He nods. “Exactly. People would rather see me as a stereotypical dumb jock. It’s easier than helping.”
We’re still standing close and something propels me to reach for his hand. I find myself confessing, “My mother told me I couldn’t handle school. Or life. Or people or friends. She told me the world wasn’t safe. That people weren’t safe and I was better off on my own.”
“That sounds really lonely.”
My heart aches, because truer words have never been spoken. I’ve been so lonely.
“I believed her. Every word.” I inhale and look up at his breathtaking face. “Until I came here and I met Leelee and Sierra and…all of you, and learned that good people are out there. Not perfect people, but good people, and it’s okay to trust.”
His mouth curves into a dangerous grin. “I trust you too, Starlee. It’s why I told you about my reading problem.”
I nod. “It’s why I come out here with you every day.”
The sun starts its daily path and I tug on Jake’s hand to get him to sit. He does. We do, but he does something else once we’re in our positions, side by side. He wraps his arm around my shoulder, pulling me close to his side. My heart hammers in my chest, so hard that I think it may break free from my ribs, but I don’t pull away. Trust. We’ve established it. We’re just two people out here to help one another. When there’s enough light, I crack open the book and start reading.
Any hesitation I had about going to the Wayward Sun vanishes after the cookout. I pop in and out all day, grabbing coffee and muffins. I’m not the only one that shifts. The boys start to hang around more and more. Charlie comes over twice to help me with a computer problem and then stays to upload a game on my computer and shows me how to play. Dexter quietly bakes another pie and leaves it on the doorstep, and George follows me from room-to-room as I refresh the flyers and brochures once the guests check out.
It’s not a complete surprise when I walk into the Wayward Sun one slow afternoon and find George standing in front of the mural with one paint brush between his teeth and another in his fingers. A messy palette sits on a chair.
“Wait,” I say, realization settling in, “you painted the mural?”
“Yep.”
“George,” I say, taking in the whole image. “This is incredible.”
It means more to me than it did the first time I saw it. Then, I thought it was a weird hippie thing or something. Now I get that it’s an homage to the show and characters. Not only is Baby, the car, driving down the highway, but Sam and Dean sit in the front seat. Music notes drift from the open window. Giant angel wings hover over the car. There are dozens of faces I don’t recognize because I haven’t seen that much of the show, but I do recognize their mother’s face and a few of the monsters.
“Thanks,” he says, giving me a wide, proud smile. “After each season I have to go in and update it a little, add in a few new symbolic touches.”
“I didn’t know you could
paint.” I suspected from seeing his room and the stains on his hands, but I had no idea he was this accomplished.
“Well, painting like this isn’t my real love.” He shrugs. “I prefer street art.”
“Like graffiti?”
“Yeah, but after I got arrested…”
“You got arrested? For vandalism?”
“Yeah. A few times.” He drops the paint brushes into the water cup. “The first time, my dad stopped talking to me. The second time, he threw me out of the house for a week. The third…”
My mind flashes to the scar on his back.
“I’m sorry. Well, I’m not sorry you got busted breaking the law, but I’m sorry your dad didn’t support you.”
He rubs his forehead, leaving a smear of blue paint in a line. “The social worker calls it ‘impulse control’.” His shoulders rise and fall. “I guess that’s true. I get something in my head and can’t stop myself.”
“So you switched to this kind art instead?”
“It was a condition for living here. Sierra said I could help decorate the shop, but if I got arrested for tagging again, I’d have to move out.” He smiles sadly. “She said it way nicer than my dad.”
“For what it’s worth, I think your skills are way more useful out of detention than in.” I grab a napkin off the counter and walk over. He just watches me with curious eyes as I wipe the smear of paint off his face.
There are dozens of moments like this where I learn more and more about them. Like how Charlie gets so into his game that he doesn’t even realize others are in the room. I grow to understand Sierra’s frustration with his addiction.
Slowly, though, they become a consistent part of my day, which is why I’m not surprised to find Jake and George in the office one day after I’ve completed my homework.