Page 15 of Shy Girl
“G-g-gotta go, Mom. My f-f-riend is bringing some p-p-pallets over tonight.”
“Yeah, okay.” Her shoulders slumped with relief, although there was annoyance there, too. I didn’t stop to analyze why, or for what purpose. At least I’d get out of here without being screamed at again.
“H-have a g-good night. L-love you.”
She waved me toward the door, and I went willingly. “Love you, too. Thanks for stopping by. Need to figure out this stupid grinder, anyway. How am I supposed to compete with Healthy Foods Market if I can’t even make quality oat flour, for goodness sake? Like pebbles, it is!”
Her half-crazed mumblings followed me to the door and out. Once it shut with a firm thud, I let out my first full breath since I pulled onto the property. By the time I made it to my car, some of the dense clouds from my mind had cleared. The ones with my father lingering in them remained. Questions about my biological father required moxie I didn’t know I had.
If there was one thing Momdidn’ttalk about, it was Anthony Dunkin.
Oil rigs. The current legislation. Overuse and dependence on plastic. LGBTQ rights. She would willingly cover it all and then some with anyone that asked—or didn’t ask. Mom had words on words on words, and she never stuttered over them. Never hesitated.
So why did I want to prod her with the remark about my biological father? I’d never really asked before. Not since I was a little girl.
I started the car, rolled the windows down, and drove back to the Frolicking Moose with the wind whipping through my hair. A sense of relief flooding my veins with every mile that separated us. I’d visited Mom this month and wouldn’t need to see her for another four to six weeks. At least I had that.
Sometimes, even that seemed far too soon.
A firm rap on the door to my loft came later that evening.
I trotted down the spiral stairs with a paintbrush in my hand and my hair pulled away from my face by a bandana. An old pair of coveralls that I’d swiped from my old neighbor, Rick, kept me from getting stains all over my clothes. Mom always swore by coveralls, and I reluctantly agreed. They were genius. Still, I reeked like stain and had sawdust on my hands.
A burly figure that waited on my porch had me skidding to a stop a few steps before the door.
Jayson Hernandez stood there, two pallets in his hands. He wore jeans with the knees worn, his usual work boots, and a white t-shirt that stretched too perfectly over his wide shoulders.
My heart cracked like an iceberg, then slid into the depths of my stomach. Two seconds passed before I comprehended him standing there.Jayson? Rick said he’d send the pallets over with . . .
. . . a capable person.
The old man had a meddling hand, because I was certain he had nothing in his schedule to prevent him bringing the pallet wood himself. No, he’d wrangled Jayson into this on purpose, and I’d have words—actual words—with the old guy. While dreaming of my revenge, I cleared my throat. With a muttered curse, I forced a smile and pulled the door open. Jayson responded in kind, looking a little less certain now that I’d gawped at him like a cavewoman.
“Hey.” He nodded toward the two pallets. “I have ten more of these that have your name on them. Is that . . . is that right?”
With a nod, I opened the door wider.
“Th-that is c-correct.”
Silent questions filled his beautiful, velvet eyes, but he kept them there and yanked a work glove back on his right hand.
“Lead the way,” he said.
I peered around his more-than-capable shoulders. Behind him was a clunky old work truck likely from his family farm. Or maybe that’s what he drove. I wasn’t used to seeing him outside his cruiser. Pallets were strapped down in the back.
“I c-can grab some others—”
“Nah. I’ll get them later.”
To avoid the problem of finding my brain and forcing it to figure out words yet again, I nodded and gestured him up the stairs. While he stepped ahead of me, despite the awkward navigation of pallets on a spiral staircase, I used all my willpower not to study his jean-clad backside.
The universe sure tested me.
He stopped just inside my loft and set the pallets off to the side. A bit of a mess greeted us upstairs, although I prided myself on my usually clean living space. Cans of stain and turpentine, half-broken crates, splintered wood, nails, and hammers littered the floor of over half the loft. Aside from a bed that Serafina had left behind, I didn’t keep much in here. Something about open space made me feel like I could breathe better. Functionality was so much better than . . . stuff.
Or maybe I just didn’t want to live like Mom.
“What have you got going on up here?” he asked with a nod to the pile of debris. In the midst of it was a new piece of furniture that I’d attempted to sketch out on an old chalkboard secured to the wall. Various shades of chalk colored the surface, each assigned a different purpose. No one had ever seen my workspace before, except Mom.
