Everything that is, but us.
The truck door opened, and Alex slid in next to me. I was turning to face him when I felt something vibrate against my thigh. I shifted my weight forward and reached behind me. Alex’s cell phone was wedged in the crease of the bench seat. I dug it out and held it out to him, the word Amy flashing on the screen in white letters.
“It’s ringing,” I pointed out casually. He took it with a blank look, and silenced the phone, mumbling something about a friend from back home.
“A girlfriend?” I teased, and he blushed, a dark crimson coloring the top of each cheek.
A heat crept up my face in response. I hadn’t been digging for information—he’d already said he’d dated a girl in high school, but they’d gone their separate ways after graduation—but his reaction to my comment made my stomach flip.
The phone was still in his hand, and instead of putting it in the pocket of his board shorts, where he usually kept it, he reached across me and shoved it in the glove compartment. When he snapped the door shut, his wrist brushed against my leg, and I thought I saw him flinch.
There was an awkward silence between us for a moment—a first for us.
When we’d gone to the Salt House weeks ago to see the crack in the boat, I’d been nervous. But after just minutes on the ride over, my nervousness simply vanished. It wasn’t anything I could put my finger on. . . . It was all just . . . easy. I couldn’t even remember how we seemed to fall into the habit of having lunch together. It just happened. Like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Out of the corner of my eye, I watched Alex fidget with his hat. He was focused on something outside of his window, his face turned away from me. I shifted to see what held his attention, but there was only a row of parked cars.
He turned suddenly, looking down at his watch, and then up at me.
“I should get you home,” he blurted, starting the engine before I answered him. He waited for me to fasten my seat belt, and we reversed out of the spot. “I don’t want you to be late,” he called over the noise of the engine, and I nodded, resisting the urge to point out that it was barely seven o’clock, and I hadn’t said a word about needing to be home.
We were quiet then. I told myself it was because the windows were open and it was loud in the truck. But the tips of my knees almost touched the glove compartment, where Alex’s cell phone was tucked away and out of sight. I wondered if our quick departure had something to do with the call he’d refused to take.
When we pulled up in front of my house, Alex put the truck in park but kept the engine running.
Every inch of me wanted to stay in the truck with him. But my father’s truck was in the driveway, and I was praying he didn’t look out the window so I could avoid making up a story about why Betsy was dropping me off in an old beat-up truck instead of her shiny VW Bug.
I got my things together quickly and said good-bye to Alex, hopping out of the truck and shutting the door behind me, waving as I walked away.
“Hey, Jess,” Alex called out through the open window. “Wait a second.”
I hurried back and leaned in through the window, anxious to have him pull away from the curb before the noise from the truck engine made it up to the house.
“I’d feel better if we took her out for a sail one more time,” he said. “There was some moisture on the bottom when I was putting her away. It’s going to bother me until I know for sure it’s safe. Will you come out with me again?”
I nodded, glancing at the house as I backed away from the truck, gesturing that I’d call him. He watched me, leaning forward as I backed away, a puzzled look on his face at my hasty exit. I jogged up the steps and went in the foyer and quickly switched off the outside light. I let out my breath when I looked out and saw his truck finally pull away from the curb.
The house was quiet, and I didn’t see my father until I turned on the light in the living room. He was asleep on the couch, his coat and work boots still on. Like he’d literally walked off the boat and collapsed on the couch.
“Dad?” I said, shaking his shoulder. He opened his eyes and sat up. It always amazed me, his ability to go from asleep to awake in one second.
“I was waiting for you,” he said.
He coughed then. It came out a bark. There was a crease on the side of his face from where it had been pressed against the arm of the couch. “How did you get home?”
I frowned at him. “I got a ride. Your cough sounds bad.”
“I’m glad you feel better,” he said, ignoring me. “I was worried about you. You didn’t sound like yourself on the phone this morning.”
“I’m fine,” I said. “Was your day okay? You look tired.” I didn’t know why I said this. My father always looked tired lately. His face was naturally angled, but now in the dim light, it looked gaunt.
“Whatever you had, Manny got too. He went home sick, so after I was done hauling, I had to work the weigh station.”
“What about Boon? Couldn’t he do it?”
“Boon was covering the shop. Turns out Doris was mad that we fired her. She wouldn’t come in.” He gave a weak smile.
I knew how much work the weigh station was—and Manny was younger than my father. Whenever Boon had to cover for Manny, he complained about being sore for weeks.
“Did you eat?” my father asked. “I picked you up some of the soup from Herbert’s that you like.”
Herbert’s Turkey Farm sold chicken soup that tasted and smelled like it was made right at home. But the farm was on the edge of town, nowhere near anything. A long drive for a bowl of soup.
“I left a note that I was eating at Betsy’s. Didn’t you see it?” I said, feeling awful.
“I didn’t get it until I got home. I put the soup on the stove just in case you wanted some. I’ll eat with you if you’re still hungry.” He gestured to the table. He’d set the table with two place mats, a bowl on each next to a napkin and spoon.
I followed him into the kitchen. I wasn’t hungry. I wanted nothing more than to go in my room and shut the door. But I knew he hadn’t eaten a thing, and he wouldn’t if I didn’t sit there with him. He looked so thin to me lately. His belt had been hanging on the back of the bathroom door the other night, and I saw that he’d made a hole in it to make it smaller.
I filled the bowls, brought them to the table, and sat across from him.
He dipped his spoon in the soup, brought it to his mouth, wincing when he swallowed. Then he placed his spoon on the napkin and sat back in his seat.
“Don’t you like it?” I asked.
“Not much of an appetite lately. I’m glad you’re feeling better. You had me worried all day.”