Chapter Six

AARON

“Put those in the back of my truck. Thanks, man.” Making the best of what I have on hand, I take a wet towel and wipe my arms and face down, trying to remove as much sawdust as possible.

“Want me to hose you off in the back?” Racer calls out after he puts my toolbox in my truck.

“Last time you did that, you thought it was funny to spray the water between my ass cheeks.”

Racer laughs—a little too hard—because the man always loves his own ludicrous antics. “You were the one who took your panties off.”

Idiot.

I tip my head forward and brush through my hair to get as much sawdust out as possible. “I don’t wear panties, jackass, and I took off my boxer briefs because you thought it would be funny to pour sawdust down my pants.”

“It was funny.” He smirks at me.

“That shit is going to catch up to you, you know.”

He leans against my truck, arms crossed. “Already has. Georgie is giving me a run for my money. I don’t let her know it though, or else she’d get a big head.”

“Good to know you’re getting what’s deserved.” I take my shirt off and hang it on the side of my truck. Grabbing the towel, I give myself one more wipe, hoping I’m not too disgusting. I don’t have time to make the trip back to my house from the job site to take a shower so this will have to do. I lean into my truck, grab my change of shirt and deodorant, giving myself a few extra swipes.

“This hobo bath you’re giving yourself is impressive. Where are you off to?”

I slip my clean T-shirt over my head, appreciating that it smells like fresh laundry. I pull on a baseball hat and adjust it on my head. “Going to help Mr. Buster. It’s mid-October, you know what that means.”

“Still volunteering?”

“Yeah.” I let out a long breath and take a quick gulp of the Mountain Dew Tucker brought me earlier. It’s a little hot and a little flat, but I still guzzle it down. “It’s hard to say no to Barney Buster. He corners you and twitches his eye at you until you agree to help him out.” As much as I’m happy for my friends finding their women, I miss their availability. We used to shoot the shit about everything because we were always together. Now? Not so much. Wouldn’t say anything to them, but I miss my friends, despite having to put up with their shit each day at work. I cap my drink and look Racer in the eye. “Plus, it keeps me busy. Now that you and Tucker are living in relationship bliss, I’ve tried to occupy my freed-up time with little projects and hobbies.”

“Hobbies?” Racer pushes off my truck and raises an eyebrow at me. “Did you start up a knitting club with your geriatric neighbors?”

“No,” I scoff. He doesn’t need to know about the night I spent at Mrs. Wickham’s house with her “cronies” teaching me how to knit. That little factoid will be buried with me . . . along with my attempt at knitting myself a sock.

“Why do I feel like you’re lying?” he presses with a giant grin on his face.

“Because you would want nothing more than for me to be a knitting old fart who stays home on Friday nights, bitching about the street youth.”

“Pretty much.” He laughs.

It’s sad that I feel two knitting needles away from becoming that man.

I pat him on the shoulder. “Sorry to disappoint, but I haven’t taken up knitting.” Eh, not lately. “I need to get out of here or else I’m going to be late. Say hi to Georgie for me. See you tomorrow, man.”

I hop in my truck, start her up, and pull out of the housing development we’ve been working at. It’s our first project as JMW Builders and even though it’s stressful, I couldn’t be prouder of our work. Starting the business a few months ago was a risk, but with the financial backing of the biggest lumber and concrete yard owners in the area, it has been a huge blessing. Materials are cheap, our reputation for hard work helps us win contracts, and our attention to detail is starting to give us a great name. Tucker, Racer, and I always daydreamed of being our own bosses but it always felt like a pipe dream, and yet, it’s so fucking real.

I’m not too far from my destination, so I don’t bother turning up the radio or trying to find a song to listen to; it’s probably because I need time to think. It’s been a week since Amelia moved in next door and besides some awkward waves and helping her unload her car, we haven’t interacted much.

And I know I told her I would leave her alone, but it’s almost impossible not to yearn to be near her when I know she’s only twenty feet away in another house. It’s actually torture, knowing the girl who still owns my heart is so close, and yet miles upon miles away from me.

I want to give her space, especially since she’s in a relationship with another man, but I also want to at least talk to her, clear the air. I don’t want her to hate me, and I want her to know my decision to break us up was selfless.

