Pieces Of You by Jay McLean

6

Jamie

I’d spentmost of the car ride going through the notes that Dean had provided, so I thought I knew what I was walking into. Sitting on Esme’s porch, gripping an ice-cold lemonade, while listening to her speak with shaky hands and a constant wobble in her voice—it’s kind of heartbreaking. And regardless of how I acted or what I said to Holden in the car, I’m not the cold-hearted bitch I’ve unintentionally portrayed myself to be. After the initial shock of her welcoming words wore off, she apologized no less than four times for them. And no matter how many times Holden and I said that it was fine, that it was—in Holden’s words— “a good icebreaker,” I could tell that it embarrassed her. When Holden asked if one of her grandkids had told her to say it, Esme had us sit down at a little table on the porch, a pedestal fan blowing hot air on us, and told us her life story.

She didn’t have any kids, so grandkids were non-existent. She and her husband, who died almost three years ago to the day, spent a lot of their lives trying and failing for a family they both wanted more than anything. Eventually, they realized it wasn’t in God’s plan for them, and so they focused on their love and their home. Wesley, Esme’s late husband, spent most of his days in the yard. And while he didn’t have the sons he wanted, the football team he’d dreamed of coaching or his children’s achievements he looked forward to boasting about, he was proud of two things in life: his wife and his yard. And that was who Wesley was right until the day he died. He collapsed in the front yard of a heart attack, doing what he loved. And Esme—she’s never been the same.

She became a recluse after his passing, and it’s only been the past couple of months she’s found the courage to leave the house for anything other than essentials. For over two-and-a-half years, she didn’t speak to a soul, so when the opportunity came up at the church she’d just started attending, to have a couple of high school kids help around the house, she jumped at the chance. And then she panicked, feeling as though she’d forgotten how to interact with people in general—let alone kids of our generation—so… she googled it.

The Internet, she said, had been the only thing to keep her sane for the past three years. That, and Netflix…

… and porn.

That last part had Holden spitting out his lemonade and spraying it all down his Townsend HS Athletics t-shirt.

“You’re right,” Esme said, smirking as she winked over at the six-foot-four behemoth of a man-child who seemed to take up the width of the entire porch. “I am good at ice-breakers.” Then her eyes slid to mine, her cheeky grin revealing her lipstick-stained teeth, and she said, “It’s so easy to get to him, huh?” And then she laughed, and I laughed with her, and I forgot—just for a moment—how much I missed my only friend in the world, Gina.

Esme then asked us about our lives. Holden seemed to be an open book, telling her he’s from North Carolina and how he grew up on his family’s nursery, thus assuring her she’s in excellent hands. He also told her he’s an only child to divorced parents and that he takes part in almost every sport under the sun—a fact that has Esme smiling and mentioning how much her Wesley would’ve loved him.

I didn’t realize how enthralled I’d been in their conversation and all the additional information I was learning about Holden—as his own person—rather than just Dean’s friend, that when the questions came at me, I wasn’t prepared. The only things I told them are that I grew up about four hours north of here, that I’m an only child, too, and that I don’t have as much experience as Holden does, but I do love flowers. One of those things is a fact. The other two are questionable.

Once the entire jug of lemonade’s gone and our time’s almost up, Esme stands and offers to show us the yard and all the work she’s hoping to get done, which is where we are now: me, following behind as Esme and Holden walk side by side, her hand in the crook of his elbow.

I will say this, for such a giant, cocky douchebag, when it comes to Esme, Holden is polite and respectful and full of yes ma’ams and no ma’ams and whatever you want ma’am.

It’s weird. And I don’t like the way it’s making me feel. Like I have to second-guess the revulsion I have for him.

In the large back yard, we head toward a swamp that I’m sure was once a pool, and Esme stops beside it, her shoulders dropping with her heavy sigh. “We spent many a lovely day in that pool—my Wesley and me.” I like the way she says my Wesley. Like he was hers and hers alone.

Must be nice.

