Page 20 of The Darkest Parts of Me

I finish filling my car, then give my reflection a quick one-over in the car window, tucking the loose strands of my long hair behind my ears. I kept my attire casual, with a dark blue t-shirt and light jean shorts. The shirt is basic, but one of my favorites because it makes my eyes an even more prominent hue of blue. Taking a deep breath, I jog across the street toward him.

“Hey! Renn!”

He turns, and when he sees me, he smiles wide, giving me a little jolt in my stomach. “Hey!”

His face is smooth and freshly shaven. He has on a dark jean jacket over a black shirt accompanied by a pair of dark pants and boots.

“I was hoping I’d see you,” I say, biting my lower lip.

“Oh, yeah? Why’s that?” he says, his eyebrows raised in surprise. As the sun hits his face, his green eyes shift to a richer hue—although still outlined with a smoky gray ring.

“I wanted to say thank you for all your help yesterday, and also to apologize.” I could tell that he was about to say, “You’re welcome” until I added that last part.

“Apologize for . . . ?” he asks, cocking his head.

“My mom. I was just hoping you didn’t feel pressured in helping with the light and now the roof. You don’t need to come over tonight if you really don’t want to.”

He nods, running his tongue over his teeth. “I see.” He shifts the items in his arm. “I volunteered to help with the sink, and I don’t mind helping with other things if you need it.”

The last thing I want him to think is that I am helpless, so I quickly retort, “I probably could have done both the sink and light myself. She just worries about me doing too much.”

I didn’t mean to say that last part, and he gives me a questioning look before he says, “Oh, I’m sure you could have.” His tone is in no way mocking, his face serious as he peers at me. A breath passes before he asks, “Does she do that with you a lot?” I subconsciously scan the area to make sure no one I know is nearby.

“Yes, and no. She thinks I am going to . . . overexert myself.” I weigh the idea of how much to share with him, and if it weren’t for the kindness in his eyes, I probably wouldn’t say anything at all. “I was . . . injured a few years ago, so she tends to see me as too fragile. I have to remind her that I’m fine now.”

He steps closer, until he’s a couple of feet away. “Yeah, she kind of hinted at that last night,” he says softly, and I’m sure the look on my face makes him regret saying it.

I furrow my brows. “She told you what happened?” I ask slowly, trying to keep my irritation under control.

I’m not mad at Renn. My mother, on the other hand, just happened to forget to tell me she shared this information. We’ve been here for less than forty-eight hours, and she has already embarrassed me in front of this guy more than once.

“Just that you were in a car accident. That was all.”

I lift my chin slightly, scanning his face, and I get the feeling he’s holding something back, or maybe he wants to know more but isn’t asking.

“It’s true, and I was injured, but I’ve recovered. Good as new,” I say, holding out my arms like he needs to see all of me to prove it. This time, Renn scans all of me, his gaze sliding over my body with his stormy eyes, like something is brewing behind them. They root me to the ground, like I’m standing in a spotlight on a stage. I can see it all there in his face—his unspoken thoughts lingering as if he wants to ask, “Have you recovered? Really?”

I gulp, hoping he doesn’t notice, and he finally breaks the silence. “It sounds like your mom is doing what most parents do. They worry because they care.” He smiles. “Sometimes too much,” he adds with a wink.

“Is that what your mom does with you?” The question spills out before I can think if I should ask it or not, my tone harsher than I mean it to be. His lips turn up slightly.

“She probably would if she were alive.” I gulp again. So you know what it’s like to have lost a parent? “She died a long time ago,” he adds, and I wait for him to say more. “Take this with a degree of skepticism: time helps, but it’s always there, the grief. It doesn't ever go away, but the way we grieve . . . evolves.” His words are refreshing from the typical “time heals all wounds” remarks I always hear.

For reasons I don’t fully understand, the next thing I say is surprising, even to me. “My dad hasn’t been . . . gone for very long.”

He sets down the items in his arms, then folds them across his broad chest. I try to act like the gesture doesn’t affect me as much as it does. But I never talk about my dad like this, especially with someone I just met, and Renn is giving me his full attention.

“Everyone processes time differently. I don’t mean that—” he says almost nervously.

“I know what you meant,” I interrupt.

“Good.” He puts his hands in his pockets, leaning back on his heels, studying my face once again. He clicks his tongue. “Well,” he says, bending to retrieve his things, and I realize what he’s been carrying.

“Are those things for the roof?” I ask, nodding toward them.

“Yes.”

“My mom said she’d pay you, right?” I wonder, eyeing the items in his arms.

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