But would she believe me at this point?

Would she forgive me?

I rub my temple while I wait at a stoplight, trying to ward off a threatening headache. A buzzing in my pocket pulls me from my thoughts.

My phone.

Still waiting to drive, I look at the caller ID right before I answer.

“Hi, Mom.”

“Sweetheart.” She coughs into the phone a few times. “How are you?”

“Good.” Thankfully my phone is attached through the Bluetooth in my truck so I can drive and talk without getting a ticket. New York State police officers are ruthless, but that’s a good thing. “Headed to help Mr. Buster.”

“He’s still alive?” she asks, sounding tired.

“Yes. He’s only in his fifties. He’s not that old.”

“Maybe it’s because he’s bald him seems older.” I fail to mention that he looks younger than my mom because that would only hurt her feelings, especially since she still tries to dress like today’s teenagers.

“Might be.” I make a right turn and don’t beat around the bush. “What’s going on, Mom?”

“It’s October seventeenth.” Then it’s no longer fatigue I hear in her voice but sadness.

October seventeenth, the day Runt’s adoption went through. The date didn’t even cross my mind, which is weird because I’ve never forgotten it before. I blame the blast from the past who’s now living next to me.

“Shit, I’m sorry. I forgot. How are you doing?” She calls, I comfort, it’s how it’s always been, and I don’t ever see it changing.

“Okay.” She sniffs into the phone. “It’s always a struggle to think about the boys I gave away.” I can’t even imagine the inner turmoil that must be rocketing through her. Giving a baby up for adoption is one of the most selfless acts a human can perform. “And every year, I tell myself it was for the best. I wasn’t able to give him kisses every night, but I was able to give him the gift of a better life.”

And it’s the same sentence she says to me every October seventeenth and every June twelfth, the days my brothers were officially given to another family. It’s the same few words that hold such precious meaning to show how selfless she was. But they are also the same words that slay me every single time . . . right to my fucking core.

She gave them the gift of a better life.

But what about me? What did she give me?

I swallow hard, trying not to go down the dark path I seem to take twice a year when my mom calls to talk about the opportunity she gave my brothers.

I clear my throat, the lump in it feeling like the size of an apple. “Yeah, they’re doing well.”

“They are.” She coughs some more, causing my back to tense. Fucking cigarettes. She always promises to quit, but never does, probably never will. “Runt started his freshman year at Princeton. Gah, Princeton, can you believe it?”

“Yeah, Runt’s a smart kid, at least from what his adoptive parents have said.” I only know about my brothers through pictures and emails. I had one in-person visit with Tyke when he was in middle school and I was in high school. I stayed with him and his family for a week. Worst fucking week of my entire life.

Fuck . . . don’t think about it.

My hands tighten on my steering wheel as I turn down the road leading to my destination.

“And last I heard Tyke was doing very well.” Tyke is always doing well.

“Yeah, they’re both doing great.” I park my truck and lower my forehead to the steering wheel, trying to calm myself, letting out my frustration one breath at a time.

“Couldn’t be prouder. Ugh, I made the right decision. But hey, I have to go, sweetheart. Your dad is coming over to paint one of my walls teal and I want to make sure I’m shaved and ready for him.”

I can’t handle . . . not even a little.

“Yup, okay.”

“Love you, sweetheart. More than anything. You’re my boy.”

I press my lips together, tamping down the urge to yell at her.

Why did you keep me?

Why wasn’t I given the same chance to have everything? To have a chance at Princeton?

Why do you mourn them when you kept me?

Of course, that’s not what I say. It’s what I never say. “Love you, too, Mom.”

I hang up quickly and try to gather myself as numbness falls over my entire body. I can feel autopilot starting to take over, and I know within a few minutes, I’ll become the irritable bastard I despise. No one deserves or wants him around.

For a brief second I consider putting my car back in drive and heading straight to Reardon only to once again drown in my sorrows, just like Mommy dearest taught me, but when I reach for the gear shift, I see Mr. Buster waving frantically at me with a giant smile on his face.

There’s no turning back now.

“Damn,” I breathe out heavily.

Instead of retreating to the bottle, I reach into my lunch cooler, pull out a Little Debbie Cosmic Brownie, and quickly plop it in my mouth—the entire thing—letting the sugar fall pleasantly on my taste buds. It’s the jolt I need to get through tonight. As I finish chewing and swallow, Mr. Buster opens my truck door.

“Aaron! I was getting nervous you weren’t going to show.”

I take a quick sip of my stale Mountain Dew and shake my head. “Never. Just a late night at work. You don’t have to worry about me not showing up, I’ll be here.”

“Thank goodness, because we’re really going to need your muscles.”

Hopping out of my truck, I right my jeans, and then reach into the back of my truck for my tools. “Are Mr. Bennett and his son helping this year?”

“No, they didn’t think they could commit. But I do have Gary Wellsby on board. He’s about sixty and useless, but at least it’s another human to hold up boards while you nail them together.”

“I guess that’ll work.” I chuckle. “Sixty and useless is always appealing in a construction partner.”

We walk toward the building as Mr. Buster looks over his clipboard. “Well, he actually might not be the best of help because he wrote on his volunteer sheet he requires to sit with whatever he’s doing and refuses to lift anything over five pounds.” Mr. Buster shakes his head. “Why help at all?”

“Probably why all the other older volunteers help out; it gives them something to do and someone to talk to.”

“I’m not running social hour here. I’m trying to put together the premier holiday show for the area.” He’s starting to get in a tizzy, a side of Barney Buster you never want to see.

“Don’t worry, you have me and your husband, right? I’ll be seeing David around?”

Mr. Buster’s face turns soft from the mention of his husband’s name. After thirty years of being together, they were able to finally get married a few years ago when New York State legalized gay marriage. I made the arch they got married under, the same arch that takes center stage in the flower garden in their backyard. I couldn’t have been more honored.

“David will be around, but he’s made it quite clear he’s taking over costume design after the atrocious candy-cane socks Margie made the kids wear last year. He swore on his mother’s grave that would never happen again.”

“The white and red striped socks?” Mr. Buster nods his head in confirmation. “I liked those socks. I thought they were fun.”

Stopping us in our pursuit to the building, Mr. Buster places his hand on my chest and looks me square in the eyes. “If you want to stay on David’s good side, be sure to NEVER say that to him. And I mean never. I like you, Aaron, and I want you to stick around. Don’t mention the socks.”

The vein above his right eye is twitching, and I know he’s serious and to not cross him.

“Don’t mention socks, got it.”

“Good.” He presses a hand against his chest and takes a deep breath. “I’m glad we talked about that before we went in there and you started shouting about wanting to see those socks again.”

“Yes, because that was the first thing I was going to say when I saw everyone. God, those socks, real winners.”

“Don’t tease me.” Mr. Buster holds on to my arm as we walk through the doors. “You’re going to give me agita.”

“And no one needs to be around you when you have that. You spit fire.”

“Damn right I do.” He chuckles, and we walk to the auditorium where volunteers are already milling about, working on this year’s holiday spectacular. Mr. Buster points to my usual corner and says, “Blueprints and materials are in your special corner. You know the drill, put those man muscles to work.”

“Got it.” I part from Mr. Buster and set my tools on the table provided while I look over the blueprints.

This will be my fourth year assisting at the holiday play put on by all the elementary schools in the district. It’s a way to bring all the children in the area together. Every year it gets better and better, and from the plans I’m looking at right now, more diverse.

One of the plans is for a seven-foot wooden Christmas tree decorated in Star of David ornaments and topped with a kinara—a special candleholder used during Kwanzaa.

“That’s interesting.” I chuckle while flipping through the rest of the blueprints, which consist of the usual town buildings, trees, giant presents, and . . . huh, that’s new. An entire beach scene is planned out on paper, and the only conclusion I have relates to Mr. Buster’s efforts to have the kids practicing Mele Kalikimaka. I wouldn’t put it past him. Either that or he’s lost his damn mind.

“Right over there, he’s in the corner. Aaron raise your hand for me,” Mr. Buster calls out. “I’m sending a volunteer over to be your helper.”

I raise my hand and look up just in time to see a very flustered Amelia walking my way, or rather being pushed in my direction by Mr. Buster.

“Don’t be nervous, sweetie. He’s a bull on the outside but a cuddly bear on the inside.”

