“That’s a really long time not to go home, Avery.”
I shove my phone into my pocket. “Yeah, I have my reasons.”
“Reasons for not going home? Or reasons for asking about home?”
“Both,” I admit truthfully. No one’s heard anything from my mother in over a year. I have to wonder if maybe Tristan might know something, considering his past kind of crosses over with my mother’s. And even though I don’t want to look for her personally, Jax’s words echo in my mind.
It’d be nice to know if she was dead or alive.
“Well, I’m sure it’s the same old same old, since nothing there ever changes,” he says as we turn around and start back toward the table saw. “Why did you leave, though? I mean other than the obvious factor.”
“And what is the obvious factor?” I ask, knowing full well what he’s talking about but I don’t want to acknowledge it. That I lived in a place where most people went nowhere, stuck in the rut that continues to repeat through generations. And while I did go somewhere, it wasn’t necessarily a good place in the beginning.
“You really don’t know the answer to that?” He kicks a rock across the driveway and it skitters toward the outhouses.
I sigh as we arrive at the coolers by the driveway. “Well, I get that you have to leave the state if you want anything to happen in your life,” I say, retrieving a mini size bag of licorice from my back pocket.
He brushes strands of his hair out of his eyes then unfastens the tool belt from his waist. “So that’s why you left? To make something happen?”
I shrug, not wanting to lie to him, but I can’t tell him the truth either. “More or less.” I chew on a piece of licorice and offer Tristan one, which he takes. “And I like it here a lot better than in Wyoming.” Lifting the lid of the cooler, I grab a bottle of water then sit down on the ground. “It’s warmer. And different. And near the ocean.”
He places the tool belt on the ground then takes a seat beside me with the licorice hanging from his lips like a cigarette. “Do you go to the ocean a lot?”
I unscrew the cap from the bottle of the water. “Sometimes.”
He picks at the scab on the side of his hand. “I’ve never actually seen the ocean before.”
I pour a bit of water down the back of my neck, but it’s only lukewarm and isn’t as refreshing as I hoped. “Never? Really?”
He rests back on his hands. “I’m not sheltered or anything. I’ve just spent most of my life doing pointless shit that never took me anywhere.” He looks so depressed and perhaps that’s why I say what I do next.
“Well, maybe I could take you there sometime,” I suggest, practically strangling the water bottle in my hand. “It’s only like an hour drive or something, and we’re supposed to be friends so... I mean, friends go to the beach right?”
He stares at me then sits up and gently pries the water bottle from my death grip. “You really want to do that? Go to the beach and hang out with me?” He seems doubtful.
“Sure. Why not?” I say indifferently, but my fidgetiness doesn’t match my words.
“I can think of a few reasons.” He eyes me over as he opens the bottle and pours water all over his neck and down his shirt. The wet fabric clings to his muscles, which is almost as bad as him being shirtless.
I gawk at him, temporarily wishing that I didn’t make up that stupid rule.
“Still want me to keep it on?” he asks, grabbing the hem of his damp t-shirt like he’s going to tug it over his head.
“Yes.” My mouth feels as dry as sand. I snatch the water from him and devour it while he laughs at me. When I finish it, I get up and dust the dirt off my ass. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go to work.”
He stands up and stretches out his legs. “But I thought you didn’t work until later at night?”
“Normally I don’t, but it’s Friday night and Benny is interviewing for a temporary carder at the front door. Things get a little intense around this time of year so he always hires extra help on the weekends for a couple of months until things taper off when the weather gets cooler. I’m supposed to help with the interviews because he seems to think I have a good sense of people’s characters. Although, according to Charissa, it’s because he wants to get into my pants.”
“I’ve seen the way he looks at you,” Tristan says, annoyed. “I think Charissa might be on to something.”
“You sound jealous,” I joke over the excruciating truth—that the only reason I still have the job at the bar is because Benny does want to get into my pants. I wish I could quit, but I can’t afford to.
“I am.” Tristan’s expression is dead serious.
A tiny rush of approval shoots through me, but I bury the feeling down. Not going down that road. “But it’s a job so it doesn’t matter, does it?”
“Tell that to Nova,” he mutters in aggravation. “She’s been on my case to get a job.”
“She seems like a smart girl.” I nudge his foot with mine. “What? Pretty Boy doesn’t want to work?”
“No, that’s not it.” His jaw is set tight. “I really, really fucking do. Badly. In fact I’m becoming desperate at this point.” He yanks his fingers through his hair, stressed out. “I’m just having a hard time finding a job when I’ve only worked as a dealer.”
“But you’re going to school, right?” I wonder why he suddenly appears so stressed out about this. “That has to help.”
He shrugs as his arm falls to his side. “Not really. No one wants to take a chance on a twenty-three-year old ex-druggie/dealer, who has no work history and whose major is general studies.” He doesn’t look at me. “It’s pretty clear how much of a waste I am.”
“Hey, you’re not a waste.” This time I kick his foot in a very serious manner. “I hate when people do that—feel sorry for themselves.”
“I’m not feeling sorry for myself.” He gazes out at the road in front of the house. “It’s just the truth.”
“No, it’s not,” I argue persistently. “And whoever told you that is a fucking liar.”
He glances at me from the corner of his eye. “Who said anyone told me that? Maybe I arrived at that conclusion all by myself.”