“And that,” she adds, pointing to a building crawling with ivy, “is my Wesley’s workshop. Well, it was the pool house, but he filled it with all his gardening tools, so that’s what it became.” She hands Holden a set of keys and backs away, saying, “I’m not quite ready to go in there, so…”

I frown while Holden’s gaze flicks to mine. “Your Wesley’s yard and tools are in excellent hands, I promise,” he tells her. His tone is gentle, comforting, and I almost want to shake him because Who Is He right now?

Esme smiles at him, but it doesn’t reach her eyes, and a moment later, she’s moving toward the back door. As soon as she’s inside the house, Holden steps beside me, keeps his voice low when he says, “Don’t think I didn’t see you thawing on that porch, Ice Queen.”

I roll my eyes.

He pokes my side. “Admit it, Nanna Nelly. It’s sad.”

“It is,” I reply with a shrug, leading us to the workshop.

After sliding the key in the lock, Holden turns to me and whispers, “Hey, you really think she watches porn?”

I don’t give him the reaction I’m sure he’s expecting. “I bet her drawers are filled with vibrating toys.”

He lets out a disbelieving scoff. “You’re a little twisted, Jameson.” And then his lips kick up on one side. “And I’m into it.”

“Shut up.” I move past him and enter the space, stopping just a foot inside. Tools cover an entire wall, and a workbench spans the length. There’s a couch on the opposite wall, facing the workspace, and I imagine Esme sitting there, watching her Wesley work for hours and hours. And then there’s the dust—so much of it—covering every space, every surface, floating through the air, completely unwanted.

“She’s like dust, Dahlia! Always around and fucking useless.”

“I gotta make a quick phone call,” Holden says from behind me.

I turn to him, notice his phone already held to his ear. “Lining up tonight’s booty call?”

The boy winks. Gross. “I got my booty call right in front of me.” Then he’s walking away, backward, his stupid smirk leaving me annoyed… and maybe a little breathless.

There’s no denying that Holden’s hot in a way that makes girls want to rip off their panties and do dirty things to themselves with the lights out. He’s tall, muscles upon muscles, and never without a cap that covers his dirty blond hair, hair that’s long enough to curl over the edges. But it’s his eyes I worry about the most. Green, like a lively forest. But when he looks at you—really looks at you—there’s nothing alive about his stare. Even when he’s cracking one-liners, they never brighten, never flash with anything other than indifference.

It’s as scary as it is captivating.

Kind of like serial killers.

Not that any of this matters, because I’ve fallen for the hot guy before, and that turned out peachy. Truly. It’s not as if he broke me down, piece by piece, only to shatter what strength I had left and leave me questioning who I am and what my purpose is.

I’m being dramatic.

Probably.

I try to push away the sudden ache in my chest, but the tears come too fast, and I hate that they do. Of everything in my life I could’ve shed a tear over, dickhead Dean Griffith shouldn’t be it. I’ve spent the past year on the verge of breaking, and now? Now I decide to crack? Outstanding.

“Okay, let’s do this!” Holden shouts, clapping his hands together as he steps into the workshop.

I’m too surprised by his presence that I face him without thinking.

“Oh, shit.” He grimaces. “I don’t do crying girls.”

I sniff back my heartache and wipe the wetness off my cheeks. “Good. I don’t do idiot boys.”

“Liar.” His grin is stupid. “I give it three weeks until you’re begging me to bend you over this workbench and bone you from behind.”

“Two things,” I start, focusing on the tools again while I attempt to keep my voice even. “You just called yourself an idiot. And bone? Who says that?”

He stops beside me, mimics my position. “Right, I forgot you were from a generation when dinosaurs ruled the Earth.” After taking out his phone, he makes note of what we’ll need to get the job done. He goes through a rough timeline with me, and I listen to every word he speaks. When he’s like this, when it’s just him and me, and there’s no innuendo to fall back on—it almost seems normal. Almost. And I don’t miss the fact that he skimmed right over the whole me crying incident. He didn’t ask why, and I don’t know if it’s because he’s genuinely uncomfortable or because he knows I wouldn’t tell him. Whatever his reasoning, I’m grateful.

