We start the ten minute drive to Mason’s elementary school, listening to the cheery sounds of a soundtrack to one of Mason’s favorite cartoons that features a bouncing dragon or cow or something else bouncy. The positive tunes put a grin on Mason’s face and make me want to punch the dragon/cow and tell him the magical life of rainbows and pots of gold he’s promising children is a lie. One thing’s for sure, I’m going to do everything in my power to make sure Mason has a way better life than Jax and I had.

I park out front and run Mason into his class. By the time I make it back to the car, Jax is smoking. