But the longer I stare, the more I realize he just might be real and that he really does seem to be at some sort of inner peace with himself. I’d call it a miracle, but I don’t believe in miracles, not since Lexi and Ryder died and I lived. That would mean my life was the miracle, but it’s not. It should have been the other way. They should have lived and I should have died. That would have been the miracle.
“So are you just going to stand there and stare all day?” Wilson’s voice interrupts my thoughts and I realize that he’s crossing the front yard toward me.
“Sorry, I was just admiring the house,” I say, then start across the yard and meet him in the middle.
“It’s nice, right?” He nods at the almost-finished house.
“Sure.” I honestly wouldn’t call it nice. It’s small, with plain tan siding, no grass in the narrow front yard, and no front porch or shutters.
“For someone who hasn’t ever had a home, it’s nice,” he tells me, and then motions for me to follow him as he walks back to the guys working on putting up the siding.
When I get over there, he hands me a nail gun. “Get busy,” he says.
I gape at the nail gun and then at him. “You want me to help you put up siding?”
“What else are you going to do?” he asks. “Stand around and watch us put it up?”
I admire him for being so blunt and follow him over to the small pile of siding that needs to be put up. He quickly introduces me to everyone and then we pick up pieces of siding and he shows me where to put the nails. We don’t really talk about anything except lining up the siding and putting the nails in right.
There’s country music playing from an old stereo near the tools and the air smells like cigarette smoke because everyone keeps taking smoke breaks. About halfway through, I realize how comfortable I feel, but the revelation freaks me out more than it calms me.
“So what do you think?” Wilson asks as he holds a piece of siding on one side and I hold the other side.
I put the tip of the nail gun up to the siding and shoot a nail into it. “About what? Building the house?”
He nods as I put another nail in. “Yeah, does it make you feel invigorated?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.” I move the nail gun to put another nail into the siding, but he stops me, grabbing my arm.
“You want to hear the story of the family the house is for?” he asks, taking the nail gun from me.
I dither, almost afraid it’s going to be too much for me to handle. “I guess so.”
He gives my unenthusiastic attitude a disapproving look, but tells me the story anyway. “It’s for a widow and her three daughters.”
Normally I don’t ask about stuff that I know is going to be dark, but for some reason I find myself asking, “How’d her husband die?”
I can tell the moment I ask the question that it’s going to be something bad. Something that he worries I’m going to react to.
“A drunk driver.”
“Oh.” It’s all I can say. While I wasn’t drunk when I crashed the car into another car that night, I was driving too fast. It triggers something inside me and for a brief moment I think about running the hell away from this place and shoving as much crystal up my nose as I possibly can. Maybe even shoot my veins up, although it’s only part of me that wants it. The other never wants to go back to that wandering, pointless place again.
But before I can even take a step, Wilson picks up another chunk of siding and pretty much throws it at me. “Here, let’s switch jobs,” he says as I catch it with a grunt. “You put the nails in and I’ll hold up the siding.” He rolls his shoulder. “My arm’s getting f**king tired.”
I end up staying there until a couple of hours later when all the siding is put up, listening to country music and breathing in the cigarette smoke. With each piece that goes up, I feel a little bit lighter. It’s kind of amazing when I think about it. How at the moment I’m not beating myself down, but holding myself up without feeling guilty. But maybe that’s because I’m doing something good for someone who needs it. Maybe it’s because I’m making up for what I did. Who the hell knows? But I’ll take it for the moment.
After we’re done, the guys start to pack up their tools with pleased looks on their faces, like they feel the same way. Wilson explains to me that three out of the four of them are exchanging their time in order to get help on their own houses.
“Did you get a ride here?” he asks, after we’ve packed all the tools and scraps of siding into the back of an old pickup truck.
“No… I don’t have a car and my dad couldn’t drive me this morning.” I lie about the last part but only because I don’t want to think about the little argument I had with my dad. And I’m hoping that when I get back to the house, he’ll be there to take me to therapy. “So I took the bus.”
He nods at the old pickup parked in the driveway. “Come on. I’ll give you a ride.”
“You don’t have to do that,” I tell him, not wanting to be a burden.
“Quinton, quit trying to be nice and get in the f**king truck,” he says in a joking tone. “I have nothing better to do anyway.”
Again, I want to ask him if he has a family, but I don’t dare. “Thanks,” I say, then get into the passenger side of the truck and slip off my gloves.
He climbs into the driver’s side and shuts the door, then starts up the engine. The truck backfires and he laughs as he pats the top of the steering wheel. “Got to love old cars, don’t ya?” He grabs the shifter and puts it into reverse. “I personally love the classics, though.”
“What year is it?” I ask, buckling my seat belt.
“A 1962 Chevy,” he tells me as he backs up into the street. “It was actually my dad’s.” He aligns the truck and drives toward the corner of the road. “He left it to me when he died.”
“My girl… a friend of mine,” I correct myself, “got a Chevy Nova when her dad died.”
He seems really interested as he heads out of the neighborhood and toward the city. “What year?”
“I think it’s a 1969,” I reply, unzipping my coat. “It’s completely restored and everything.”
“I bet it’s a nice ride,” he remarks as he turns out onto the main road, where the lampposts are decorated with Christmas lights along with the houses.