Page 64 of A Little More Hope

Melrose Pines sat a half mile away from the last of the houses in town, down a long track and positioned well out of sight, as of course, no idyllic tourist town wanted to be known for having a trailer park.

Sawyer’s home had originally been his pop’s before he died, and the closer I got, the more I realized it wasn’t in the best condition, pretty much matching the rest of the trailers situated on the park. The dirty siding had come loose in places, and the windows were in sore need of repair and a damn good cleaning. I could offer to help pay to get the repairs done since I had money, but Sawyer would instantly reject my proposal with a polite but determined thanks, but no thanks. He may not have much, but he was a proud and stubborn man, and charity would never be accepted, no matter what.

I sat on the front porch steps and waited as the last of the sun’s rays warmed my face while I enjoyed the brief peace and quiet before the chorus of insects took over for the evening. About ten or so minutes later the distinctive rumble of Sawyer’s truck coming up the lane announced his arrival. He parked beside the trailer, jumped out, and headed over.

I stood to greet him, and he slung his arm around my shoulder and drew me in close. “Let’s get inside and get you settled,” he said, pulling me along with him up the three steps. “We can have a beer and order takeout; then you can tell me what’s going on.”

He unlocked the door and went in. I followed, but stopped at the threshold as he moved through the space putting on a few lamps. Glancing around, I concluded the place looked infinitely better on the inside.

“Bit of a difference, huh?” he stated as if reading my mind.

He’d painted the main room a pale cream. The supposedly comfy sofa sat against one wall, a chair side on to it, all dark blue. A low unit sat on the opposite wall housing the TV and satellite entertainment system. Some custom-made side tables with wooden tops and square black metal legs flanked the sofa, and a coffee table sat in front. The kitchen, also updated, gave me the distinct impression all the furniture was made by Cam. I made a mental note to call him next week about designing my own kitchen. Sawyer’s home had a modern and relaxing vibe. I liked it, though it’s not what I expected at all.

“Huge difference,” I agreed smiling at him.

He returned my smile, pleased with himself at catching me off guard.

I’d forgotten that about him. What he let you see on the outside—his grease monkey staple of dirty jeans, steel-toed biker boots and a black T-shirt, giving off the whole bad boy vibe—gave no hint at all of what lay on the inside.

“Make yourself at home.” He threw over his shoulder as he headed down the small hallway to the rear of the trailer. “I need to get all the crud off me, so I’ll grab a shower and be right out.”

“Sure.”

He pointed to the kitchen. “Takeout menus are in the drawer nearest to you, and the beer’s in the fridge.” He disappeared into his bedroom. “I need pizza,” he shouted, “loads of meat.”

Five minutes later, the pizzas were ordered, and taking a beer, I wandered into the living area. Kicking off my sneakers, I dropped down on the sofa, which was as comfortable as he said, then settled in.

I deliberately shied away from thinking about Mason. I’d talk about him soon enough so refused to give him any more brain time than he deserved. Taking a swig of beer, I stretched out and closed my eyes, waiting for my buddy to return.

Sawyer landing beside me on the sofa woke me. “Sorry,” I mumbled, sleep making me groggy. “Didn’t mean to fall asleep. Things must be taking more of a toll than I anticipated.”

“Things?”

“The renovation mostly. You see people renovating houses on TV, and they look all amped up and full of energy, but no one ever tells you how tiring the work is. Add in what’s going on with me and Mason, and I’m exhausted.”

“What is going on with you two?” he asked. “It’s why you’re here isn’t it?”

“Yeah.”

“So?”

“You were right.”

He furrowed his brow. “About?”

“Me wanting to help him work out his issues. Getting too close. Getting hurt. You name it.” Gripping my beer bottle, I took a long drink, grimacing at my lukewarm beer.

Sawyer studied me for a while, his eyes flitting over my face. “Okay. What now?”

“Absolutely nothing.” Not able to sit, I got up and wandered around the room. “He doesn’t trust me. After all the things I—” My words faltered as right there was the part that sucked the most. I’d tried to be his friend, to be what he needed, and had tried to be nothing but open and honest with Mason from the get-go. I worked hard not to overwhelm him in any way, letting him get to know me, get relaxed in my company. I was there if he needed me or left him alone to work out his problems if he didn’t, all the while hoping to earn his trust.

I’d done everything possible to make us work, but my efforts hadn’t been enough, would never be enough. If he didn’t trust me already, he never would.

Sawyer stood and opened his arms. “C’mere,” he said. I crossed the floor and was enveloped in his welcoming embrace. Relaxing against him, having someone there for me for a change, made me even sadder as I realized how much Mason had held himself back.

Not in bed. There, he truly let go, allowing me brief access to the open and giving man I knew him to be. But out of bed, when he had to be a part of the world around him, a part of life, he’d keep a huge piece of himself hidden away, even from me, and that had hurt deeply.

Sawyer ran his hand roughly over my short hair. “He’s an asshole, and if he can’t see what a great guy you are, then fuck him; he doesn’t deserve you.”

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