Best Laid Plans (Garnet Run 2)

Charlie stood with his hands on his hips and surveyed the scene, looking utterly at home in the midst of controlled demolition.

“You got a lot more done than I expected,” he said, and Rye rolled his eyes.

“Thanks for the superlow expectations, bro,” Jack said, and Rye liked him three percent more. “Hey, Van. Rach.”

“You know that’s not what I meant,” Charlie said.

“I know,” Jack said, shooting a look at Rye.

Charlie turned to Rye. “That wasn’t what I meant. I think with Rachel and Van’s help we can finish today. I’ll get the ladder for the second floor.”

“Okay,” Rye said, as if any of this was actually being run past him.

He tried to redo his ponytail to eliminate the hair that had escaped to cling to his neck in sweaty strands and hissed as his abused hands stung.

At the sound, Charlie crossed to him, took his hands, and turned them palm up. He frowned at the red, pinched skin and the blisters beginning to emerge on his fingers.

“You should’ve worn gloves,” he scolded.

But whereas before Rye had felt reprimanded, now he saw clearly that Charlie’s reproach was on his behalf. Charlie ran his fingertips over Rye’s reddened palms and cringed.

“Jack, why didn’t you make him wear gloves?”

“Cuz I’m not his dad,” Jack said. “I offered.”

That was true.

“I’m fine,” Rye said.

“You won’t be tomorrow,” Charlie forecast darkly. “I’ve got some salve at home.”

He squeezed Rye’s shoulder and began carrying armfuls of debris outside to the pile they’d begun.

At home.

Vanessa and Rachel had clearly done this before—they worked as an efficient unit, finding time to tease Jack about something that Rye couldn’t quite track.

“Are you afraid of heights?” Charlie asked, and when Rye shook his head, showed him how to pull shingles off the roof.

From the ladder, he could see more of Jack and Simon’s house—could see, as well, the swath of trees surrounding them in every direction, tops so soft and green that Rye felt like if he fell backward onto them, he’d be cradled like a baby.

The sky was crayon blue and the clouds were perfectly fat and white, like the drawings in a storybook, and why the hell couldn’t he stop thinking about Charlie?

And watching him. The breadth of his shoulders and the gentleness of his corrections. The way he squinted slightly when he was thinking and how the muscles of his back moved under the soft fabric of his green and black flannel shirt.

After they’d removed the shoddy shingles, Charlie declared the roof beams salvageable. When Rye climbed down the ladder, he nearly collided with Charlie. For a moment their eyes locked, then Charlie kept walking.

Three hours, two minor injuries, and one snake later, the house was down to its gnarled bones.

Charlie ordered pizza for everyone and they ate leaning against his truck with the pizza boxes in the bed.

“Remember the time Charlie hired Jack and me to demo that lake house?” Vanessa was saying. Rye, of course, did not remember that time, and his attention drifted. He ate a piece of pizza without tasting it.

Everyone was laughing and Charlie was smiling and shaking his head while Jack and Vanessa looked sheepish. Rye shot a glance at Simon, who was standing next to Jack. He was leaning in, body language signaling that he was paying attention, but his eyes were fixed on his feet.

Jack had a casual arm around his waist. Vanessa and Rachel were leaning against each other. Were they a couple, too? Vanessa caught him looking and shot him a wink, then squeezed Rachel closer. Rye grinned at them. Apparently he’d fallen into the queer web without even trying.

Jack and Simon soon took off, citing a need to walk the dogs, and Vanessa and Rachel followed a few minutes later. Rye carried out a few more loads of debris, but as the sun set, it became harder and harder to see. When he tripped over a hunk of drywall and Charlie caught him by the arm, Charlie declared the workday over.

“You can leave your car,” Charlie offered, since they’d be coming back together the next day. It sounded pretty great not to have to lift his arms to operate a steering wheel, so Rye climbed into the passenger seat without complaint, groaning as he settled back against the cushions.

Charlie started talking about the dumpster and something about the roof but Rye couldn’t pay attention. Lassitude crept through every limb. He said “Mmm-hmm” every now and tried to nod but wasn’t quite certain his head actually moved. Charlie said something as they pulled into the driveway and Rye Mmm-hmmd him, and Charlie snorted.

When Rye tried to get out of the car, his muscles locked in place, and he groaned as he jolted to the pavement.

“Whoa,” Charlie said.

“Mfine,” Rye said. “Just need a shower.”

* * *

The hot water did help, and Rye slouched toward the kitchen, where Charlie was pulling a pizza out of the oven and beer out of the fridge. Though he’d had a slice earlier, Rye’s stomach growled. He could never get sick of pizza.