pulled back, letting air blow through the space. He was holding a drill, sweat dripping from his forehead and a small darker stain trailing down his back. He was reaching up, twisting a bolt into what looked like the blade of a ceiling fan. His biceps flexed under his tan skin and my mouth went dry. It hurt to even look at him.
Making a quick decision, I grabbed two beers out of the fridge and let the screen door to the lanai slam shut to let him know I was coming.
He looked up, that signature scowl on his face, squinting into the sun. When his gaze landed on me, I could have sworn I saw his eyes soften just a bit, but I shook it off, chalking it up to the sudden cloud that drifted in front of the sunlight. I appraised his work.
“This is incredible… what’ll it be?” I asked.
He almost cracked a grin and gave one of the fan blades a little spin.
“Not quite done yet.”Ihandedhim a beer, and hetookit with an appreciative nod,sluggingdown almost half of it in one gulp.“Everything teed up for the big day?”he asked, wiping his hands on a rag.
I nodded, relieved we were settling into a comfortable, albeit mundane, conversation.
“Surprisingly, yes. I’m a little nervous, waiting for the other shoe to drop or something but, knock on wood, everything is ready to rip. Are you selling this piece?” I noticed his booth was still empty during the walk-through.
“No,” he said, turning his gaze on me. “I’m not letting this one go.”
His eyespinnedme with a hard stare and Isuckedin a quick breath. He didn’t elaborate, so I didn’t push.
Igavehim a tight-lippedsmile. It stillbuggedme that he didn’t feel like he could sell his own art. Ihadn’tthoughtabout what he might do with the Farmer’s Market booth when Iwasgone, and a remorseful sorrownestledin my gut.
Shadingmy eyes, Istudiedthewhirling metal. It was a beautiful shell. Compiled of imperfect pieces, arranged to come together for something incredible. But itfeltabsent of something. Like its heartbeatwasmissingand justneededone last contribution to make it come alive.
“I’m going to bring the load over shortly,” he said. He hesitated, meeting my gaze. “Want to come with me? Direct me to the booth?”
Iwantedto say no, but maybe thiswasthe ideal time to talk to him about my moving out.
“Yeah, happy to.” I nodded, and I saw one corner of hislips twitch.
The ride overwassilent. My handsitchedto turn on the radio but I didn’t want to riskhearingthat stupid “One Headlight” song again. I don’t know if mywastedheart could take it. As soon as weparked, Ispilledout of the truck,needingspace.
As we unloaded his pieces, I was viscerally aware of his body moving around mine like we were dancing. We worked together harmoniously, and I was reminded of the way we worked in tandem, washing dishes at the Center.
At one point Imovedright, hemovedleft, and we did that awkward dodge where we bothtriedto move in a different direction. Iletout a chuckle, coming to stillness in front of him. Withoutthinking, Iputmy hands on his hips andspunus 180 degrees.
Something in his eyes jumped when I touched him, and a bolt of electricity shot through my body. Our eyes met and my lips parted, trying to suck in more air, feeling lightheaded. But that only brought back the smell of sweat, musk, and metal filling my lungs.
Shit, he still smells good.Like man and machine and safety and sturdiness. My chestconstrictedand a warmthspreadbetween my hips. The airbeganto feel thick.
Iwasstruckwith a need to make things better between us. With my departurelooming, itwasthe right thing to do, the least I could offer us both. The idea ofleavingwithout some kind of resolutionseemedwrong. All the while, a part of meyearnedfor the wayhe’dwovehis fingers through my hair during that“mistake”of a kiss.
He broke our gaze as if just realizing something and moved to shut his tailgate. I busied myself with arranging and rearranging the artwork on his table. He needed more display materials. The pieces sat haphazardly on the table and ground. I made a mental note to grab some of the old crates and burlap that I’d come to use for displays at the Farmer’s Market.
Maybe I could load them in Riot’s truck and we could go to the carnival together. Thethoughtmademy heart leap.Like a date?No, that would be ridiculous. But still, I did want to grab those crates, and I certainly couldn’t carry them on the bike.
My heart thudded in my chest, an adolescent insecurity gripping my throat about asking him for a goddamn ride.
“Would you, maybe, want to head over in the morning? Together? Like, in one car, I mean,”Istammered, my facereddening.
