by Ginger Scott
“That’s what I love about it. It’s already blossomed, but before it goes, it has these last few petals,” I sigh as my eyes stare at the soft, wilting, pink pieces clinging to their last moments of beauty in front of me.
“Is that supposed to be you?” Wes asks.
I inhale slowly, filling my lungs with that thought. Is that me?
“Sometimes,” I answer.
Seconds pass, and I hold my breath, waiting patiently as the golden rays crawl along the dirt and stems of the rows in front of me until finally the color reaches my flower. It’s haloed by it—heaven shining down on the end of a life, giving it one last moment of glory.
I capture it all, every last moment, until the shadow of the neighboring flower shades it and the light is gone.
“I think I got it,” I say, pushing up to my knees.
I pull the camera in front of me and flip through the dozens of shots—each one minutely different, but the entirety telling a story.
“It’s beautiful,” Wes says, his breath soft against my neck as he kneels behind me, looking over my shoulder. I close my eyes and keep my face forward.
“Thank you,” I say. I mean it for so much more.
He knows. I can tell by the way his breathing shifts; by the way everything seems to slow.
Standing, I pull our shirts up, shaking the dirt from them both and handing his sweatshirt back to him. He waits for me to walk before moving back to the truck, almost as if he’s making a concerted effort to be by my side, not to leave me.
The sun is disappearing, and the air is growing colder, so before I climb into his truck, I pull my shirt over my bare arms. I hold the camera in my hands once inside and buckled, and as Wes begins to drive out from the dirt road and turn around, I flip through my shots one more time. Every single photo hits me, and without warning, a tear forms in my right eye. I wipe it away quickly and tuck my camera in my bag.
“Why’d you choose the flower?” Wes asks.
I breathe in deeply, pulling one leg up into my chest and hugging my knee with my arms, laying my head on it and looking at him. His face is different at dusk. It’s just as handsome.
“They remind me of my dad. They were kind of our thing—his silent way of telling me he loved me,” I say, lowering my leg and moving my gaze to my window. The farms are already giving way to brick walls and business fronts.
“Loves you,” Wes says. I look at him with my brow pinched, his eyes waiting for mine. “You said loved. But he still loves you.”
I hold his gaze until he has to look back to the road, and when he does, I let the soft laugh escape my lips.
“I know it doesn’t feel like it. But he does. He talks about you all the time. Compares us to you,” Wes says. I turn in my seat, curious.
“You don’t have to lie,” I say.
He grins and chuckles.
“I’m not lying. He does. At least once a practice,” he says. “It’s a bet we make every practice—we see who’s going to get the Joss comparison this time. Yesterday, it was me.”
My smile is subtle, but inside it feels enormous. My chest fills. My heart beats louder. I feel…
“What’d you do? You know, to earn that honor?” I ask, hoping he did something good, that it’s not an admonishment to be compared to me.
Wes laughs to himself and squints one eye, chewing at his lip before looking at me. “I hit Kyle in the arm with a pitch for crowding the plate. Your dad said you used to do that when you pitched. You called it nudging. He said you did it better.”
My smile is full now, the kind of grin that dents my cheeks and aches on my face. “I did do that,” I say, remembering pitching in sixth and seventh grade. All that time, I thought my father wasn’t paying attention. I thought he was just irritated for having to take time away from his practice to pick me up. He always saw the last inning, and that was all.
“And you did it better,” Wes says, pushing me lightly on my leg. He clears his throat when he moves his hand away, but glances at me sideways, nodding. “That’s the important part. Your dad said you did it better.”
I watch him drive for a minute, thinking about what he said.
“I probably did,” I say, pulling a heavy laugh from him. It’s the first time I’ve heard this sound from him, and it fills the space of his cab. It’s loud and deep, and I bet when he’s together with his brothers and dad, the house is filled with this sound too. It’s my new favorite sound.
“You’re not humble, Josselyn Winters. I’ll give you that. You’re stubborn, but shit if you’re not miles away from humble.”
