Bigger. Colder. Emptier.

Chapter 3: Second Impressions

Dinner with the Sumners was last week, and Trevor’s been gone for five days now. My head was buzzing just hearing all of the work that was expected of him. I know he can handle it, I just wish I were there for him to come home to at night. He’s been calling me every morning on his way into the city and texting me a few times during the day. He doesn’t get home until late, sometimes ten or eleven, so our conversations are hit or miss.

So far, life at Trevor’s parents’ house hasn’t been nearly as stressful as I thought it would be. Jim left the same day Trevor did, for a long trip to Chicago. And Shelly spends most of her day watching soap operas in the living room, or hiding in her room. The one thing I find that I miss in Trevor’s room is my desk. He just doesn’t have a great drafting space, and maybe I’m just stuck in my ways, but I like the way everything fit on my old desk. Everything had its place, and I knew how to work around the dents.

I’ve measured the trunk of my Honda about 40 different ways, and I’m pretty sure I won’t be able to fit the desk in the back without breaking it in half. I’m about to give up, when I see the back of an old pickup truck hanging halfway out of the Appletons’ garage. It’s a complete mismatch from the rest of the house and the other vehicles that usually line their driveway. I know its Cody’s. I don’t even have to ask. And that’s what’s keeping me in my place.

I lean back, sitting on my bumper, and consider how this might go. I want—no I need—to borrow a truck. And Cody’s the only person I know with one. I’m chewing on my fingernails when I hear the rumble of his engine and see his truck start to back out of the garage. I’m blatantly staring, still considering my approach, as he loops around the circle driveway and stops in front of me. I try to turn away and measure my trunk once more, hoping maybe he’ll ask what I’m doing and give me the opening I need, when I accidentally drop the tape measure under my car.

“You measuring that for a body?” he asks through his window, the growl of his motor slowing down as he idles next to me. I purse my lips in response.

“A desk, not a body,” I say, short again. Why am I so rude to him? “Of course, I’m not measuring anything now that I’ve dropped the tape under my car.”

I bend down and reach under the trunk to see if I can grab it, but in my flustered state, my arm rubs along the exhaust pipe. “Shit! Damn, shit, shit, shit!” I’m screaming, and my eyes are tearing up from the searing pain. I’m spinning around, holding my arm, but afraid to look at it, when suddenly I stop in Cody’s arms.

“Slow down!” he’s shouting at me. Why is he yelling? “Hold still, damn it. You’re burned; let me see it for a sec.”

It’s not his words that stop me, but rather his touch. I won’t admit it to him, but the pain—that seconds ago was killing me—is gone. All I can feel now is the grip of his hands along my arm and the beat of his heart near my shoulder. His breath is hot, his mouth close to my neck.

He’s tugging at my arm now, leading me, and I’m following as if I’m in a trance. He pushes me down on a folding chair in his garage, and finally lets go of my arm. The pain instantly starts to crawl back, and I’m now looking at the four-inch line of puffy redness and blistering along my forearm.

“Got it. Okay, now this is gonna hurt,” he says, kneeling in front of me and reaching for my arm, more gently this time. He looks up into my eyes, which are wide with worry and still in shock. “Charlie, I need you to do me a favor, okay? I’m going to fix this up for you. But I need to put some stuff on here that’s going to hurt like hell. I want you to focus on my face, though; don’t look at your arm, okay? Just look at me, and hold onto my shoulder with your other hand. You squeeze it as hard as you need to.”

“Don’t call me Charlie,” I say, my face flat and my tone direct. I can’t believe that’s what I say, but it is.

Cody sighs heavily, and looks down at my arm before looking back up to me. “Charlotte,” he sounds so pissed off as he says it, “just look here, and hold here, okay?”

I nod and turn my focus briefly to my other hand on his bare shoulder. He’s wearing a tank top, and his arms are covered in intricate patterns that seem to dive under his shirt and carry on to his chest and back. I’m trying to register everything, take the full picture in. There is one set of numbers, a date I think? Then I notice the name Jacob, followed by the words I promise. The words come in swirls and are surrounded by shaded figures that look sort of like angels. The picture is so beautiful, and so very sad. Realizing I’ve been staring at nothing but his arm, and digging my nails into his shoulder from the pain in my other arm, I dart my eyes back to his.