Twenty-Three; Blaise
"Where have you been?" Brenda pounces the moment I walk through the door.
"Out. With Wyatt."
"You didn't come home last night." Her eyes scan my body, clothed in Wyatt's sweats. Paired with my smeared mascara and messy topknot, I know what she must think, and I honestly don't care.
"Good observation." I brush past her toward my room. She follows.
"You didn't call." She stands in my doorway, glaring.
"What are you going to do, ground me? Are you really trying to play the disappointed parent?"
"I wasn't disappointed, Blaise. I was worried."
I look up at her face, really look at her this time, and see the dark circles under her eyes and tense lines around her mouth.
"Sorry, I should have let you know I was safe, at least." Her eyes soften, then focus in on the dress and shoes dangling from my arm.
"So you're sleeping with the neighbor boy now, too?" It takes me a moment to process her unexpected question.
"That's none of your business. And what do you mean, too?"
"It is my business. You're my daughter and I don't want to see you get hurt. And it's a bad example for Eliza." I roll my eyes. The suggestions that she cares about my pain and that I'm more of a threat to Eliza than her are so absurd they're almost comical. "And you know exactly what I mean by 'too'."
I'm genuinely perplexed. "I really don't."
"I assume you're also sleeping with James. I honestly don't know which is a worse choice." Wait, what?
"I'm not sleeping with James. God, I barely even know him. Why would you even say that?" Her question is inappropriate and completely unfounded. And really offensive.
"Please. I'm not stupid. I saw the way you stumbled all over yourself when you saw him yesterday. And I saw the way he watched you, too. I know men. That man is either halfway in love with you, or halfway in lust. Either way, be careful there."
"He is not."
"He couldn't wait to get you alone. If anyone found out that's how you got your scholarship - "
The accusation shocks and stings like slap across the face. It's a low blow, even from her. How dare she judge me? She doesn't even know me.
"You may not know this, since you don't know me nearly as well as the bottom of a pill bottle, but I am smart and talented and worked my ass off. That's how I got my scholarship."
"Then be careful with that one. Because regardless of your merits, that's exactly what people will assume. What they'll say."
She leaves the room, but her warning hangs in the air between us.
***
James smiles at me as he climbs the porch steps, two at a time. I didn't hear him drive up; he must have parked at Martha's. The old porch swing I'm sitting on creaks every time I rock back on the tips of my toes. He glances at the hook on the ceiling and raises an eyebrow.
"The swing needs some WD40, add that to the list." He sits next to me and points at the notepad on my lap. "Can I see it?"
"Sure." I hand him the to-do list that already takes three-fourths of the sheet.
Sitting in the swing, my toes barely sweep the surface of the porch floor, but his long legs easily reach, his feet anchoring us and stopping the swing's easy, gentle movement. His large frame takes up more than half of the small swing, but there's still space between us. We are still and separate, but it feels anything but. I can still sense the movement all around us, the transfer of energy between our bodies.
We work through the list item by item. Things like the creaky swing, overgrown lawn, and leaky faucets we can handle ourselves. He gives me recommendations for the water damage to the screened-in back porch and the outdated breaker box.
He divides the DIY section into two categories and focuses intently on the task while I focus intently on him. He's so serious, so meticulous with something as minor as a chore list. "What do you want to tackle first, inside or out?"
"Probably outside. It'll be easier to tackle indoor projects when Eliza's not home. She's into everything these days."
"She's cute, Eliza." My eyes follow his gaze and I see my mom through the storm door, holding Eliza and pacing back and forth across the floor. Eliza's getting so tall her little feet almost reach my mom's knees. I watch James watch my mom and Eliza, and I swear his eyes mist over. He's smiling, but still seems so sad and distant.
He clears his throat and looks back at the notepad. "Do you have a lawn mower?" He absentmindedly runs the edge of the pen across his bottom lip and my eyes can't help but follow the movement, examining the curves and angles, the slim strip of skin between his smooth, pink lip and his coarse, dark beard.
"Mower? Yeah. In the garage."
"Good, I can mow if you want." I can feel the heat of his eyes on the side of my face but can't bring myself to look up right now. I shift in my seat and keep my eyes trained on the notepad, furrowing my brow to make it appear I'm reading. He stretches back and we start to rock, back and forth.
"No, that's an easy one for me. Can you take care of the swing and the loose hinges on the door?" My eyes scan his tall frame, "You can reach without a ladder and I'm sure you can screw harder."
The second the words escape my lips I want to pull them back in. My face heats and I hang my head at the same time the swing stops and he looks down at me, chuckling.
"Oh my God, that came out wrong." I'm speaking to my lap because I cannot look at him right now.
"It's fine."
"I just meant you're obviously taller and probably stronger and can probably tighten screws on the door hinges better than I could. And -"
"Blaise, I knew what you meant. Yes, I'll take care of the door." He's still laughing.
The screen door creaks as Brenda pushes through, holding two glasses of ice water.
"It's hotter than a whore in church out here. Y'all need to stay hydrated." She extends a glass to James. "And don't stay out here too long. The heat index is insane today."
"I think we'll survive," I snap, with more attitude than I intend. Her uncharacteristically saccharine demeanor annoys me.
"This should only take a few hours," James adds.
