Page 15 of Where We Go From Here

“What’s a thing like you doin’ here?” he asks, eyebrows raised, cocky, omnipotent.

My mind flickers back to when I met Mitchell’s brother Jason and he asked me a similar question. Only in that instance I think he was going to offer me directionsawayfrom the area. This guy looks like he’s revelling in my misfortune.

He reads into my silence. “What, you don’t talk? I’m not gonna bite, Missy.”

Another flash of his teeth makes me believe otherwise. I try to placate him.

“This is my project,” I say, half-true, gesturing vaguely to the beautiful wooden cabins.

He laughs like I’ve just told a joke. “Good one. You one of their Missus or something?” he asks, picking up some rogue timber and chipping off the outer layer of mud and dirt.

It takes me a moment to even understand what he just said.Does he mean am I withone of the crew? Romantically?Surely Mitch would have told everyone who I am and why I’m here by now.

All I manage out is, “Uh…”

He nods like he gets me, his crooked grin making me slowly begin to start back-stepping again. He misreads me completely and says, “So it’s a no-label arrangement. Sounds good to me.”

I can’t hold in my alarm. “What the hell? No.No. Who the hell are you?”

I’m so mortified that I fully turn around, set on walking as close to the centre of the base as possible, when I suddenly feel a tight hand on my forearm, gripping in a way that saysI’m not done yet.

I swing around, wondering if this situation is urgent enough to slam my palm under his chin, but he’s still smiling that easygoing smile, his free hand raised in faux surrender. The fingers clenching my sleeve are giving a pretty solid counter-argument.

“I don’t mean any harm, Sugar. I’m just letting you know that I’m around.”

He must be around the fucking bend if he thinks that this interaction would merit a second one. Jesus Christ. I rip my arm from his hand and he laughs again, like this is all good fun. He holds both hands up and then tips his head towards his van.

“I’ll be over there if you want my number.” He watches me from over his shoulder the whole way back to his car.

My brain is spinning and I feel like I might throw up. Are these the kinds of guys working on my mom’s site? With the sole aim of putting distance between myself and the guy in the van I head over to the centre of the valley, my wandering almost aimless as I think about what just happened.

This is what they’re like, my brain reminds me.This is why we’re shunning them now.

It’s a well-timed reminder seeing as Mitchell’s level-headedness was starting to make me go mushy. What an idiot. They’re all the same.

Even if Mitchell isn’t the one who’s a brute, by hiring one he’s endorsing one. I remember my guise as the on-site ‘supervisor’ and I wonder if I should actually call my mom and tell her that we should think of hiring a different crew.

I stop walking and realise that I’ve stepped under the canopy of the now-empty workshop. The guys have retreated into one of the cabins so I walk cautiously around the benches, calming the erratic racing of my heart. All that I’ve done by coming here is trade off being in the vicinity of one good-for-nothing dude for a whole freaking bunch of them. I thought that I’d be happier here, away from it all.Will there never be any escape?

To distract myself I start rummaging through the box beside the nearest bench, wondering what the crew keeps in here. Power tool after power tool after power tool. It’s kind of fitting.

I stand up from my crouch and my eyes land on the big bag of wood off-cuts that I watched Mitch throwing bits of timber into when I was stalk-watching him from my rooftop lookout. Maybe some physical exertion will help use up the adrenaline that’s hammering through me. I look at the bag and contemplate hauling it over to where all of the others are, gauging the heaviness and whether I’ll be able to carry it for the length of the trek.

Then I remember the laugh that the guy in the white van made when I justified my being on a construction site and all of a sudden my vision is turning red and I’m wrapping my hands around the handles and–

I realise my error the second that I begin to heave.

My body is deer-limbed, this sack of wood probably weighs about fifty of me, and the four-post canopy currently sheltering the portable workshop was only erected today. Meaning that, when we had the first taste of fall rain yesterday the grass got super muddy. Meaning that, when I dig my heels into the dirt as I try to haul the bag two-handed my feet are instantly sliding under, the weight of the sack about to collapse on top of me.

Suddenly a large tan fist swoops forward, gripping directly between my own. I’m suspended mid-fall, my body tilting backwards, only just high enough from the ground to stop the wood from breaching the edge of the sack and raining down on top of me. My feet are still scrambling and my ass is mere inches from the dirt.

I stare wide-eyed into the face of my saviour, simultaneously horrified, surprised, and immeasurably grateful. He stares right back at me, the wordswhat did I just sayso evident in his expression that I almost hear them.

Then Idohear them.

“What did I just say,” he bites out, his expression hard as he uses the strength in one arm to pull the sack of wood upright. My body lifts effortlessly right along with it.

“Get off my back,” I snap, although I feel like I’ve just had a spiritual experience, ascending to a realm where I’m as weightless as a sugar granule.

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