At least that’s what I tell myself as I fix my runny mascara before getting out of my vehicle and crossing the dirt, making my way to a guy who’s carrying a clipboard and wearing a hard hat who I’m assuming is the foreman.
You can do this, Avery.
Turns out, my positivity was a clear overshot because the kitchen fiasco pretty much sums up the first half of the morning. I drop a hammer on my toe, bash my thumb, break one of the boards, and spill nails on the ground. I’d be handling it just fine, except there’s this guy who’s not even in charge, but keeps chewing me out every time I mess up and all the people around us stare every time he raises his voice. Six years ago, I’d be able to handle a guy having a tizzy tantrum, but these days, every yell sets me off like the fire alarms did this morning. I hate when people raise their voices even more than I despise loud music and chaos.
“Would you chill out,” I say in as calm of a voice as I can muster. I bend over to pick up the nails with the asshole’s shadow casting over me. “I’m trying my best.”
He’s about two inches shorter than me, in his thirties, at least fifty pounds overweight, and has a stick up his ass apparently.
“I’ll stop yelling at you girlie when you stop fucking up.” He continues getting louder every time he talks down to me.
My hands tremble. I’m not afraid or anything, but it’s a nervous tick I’ve developed over the last six years that emerges every time someone raises their voice to me—at least when a guy does.
“Really? Girlie?” I roll my eyes at him as I stand up, tucking a handful of nails back into my tool belt, realizing that we’ve drawn a little audience. “Seriously, who says that except sexist assholes with a short guy complex?”
A condescending look rises on his face and then he starts name bashing the crap out of me. It only takes about ten seconds before I have to drop the hammer and leave, otherwise I’ll lose my shit.
Tears sting at my eyes as I dash toward the outhouses near the fence line. I can feel stares following me until I lock myself in the bathroom. Then I give myself exactly one minute to cry.
One minute. That’s all.
“Get your shit together, Avery,” I whisper. “That guy isn’t Conner. He doesn’t matter, just like the past doesn’t matter. You have a new beginning which rarely happens and you need to make the most of it.” I suck in a deep breath and finally get the tears to subside. Then I head out, wishing I hadn’t put on the eyeliner because I look like a hot mess.
Wiping the smeared liner from the bottom of my eyes with my fingertips, I step into the sunlight and the busy sounds of power tools. I’m not watching where I’m going and end up running right into someone, my chest hitting their very sweaty one.
I have a flashback.
Not a good one.
And I almost run the other way.
Instead, I stumble back because someone pulls me forward, creating this strange push/pull balance. At first, I’m not sure what’s causing it, but then I realize that the person I crashed into has grabbed my arm to steady me.
“Shit, I’m sorry.” I regain my balance before I glance up at them. Then I trip over my feet again. “Tristan?” I’m at a loss for words as I stare into the sky blue eyes that belong to the guy who wrote the note I read every night.
The one exception guy.
The guy I’ve been telling myself was just one of those people who was meant to go in and out of my life. But now that he’s here in front of me, I have to wonder if I’ve been wrong.
He takes a good look at me and then recognition clicks. He seems a little startled but not as much as he should be, which makes me wonder if he noticed me earlier.
“Are you okay?” Tristan asks concernedly.
I stare at him speechlessly. He’s here and it’s so... Well, I’m not sure what it is yet.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I manage to get out.
He looks the same; blonde hair, sky-blue eyes with a hint of darkness in them, and right now, a little bit of uneasiness. The only difference between now and three months ago is that he’s scruffy around the jawline, like he’s in the early stages of growing a beard. He’s also much more underdressed than the last time I saw him, wearing a pair of worn-in jeans, work boots, and a tool belt that sits on his narrow hips. I never got to see his chest the first time we were acquainted and I find myself thinking what a shame that was as my gaze scrolls over his muscles and the intricate tattoo inking the damp flesh of his ribcage. It’s absolutely stunning, colors and patterns that curve and collide with dark lines that form a face that looks half human, half skeletal. He told me once his tattoos have meanings. I wonder what that one in particular means. One word comes to mind when I look at it though. Death.
He wipes the sweat from his chest with the palm of his hands. “Why...What are you doing here?” he asks, running his fingers through his damp hair as his gaze lingers on my eyes for a beat or two—he can tell I’ve been crying. Thankfully, he doesn’t say anything about it. He just stands there, nervously waiting for me to answer his question.
Why is he nervous?
Why am I nervous? Or at least my heart is.
And why is he here, standing in front of me?
“I’m here to work off my probation hours,” I joke nervously. When puzzlement etches his face, I hurry and add, “I’m just kidding.” I glance around at the worksite, at the saws, the drills, the people with bright yellow hardhats, and then my focus lands back on him. “I’m here to help build.”
The pucker at Tristan’s brows deepens. “You do this now? The whole Habitat thing?”
“It’s kind of a deal since they built me my own house,” I explain, scrubbing at a smudge of dirt on my forearm. “Give back what you’re given.”
“That’s good, I guess.”
“Yeah, it’s good to give back, especially when it comes to houses. You can never be too grateful to have a roof over your head.”
His lips tilt upward, but the silence that follows stretches on forever. He seems confused over something then he finally simply asks, “So then we’ll both be here for a couple of months until the house is finished, right?” An adorable full smile appears again, the same one he tried to use on me the first time we hung out. That was when I’d explained to him that I don’t do guys at all, especially cute pretty boy ones, which he seemed to find more amusing than I intended.
I fight a smile, but my mouth ends up matching his. “Well, I’ll only be here in the mornings. I’m doing half days since I have work, school, and a ton of other crap.” And suddenly my internal sunshine fades as I’m reminded that even though we’re close in age and are doing something similar now, we are far from being on the same path in life. That guys aren’t on my path.