"Oh good. Blaise, that'll give you some time this afternoon to spend with Eliza. She was disappointed when you didn't come home last night after your date."
The gentle sway of the swing suddenly halts. I dare a glance at James from the corner of my eye. His jaw is clenched and his muscles are tense, but his expression is otherwise neutral. My mother, on the other hand, eyes me with a knowing smirk.
He picks back up a moment later. Back and forth, back and forth. It's not easy anymore. The movement of the swing feels mechanical, forced. The groaning of the hinges turn from soothing to annoying.
"Well, ya'll have fun. I need to get back in there with Eliza. Just holler if y'all need anything." She turns and goes back in the house, the screen door slamming behind her.
The tension is palpable and I need some space. I stand without warning, tumbling forward a little when the swing hits the back of my legs.
"Sorry," he says, reaching out for my arm to steady me. The jolt of his skin on mine is too much; I practically run to the steps.
He follows me to the garage to gather supplies. He starts on the porch, tightening the hinges on the doors, while I start mowing the front yard.
I watch him the entire time I cut the grass. I watch the graceful way his muscles ripple and flex when he reaches, almost like it's a choreographed performance. I watch the way the crease between his eyes deepens and he rubs the coarse hair of his chin when he's problem solving. But mostly I watch how he watches me when he thinks I'm not looking. I enjoy it entirely too much for someone with a boyfriend. Maybe my mother was right.
He finishes the door and swing while I'm only halfway done with the front yard and gestures toward the garage. I assume he's going to put his supplies away, so I'm surprised when I see him walking toward the flower bed with a pair of gloves, a spade and two large bags of potting soil.
I opened one of the bags yesterday and took a few scoops to plant a few herbs in the kitchen windowsill. I try to yell my warning to him, but he can't hear me over the sound of the mower. He throws the first bag down on the flower bed immediately in front of him. I turn off the mower right when he raises the second bag over his head, presumably to toss it in the adjacent flower bed. A small stream of soil trickles out, then the entire bag bursts, rich potting soil coating him from his face to feet. He takes off his sunglasses and I can't help but laugh. He's covered in a layer of brown dirt with the exception of two clean patches around his eyes.
He glares at me for a second while I laugh, unable to control myself. After a few moments his face breaks out in a grin too, and he joins me.
"I'm happy I'm so entertaining. But can you get me a towel?" He laughs with me as he says it.
"Why don't you just go in and clean up in the bathroom?" I offer. He makes a face like I just asked him to sacrifice a puppy.
"Do you have any idea what kind of mess that would make? I should dust off as much as possible outside first."
"Okay," I shrug as I grab the water hose at my feet and aim it at him.
"Blaise, no! That will just make me..." He shouts at the same time I turn on the hose, the water soaking his chest, the sludgy water running down his arms and legs in rivulets.
"Muddy." He deadpans. I laugh so hard I have to clamp my hand over my mouth.
"Oh my God, that's so much worse," I giggle as he tries to use his muddy hands to wipe the dirt off his face. He only succeeds in smearing the soil over his skin.
"Are you going to get me a towel now? Or are you just going to continue laughing at me?" He's still grinning at me playfully, and God he's gorgeous. I like fun, carefree James.
"I think I'm just going to continue laughing at you."
"Is that so?" His face transforms from a jovial expression to something darker, more sinister, in a moment. Without warning, he lunges forward and grabs my wrist. I understand what he's trying to do and turn to run, but he pulls me toward him and lifts me from the ground, my back to his chest, my feet flailing in the air, as he rubs his muddy chest on my back and his muddy arms across mine. Finally, I surrender and humbly accept my just desserts.
He puts me down, in the middle of a full belly laugh, and looks me over from head to toe. I give him my sassiest pout and put my hands on hips. He does the same, imitating my mock fury. Joke's on him, though, because his shirt is covered in mud from hip to hip.
"Okay, okay, we're even." I raise my hands in surrender.
"Not quite," he says, looking down at himself, "But close enough to call a truce. Why don't you go inside and get some towels now? I might as well rinse the rest of this off." I reluctantly walk past him toward the front door when he grabs my wrist again, lightly this time.
"Hey Blaise?" he asks, tugging slightly on my hand. I take a few steps toward him until there's only an inch or two between us. He looks down at me and I feel the pull again. I momentarily lose all ability to process rational thought, my breath hitching as he slowly raises his hands to my cheeks. He smears thick dirt down both sides of my face before I realize what he's doing.
I screech and shove against his chest, then try to wipe my dirty arms on him, but he just pulls me in again, rubbing the soil into the front of my shirt as well.
"I am going to murder you!" I squeal through my laughter as I wriggle in his arms and unsuccessfully attempt to wipe the dirt from my face on his shirt.
"See now, you already yelled that in front of the neighbors. Now that there are witnesses, the word 'premeditation' is going to get thrown around the courtroom." He's still holding me close and smirking down at me, and I get lost staring at his full lips and sweet dimple for a moment before his words sink in. In front of the neighbors. Witnesses.
I suddenly realize how this probably appears, me laughing in his arms and him smiling down at me. I look up and across the street and see Mrs. Jones on her front porch, leaning against a post, beaming. I look to the left, next door, and see Jodi Montgomery on her front porch, her arms crossed over her chest, scowling.
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