I shrug, but my smile remains, even as I turn to face my window. We’re getting closer to my house, and the good feeling is fleeting.
“Thanks,” I say. When Wes tilts his head in my direction, I explain. “For telling me that…about my dad? Thanks. I miss him. How we used to be. And sometimes I feel it more than others.”
It grows quiet after that honest moment, and when I look at Wes, his thoughts seem to be lost somewhere. I watch him work through whatever it is, and when he catches my stare, he shakes whatever it is off.
“Why didn’t you pick one? Or make yourself a bouquet?” he asks.
I turn back to him, shrugging.
“People pay a fortune other places for those flowers. It’s the only farm in Northern California that grows them. Yet, all I need to do is trespass and pick one. I can’t seem to do it, though. I’ve stolen things from the mall. I’ve walked out with cases of beer from the minimart. I’ve taken balls and equipment from the school for softball. I can’t steal a flower I think is beautiful. I just don’t want to rip it from the ground just so it can die in my hands. It needs its roots. It needs its home. I don’t know…that probably doesn’t make sense.”
“It makes perfect sense,” he says, returning his gaze to the front as he sucks in his bottom lip. I wait for him to say more, but he doesn’t.
Before we pull up in front of my house, I drag my things into my lap, hugging them to my body. My roots were destroyed years ago. My father’s car is gone, which means tonight he’s returned to old habits. I’ll be at work, so I close my eyes and wish for him not to call me while I’m at work. I make a mental note to turn my phone on silent mode.
“He’s going to call you, isn’t he?” Wes asks, already versed in my routine.
I shrug as I open the door of his truck.
“I never know for sure,” I say, looking over my shoulder to the empty driveway and open garage, the only things inside—our lawnmower and my broken bike. “But yeah…” I sigh heavily. “Probably.”
When I turn back to him, as my hand holds onto the edge of his passenger door, I notice his eyes on the deep-purple bruise on the inside of my wrist. I twist it, but not quickly enough.
“Is that from the pier?” Wes asks, his eyes unable to leave my arm. I roll the cuff of my sleeve down to cover it more.
“No,” I say, knowing he doesn’t believe me. I give him more details than I want to just to make sure he knows the truth. I don’t want him to think he failed me. He’s the only boy who never has. “My dad…he passed out getting out of his chair a couple nights ago, and I didn’t get there in time to catch his drink before it fell. It was a mess, and I couldn’t leave him there. I had to carry him to his room, but he’s heavy, and we fell. So…”
Wes looks to his steering wheel again, nodding once, his lips pursed. He knows the scene. He’s watched it, or at least enough of it.
“Call me…if he needs help; if you need help? Call me. I’ll come,” he says.
I chuckle quietly to myself and look down at my feet as I swing my bag over my shoulder, pulling my hair out from the strap underneath.
“I thought you weren’t my hero,” I smirk. Wes’s face remains serious.
“You shouldn’t have to deal with that on your own,” he says.
“Yeah, well…you can’t save me from everything, Wesley Stokes,” I say, my arms stretched out to my sides as I let them fall against my
hips. “Besides, he’ll find his way home if I don’t answer the call. He always does. Hey…thanks for the ride.”
“It was my pleasure,” he says, a small dimple on his cheek. “I’m gonna have to step up my game after seeing your assignment.”
“Who says it’s a competition?” I say, my head angled as I look at him.
“Oh Joss,” he chuckles, shifting his gear to drive before looking at me. “With you? It’s always a competition.”
I flip his door shut and step back, smiling and blushing a little too. He shakes his head with the laugh I can’t hear as he pulls away finally, and I wait at the end of my driveway for a few extra seconds, hopeful that he’ll turn around and come back.
Wes stays gone, though, so I move toward my house. Dropping my bag on the floor of my room, I fall onto my bed. I sit up after a few minutes and reach for my bag, slipping my hand inside and pulling the crinkled thank you card I stuffed in there days ago. I smile looking at it, running my fingertips lightly over my childish handwriting. Maybe he’s not him, but he’s like him.