“I, uh, I’m not good with tools,” she says, her heels digging into the ground, as if I’m surrounded by lava, and she’s being pushed in.

“Well then, it’s a great time to learn. Aaron owns his own construction company, so he’s the best person to teach you. You’re going to be building dining room sets by the time you’re done working on this project. Thanks for joining us, Miss Santos.”

Mr. Buster gives her one more nudge in my direction before he claps his hands and calls out to “playwrights” to gather for their first meeting, leaving me alone with a very uncomfortable Amelia.

“Not good with tools? I beg to differ. You built some pretty badass birdhouses back in the day.”

She hides the smirk I know wants to peek out. “This is different.”

She used to build some of the prettiest birdhouses I’d ever seen and paint them bright colors that would pop off the trees. It was one of the ways she made extra money while in college. Not going to lie, I was fucking impressed with her skills, to the point that I tried to best her with my own birdhouse-making skills. I failed. Big time. My big hands weren’t dexterous enough to work in fine detail. She slayed me, and fuck if I didn’t love her for it.

“Still using tools.” I clasp my hands together and glance at my workspace. “So, do you want to get started? We have a lot we have to finish in the next month and a half.”

“Yeah, I think I’m going to ask Mr. Buster for reassignment. I really won’t be any help to you.”

“You won’t be any help, or you just don’t want to be around me?” I ask the question before I can stop myself.

She bites the side of her mouth like she used to when she would think about something. Toeing the ground, she says, “Both.”

I guess I can’t be mad about her honesty. I don’t know why I expected any other answer. A part of me wishes she would accept the past and try to at least rebuild a friendship with me. Don’t get me wrong. Do I wish I had another chance with her? Hell yeah. I would snatch that chance up so damn fast, but from her need to flee anytime she’s around me and the easy smile on her face I saw when she was talking to her boyfriend on the phone, I assume my second chance is non-existent.

I press my lips together and try to think about what to say. I don’t want to insult her, but I also want to tell her to grow up. Asshole, I know, but hell, I just want her to hang out with me for a bit.

“I don’t think you’re going to get another assignment from Mr. Buster, but I can ask him for you if you want. We’re good friends. What assignment are you looking for?”

“You would do that?” she asks, a lift of surprise in her brow.

I nod. “I don’t want you to be uncomfortable. What assignment would you prefer?”

“Costumes. I think I can handle that.”

“Okay. Give me a second.” I tap the table next to me and walk past her, catching a whiff of Light Blue. Fuck, she smells good. Smells have always been triggers for me, and Amelia’s scent was associated with love. And then later . . . heartache. God, I’ve fucking missed her.

Call me a dickhead, but I don’t want her to change assignments. I don’t want her working with someone else. I want her to have to volunteer with me, to have to work with me every Thursday for the next six weeks. I can’t force her to consider a friendship with me, but I can at least try to keep her on my volunteer assignment.

“Mr. Buster, can I borrow you for a second?” I cut in, thankful he hasn’t started his meeting yet.

“Of course.” He steps to the side with me, garnering us a little bit of privacy. “Is everything okay?”

I take a deep breath and hope my friend is going to help me out here. “You know Miss Santos?”

“Yes, she just transferred from the city. She’s volunteering to get to know more people and to fulfill an assignment her predecessor signed up for.”

“So it’s mandatory for her to be here?”

“Yes.”

I clasp my hands together and level with Mr. Buster. “I’m going to be honest with you. That’s my ex-girlfriend from a while back, kind of the girl I thought I would end up with.”

“Ohhh.” Mr. Buster pats my arm. “Say no more, let me see where else I can put her.”

“No.” I place my hand over his clipboard, blocking Amelia’s view so she doesn’t get any ideas that I’m about to sabotage her request. “I, uh, I was kind of hoping you could make sure you keep her with me.”

Mr. Buster’s face morphs into a sinister smile as he pokes my chest with his pen. “You old dog.”

Oh, Jesus. My face flames hot from the knowing jab Mr. Buster is giving me. I should have known he wouldn’t have made this easy on me.

But I’ll take his teasing, because from as far back as I can remember, I’ve always been the other. The other friend, the other employee . . . the other brother. For once in my life I want to be the only. I don’t care if this is wrong, if she’s already with a guy. I want some time with her, just a little one-on-one interaction that doesn’t involve an awkward wave and a sprint to her house to avoid me. Maybe during our Thursdays together, she’ll see the real me again, the boy she once loved.