When it’s time to leave, I check the nearest bus stops and their schedules on my phone. I don’t know where Holden lives or is planning to go, but I know for sure that it’s not anywhere near me. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” I call out, walking down the driveway past his truck. “Unfortunately.”

“You calling for a ride?”

I keep my head down, eyes focused on times and routes. “Bus schedule.”

“My truck’s right here,” he shouts.

“I’m good.” I don’t turn to him, not even when I hear his rushed footsteps catching up to me.

“Quit being so stubborn. I can give you a ride.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

I make it to the sidewalk before stopping and facing him. “It’s out of the way.”

A single eyebrow arches. “You know where I live now, Stalker Sadie?”

“Where the hell do you come up with these names?”

A burst of laughter falls from his lips. “Please get in my truck, so I can say I’m driving Miss Daisy.”

“You need that one-liner more than you need your next breath, huh?”

“I really do,” he says through a chuckle.

I contemplate his offer for less than a breath. “Look, it’s one thing to get in a virtual stranger’s car to go to a designated destination where a ton of people know where I’m going and who I’m with, but driving me home? That’s another level. You could kill me and dump my body on the side of the road.” Or a lively forest. It would go with his serial killer eyes.

For some reason, he finds this funny—made clear by his laughter. And his smile. And I don’t like his smile.

Maybe.

“So, let’s not be strangers then.”

My nose wrinkles at the thought, which only makes him laugh again.

“Ask me anything, Agnes. You want to see my driver’s license? Address? Date of Birth? No, I know,” he says, and he’s such a rambling idiot; I don’t even know if it’s worth stopping him at this point. “Want to post it on social media? Tag me. Everyone will know then.”

“I don’t have social media.”

His smile is wiped. “Can I ask you a dead serious question?”

Oh, God.

“How fucking old are you?”

I sigh the loudest, longest sigh in the history of sighs.

“Fine then,” he says. “Get your parents on the phone, and I’ll tell them what an upstanding, young man I am. Preferably your mom.” He smirks. “I’m real good with moms.”

“I’m sure you are,” I reply. I don’t bother telling him that unless he’s proficient with a Ouija board or possesses some out-of-this-world hallucinogens, we’re both shit out of luck with that idea.

At my silence, his brow dips in concentration, and he watches me, scrutinizes me, as if he’s trying to memorize my face. Serial killers probably do the same thing right before they finish the deed. “Okay, I’ll post on my social.”

He wouldn’t.

Before I know what’s happening, he takes out his phone and snaps a picture of me. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Posting your scowly little ass on Instagram.”

I’m so quick to grab his phone from his hand, he doesn’t even have time to stop me from deleting the image completely. “You cannot post my picture on the Internet.”

He barks out a laugh. “What are you in witness protection?”

My eyes snap shut. “No,” I breathe out, unable to look at him. “I just don’t want my picture out there, and you shouldn’t either.” It’s supposed to be a warning, though I’ll never tell him why.

At his silence, I finally peer up at him through my lashes, my palm sweating as I clasp his phone tight in my grip.

“Because of Dean?”

Not even close, but I’m relieved that’s where his mind went. I release the breath I’d been holding and hand him back his phone. “Yeah, because of Dean,” I lie.

“Fair,” he responds, then motions to his truck. “You coming?”

At this point, I don’t think I have much of a choice. “Okay.”

I get in his truck and hold back an eye roll when he gets behind the wheel, all giddy-like, and says, his smile wide, “Look at me, I’m driving Miss Daisy.”

“Feel better?”

“So much better.” He brings the engine to life and settles both hands on the wheel before facing me. “Where to, Thelma?”

“You know how to get to Parkway?”

He thinks about this a moment as he eyes the ceiling of the cab. “Yeah, but there’s nothing there besides—” He stops himself there.

“The trailer park,” I finish for him.

He’s quiet as he reverses out of the driveway and stays that way for minutes that feel like suffocating hours. I don’t need to overanalyze what he could be thinking. Living in a trailer park comes with a cliché stigma that isn’t fair to anyone. People do what they can to survive, to put a roof over their heads and food on the table, and that’s exactly what I’m doing. And, the possible judgment, coming from him, a boy whose—I’m willing to bet—parents are actually parents and do what they can to shield him from the bottom of the barrel, is… expected. And I don’t have the energy to be mad about it. Agitated, maybe. But mad? No.

People don’t know what they don’t know, and Holden? He knows nothing about me. “I’m not ashamed of where I live,” I murmur over the humming of the truck.

His gaze flicks to mine. “Who said you were?”

“You went all quiet after I told you where to go,” I tell him. “You’re being weird, and it’s making me uncomfortable. Just tell me you’re going to bone me again.”

He shakes his head, chuckling. “Nah, I’m just trying to think of an old lady name to go with trailer. I keep coming up with Trailer Tammy, but that’s my mom’s name, so…”

“Sounds like a stripper name.”

He gasps in mock horror. “You take that back!”

I giggle—such a contrast to the whirlwind of emotions that had taken over my mind, my heart—only minutes earlier. “Are you a mama’s boy, Holden?”

His shoulders square, no hint of embarrassment when he says, “So what if I am?”

Well, shit. “Trudy,” I say.

“What?”

“Trailer Trudy.”

He grins over at me. “I like it,” he tells me. “But it doesn’t have the same impact when you self-deprecate. I insult you. You insult me. That’s the way it works, Trailer Trudy.”

“Noted.” I nod. And before I can retort, his phone goes off through the car speakers. The name Mia Mac appears on the stereo, and Holden veers off the road and brakes so fast, I have to catch myself on the dash.

“Sorry,” he mumbles. “I gotta take this.”

Taking his phone from its holder, he answers, opening his door as he does, “Mia. When I call, you answer. That was the deal.” I don’t hear anything else he says because he walks behind his parked truck, starts pacing back and forth with the phone held to his ear.

Mia. It’s the same name mentioned when I first saw Holden outside the principal’s office the day before school started. The same name that had my interest piqued.

He’s not on the call for long, a few minutes at most, but when he returns, I can feel the shift in his mood, the change in his demeanor. Jaw tense, he waits for cars to pass before getting back on the road. I say, because silence makes me stupid, “That’s kind of a sucky way to talk to your girlfriend.”

“Mia’s not my girlfriend,” he deadpans.

Interesting. From what he’s said, he’s an only child, so she’s not his sister, which would make her…?

“So, what is she? Your fuck buddy?”

Holden doesn’t take his eyes off the road as he white knuckles the steering wheel. “Is that what Dean was to you?”

Touché. I clamp my mouth shut.

“Just leave it alone, okay?” he bites out.

We spend the rest of the ride in silence, my chest aching—a multitude of emotions swirling, coursing through my veins. I’ve pissed him off somehow, pressed the wrong button, and I don’t know how to fix it.

That’s been my life’s biggest downfall: wanting to fix the unfixable.

When we get to the trailer park, Holden slows to a near stop and asks, “Which one’s yours?”

“It’s right at the back, but I can get out here.”

He lets out a long, drawn-out breath. “Just show me where.”

I guide him to my trailer, where my car sits useless in the allocated parking space. “Thanks for the ride,” I say, already pushing the door open.

I need to get out of this truck.

Out of my head.

I need to go into my house, my solitude, where I can be alone and be myself, where there’s no one around to judge me for dressing the wrong way or saying the wrong things.

“Look,” Holden says, and I freeze with the door wide open and my back to him. “I know we have this bullshit banter going on, and it’s whatever, but Mia—she’s off-limits.”

I don’t look at him when I say, “Got it.” And then I practically run out of the car and into my house. Where the only person around is the most judgmental one I know: myself.