I breathe in deeply and kneel down to slide the small box from under my dresser, tucking the card back inside, then I lift the plastic bag I picked up yesterday from Jungle Gym with my new uniform inside. The pants are black with pockets at the hips and knees. Steven, the manager, told me they make it easy to carry around extra pieces of equipment—scissors, tape rolls, and spray bottles of cleaning solution.
I couldn’t possibly look less attractive. To make matters worse, my work shirts all have my name incorrectly spelled over the right pocket—Jose. I showed Taryn this morning, and she snapped a photo and posted it on every social media account she owns. Yet one more reason I avoid life online.
Dressed like a metal-band roadie, I pull my hair back with a purple tie and twist it a few extra times into a loop to keep my hair off my neck. It takes me about thirty minutes to walk to Spider’s Jungle Gym, so I search on my phone for bus routes on my way. The route is safe, but it still isn’t fun at night. Tomorrow, I’ll try the bus option.
I still get in a few minutes early. It’s almost seven-thirty when I punch in my code on the computer. It takes me a few tries. The screaming coming from the main play area is constant and deafening. At first, I dreaded the idea of working here late at night, of closing up the place and spending hours in the dim lights picking up the remnants of other families’ birthday parties. But now that I’m here for the real thing, I think I got the good end of the deal.
How bad is it?
Kyle’s text makes me smile. He worked this morning, and he smelled like nacho cheese all day. I gave him a hard time about it, but he told me to wait and see what I smelled like. I think he’s right—fresh cheese wins.
I snap a photo of one of the tables, icing caked along the length, and some questionable red liquid dried on a few of the booths. I send it to him and wait for his response.
Is that blood?
I laugh, and type back: No idea, dude. It sure as hell ain’t cheese, though.
I catch Steven’s eyes on me, his finger tapping his watch. I don’t know him well, but Taryn told me he’s strict about breaks and making sure we’re doing what we’re supposed to. Another perk to me closing at night. He won’t be here to monitor how long it takes me. I know I’m only paid for four hours. But I’ll work longer for free, taking my time, just to avoid real life for a while.
I put my phone in my pocket, flipping it to VIBRATE first, then grab the broom and dustpan from the closet, quickly going to work cleaning the main eating-area floor. My task feels futile until the gym closes and children are no longer around to spill Goldfish crackers and rip open candy wrappers, tossing the plastic on the floor.
The night servers all take care of their tables, so I can focus on the gym and main common areas, which are somehow in worse shape. Gum is stuck on the inside of slides, and I’ve filled a plastic bag with stuffed animals, socks, and shoes that were left behind. I dump the bag once in the lost-and-found bin and move toward the ladder to search for items up high.
“Hey, new girl,” one of the guys shouts from the front door. I jog over to where I can see him.
“Yeah?”
“We’re locking up. Just wanted to let you know. Go out the back when you’re done, and the door shuts behind you, so don’t leave unless you’re, like, totally done. Steven gets pissed if he has to drive back in to unlock the door,” he says.
I salute him and hold up a thumb, then wait as he locks the door with the key. Funny, he didn’t give me the option to call him if I get locked out? Seems he gets a little pissy about being called back to work too.
I lower the blinds and return to my bag, climbing up the giant tree-house structure to continue collecting belongings and trash. The music is still on. It’s a top-forty station, so it isn’t bad. Not my first choice, but it’s better than the kiddie songs that they were playing in the dining area when I first got here.
My bag is full of things before I’m halfway through the top part of the gym, so I climb down and return to the lost-and-found, dumping it again. My pocket buzzes. I pull my phone out, knowing it’s too early for it to be my father.
Need company?
My heart kicks at Wes’s text. I look up at the front door, and there’s a shadow behind the blinds, the height just about right. I still flip them open and look out before unlocking, and when I open the door to let him in, he commends me for it.
“I was so sure you were going to let in the ax murderer,” he chuckles. “I would have bet money on it.”