The man who still so desperately loves her.

Smirking, I lean into Mr. Buster. “Can you help a guy out here?”

“Anything for you.” He pats me on the shoulder and walks over to Amelia, clipboard at his side.

Shit. I didn’t mean for him to go talk to her.

“Miss Santos. Aaron told me about your concerns of working with wood and not wanting to get splinters, but I assure you, there aren’t many splinter injuries in set building. The wood isn’t scraggely.”

I run my hand over my face. Christ. First, wood isn’t scraggely, and second, where the hell did that come from? I never once muttered splinters.

“I wish there was another department I could work you in with, but we are full to capacity. Maybe I can get you gloves for your splinter concerns.”

Amelia glances at me and I’m tempted to jump to the side from the daggers she’s shooting my way. Before she can answer, I step up and grip Mr. Buster’s shoulder . . . tightly. “I can get her some gloves, not to worry. She’ll be fine.”

“Okay.” Mr. Buster taps his clipboard and says, “You’re with a good one, Miss Santos. Aaron is the kindest, sweetest, most caring man I know. Every year he gives his time and money for this production, staying later than anyone else and often the first to lend a hand when needed, even in the sewing department.” Okay, now he’s getting a little loose on the lips. “He’s also such a good friend, a good-looking man, and successful. So successful.”

“Cool it, cool it.” I mutter under my breath while toeing the ground, appreciating his compliments but trying to avoid him overdoing it.

“And what a cook. He made a casserole once for my husband and me for our anniversary, so sweet. And delicious. The best casserole I’ve ever had.”

Okay, now he’s just lying. I gave them a gift card.

“He also looks fabulous with his shirt off . . .”

“Okay,” I shout and step forward, blocking Mr. Buster. “We have to start working, and there are people waiting for you, Mr. Buster. Best you move along.”

“Okay, okay.” He steps toward a very skeptical Amelia and pats her shoulder. “Hard not to love this guy.” He looks between us, winks at me—Christ—and says, “Have fun, you two.”

He skips away, clearly on cloud nine about his praise, leaving me with a not so happy looking Amelia.

That didn’t go as planned.

“Splinters?” she asks, arms crossed over her chest, a jut to her hip, and if I looked down I’m pretty sure I would see her toe tapping.

I grip the back of my neck and sheepishly smile. “I thought it would be a good excuse?” I say in question form, trying to pass it off as cute. From the stern set in her brow, I’m going to assume she does not find me endearing at all.

Not to worry, just one more hurdle to have to jump over.

“Uh, should we get started?”

“He probably thinks I’m some prima donna who doesn’t like to get her hands dirty.”

Or we can continue to talk about this . . .

“He doesn’t think that. He offered you gloves. He likes you.” I try to cheer her up but the scowl continues.

Yikes.

“He doesn’t like me.” She walks over to the plans and starts looking them over. “That last thing I need is for Mr. Buster, the head of the special activities department for the ENTIRE district, to hate me. He has some serious in with the principal at my school. I’m only temporary and I need . . .” She trails off and takes a deep breath. “Forget it. Let’s get to work.” She thumbs through the designs and pulls out the Christmas tree that’s going to be rather interesting to build. “Let’s get going. The quicker we can build these, the better. Fetch the wood. I’ll grab a pencil to start tracing.”

Without another word, she starts digging in my toolbox, looking for a pencil. I stay still, watching how angry she is, how frustrated she is. Why did she trail off? She needs what? Her job? Does this have to do with her father? I wish she would talk to me.

“Amelia,” I say softly as I walk up next to her. “He doesn’t hate you.”

“We’re not talking about this anymore. Let’s just get to work.”

She was never like this before, so harsh, so . . . uptight.

When I knew her, she was free-spirited, wild almost, and hadn’t cared what people thought of her. She broke the rules just to enjoy life. She’s different now, calculated, and rough around the edges. Did I do this to her? Did I destroy her spirit?

If I did, I don’t think I’ll ever forgive myself. And if I’m the one responsible, I’m going to be the one responsible for bringing her spirit back.