He squeezes my fingers, his mouth curving in a ghost of a smile. “Maybe I will.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Ross
Everything... has changed. I’ve given in to her presence, her warmth, her insistence to see all of me, and I can’t deny it feels good, no matter how I try. There’s a part of me that still doesn’t wanna believe it, believe she’s here intending to stay, that she’s truly forgiven me and wants to have me, though—and that voice in my mind won’t be silenced.
Sometimes I feel... like I’m holding a woman made of flowers and stars, and she might crumble away at any moment, leaving me alone again.
Ross the poet. Hah. It sounds so stupid when I put it into words, when it’s just a feeling that fills me with unease.
Nevertheless, life has settled in a new rhythm. Quiet. Peaceful. Even Ed and his moron pals stopped hounding me.
I try not to worry over it, you know, the whole “calm before the storm” thing and all that. I’ve been running the ragged edge of despair for so long I hadn’t even realized how close I’d come to letting go—again.
I thought I was okay but it only takes a moment of happiness to realize the pain you’re normally in. Being free of it is exhilarating, as much as it’s frightening. When you’ve tasted happiness, the fall back into the dark promises to be all that much harder.
Yeah, that last thought keeps buzzing around my brain like a bee, and it’s a fucking miracle I make it through the day at work alive. I dance my way through another series of damn near accidents—a scaffold that isn’t properly screwed to the fucking construction, a slick of engine oil on the floor, a hard shove from a worker passing by, almost sending me plunging down the side of the wall I’m working on.
When I try to tell the superintendent about it, he brushes it off as my fault, accusing me of not paying attention to what I’m doing and piling the rest on what he considers the incompetence of the whole workforce.
That son of a bitch. He doesn’t give a damn.
So I go back to work, wondering if he’s right. I sure am distracted, no way out of it, torn between thoughts of kissing Luna, sinking inside her, thoughts of my missing bastard brother and his dead mother, and all the other shit bouncing around inside my head.
I wonder, is he still alive? Is he like me at all? Does his life run parallel to mine, a mirror image—does he tell stories to girls, and act all cocksure and shit, is he a fuck-up like me or did he manage to avoid the Jones’ curse?
“Watch out, boy.” Old Ben snickers at me, showing me blackened and missing teeth as he passes by. “Don’t wanna fall on your face around here. Too many chances of breaking that thick skull of yours.”
I grunt at him. He’s carrying buckets of concrete that seem way too heavy for a skinny, old guy like him. He’s strong and has been working construction for as long as I’ve known him, but today, seeing him makes me wonder whether he’s down on his luck or if he chose this life.
Sometimes circumstances choose for us. We make our choices where we can, I think as I go about my business, hauling sacks, building walls, hammering and welding and checking measurements and reading levels. It’s routine work. I manage to avoid a loose brick that happens to fall straight on top of me as I take a smoke break (a lucky sidestep saved me), and to avoid tripping over some loose iron rods (good shoes are a must, guys), and I decide that I really need to move further away from the site for my breaks.
It’s on one of those breaks that I notice Old Ben slipping on a patch of oil on the concrete floor we only poured two days ago. His skinny arms flail and I’m running toward him before I know I’m doing it, my boots thumping on packed earth. I manage to catch his arm as he’s going down, and though his ass hits the ground, I bet it’s nothing like cracking your skull open on hard concrete.
I find myself on my knees, holding on to him, and déjà vu hits me, of myself on my knees in Little River, Luna’s arms around me. A shiver hits me so hard I almost fall over.
Damn. Stop it, brain.
“Here, careful, old man.” I help him sit up properly, not hauling him to his feet just yet. “You okay?”
“Who you calling old?” he grumbles but accepts my help. Not that he has much of a choice. “I’m fine.”
But he doesn’t demand I take my hand off him and fuck off, so I stay there, watching his face for any sigh of pain. “Need me to tell the superintendent? Call a doctor?”
“Nah. My ass will be black and blue but I’ll live.”
“Yeah. You’re indestructible, aren’t ya?”
He chuckles like a hyena. “Nobody is, boy.” Then he casts a suspicious look around. “Be careful. They have it out for you,” he whispers.
Like it’s a secret.
But it sort of confirms that it’s not all in my head, for all the good it does. Like it’s any better knowing that they really want me out of the game. Man, it was actually nicer thinking it had all been in my head.
Hey, at least out here things are the same as before. No pending disaster, no more than usual. No tsunami waiting to hit the calm shore when you have to keep an eye on everything that might get you killed. No time to sit and obsess over it, either.
I let go of Old Ben to get up. My knees burn. Betcha I skinned them real good, even through the thick denim. I reach a hand down for him. “You good, then?”