“Yeah, well, this guy I know keeps telling me I need to be safer about things, so…” I say, kicking my foot at him.
“He does,” he says, raising one side of his mouth for a short smile.
“How’d you know where this place was?” I ask.
“Kyle told me. He smelled like cheese all day,” he laughs. It makes me smile.
I stand with him near the door for a few seconds, wondering why he’s here, but too afraid to ask. He might leave. And now that he’s here, I want him to stay.
“How do you feel about gum?” I ask, one eye closed, my head tilted in question.
“I…uh…I like it?”
“That sounded like a question. You don’t sound very committed,” I say, stepping closer to him, my hand holding the putty knife behind my back.
“I love gum. I do. I’m committed. Give me gum or give me death,” he jokes.
“Awesome,” I say, handing him the blade. “There’s a shitload stuck to the side of the top slide, and it’s making me gag.”
He laughs as he looks at the blade in his hand.
“I asked if you wanted company, Joss. Not if you needed an assistant,” he says.
“That’s the price you pay to be in the presence of greatness,” I yell over my shoulder, my hand holding my bag in the air and my other hand pointing a finger forward, as if I’m leading an army charging into battle.
“A’right. Which one?” he finally gives in, stepping up to the tree-house entrance behind me. I point to the winding blue slide cascading above us. Wes sighs, but passes me, climbing the steps to the very top.
He gives me commentary, telling me about the various pieces of gum, the color, his guess at their flavor. He even jokes about eating some of it just to confirm he’s right. But after a few minutes, his banter grows less, and for the last half an hour, we’ve been working together in silence.
“You know, you don’t really have to stay the whole time. I’m almost done in here, and I’m gonna lock up soon, so…” I stop talking when I walk out from the back office area and spot Wes standing in the middle of the main lobby, chewing at his lip and an iPod in his hand. I push the button on the cordless vacuum, ceasing the buzzing in my hand.
“My dad’s really good at repairing things, and he’s good at finding parts, and well…” he says, unwinding the ear bud cord wrapped around my iPod and unplugging it to hand the device to me.
“Your dad fixed this? For me?”
I say, pushing the power button and running my thumb over the smooth screen, then the small dent left behind on the metal casing.
“He couldn’t really fix that part, but he got a new screen. I always told him he should open up a side business for this kinda stuff,” he says, his fingers nervously twisting the cord of my earphones. I reach for them, and he starts.
“Mind if I test it?” I ask, my eyes barely reaching his. He looks away the moment I meet his gaze. He’s being bashful.
“Oh, yeah…yeah. Sorry,” he says, handing the cord to me.
I thumb through my playlists and press one of my favorite Foo Fighters songs, smiling when the music drums into my ears. Wes smiles back at me, and I look at him for a second or two with my soundtrack drowning out everything else.
“Thanks,” I say. He laughs, and I pull my headphones out of my ears, winding them around the device. “Sorry. Was I loud?”
“You’re always loud,” he says. I glower at him, and he holds his hands up. “Kidding. You’re a delicate, quiet flower.”
“Oh, now I know you’re full of shit,” I say, punching him in his arm. It’s a stupid touch, and I choreographed the entire thing just so I could feel him. I take a few steps back, a little embarrassed. I reach for the vacuum again and push the iPod into my pocket opposite my phone. “Seriously, though. Thanks,” I smile.
“It was important to you,” he shrugs.
You’re important to me.
“I’m almost done, really…” I begin my out for him again, giving him permission to leave. He interrupts quickly.
“I’m driving you home. It’s late, and I’m driving you home,” he says, his serious voice coming out. I hold his eyes with mine for a few seconds, my tongue poking in the side of my cheek as I consider. I finally give up.
“A’right,” I nod. “I’ll be a few minutes.”
I move to the back and finish my passes along the floor until the carpet is completely clean. When I’m done, I tuck the vacuum and other supplies into the metal closet, shut off the lights, and close up the office area. Wes stands from the small bench by the front door, and steps toward me.
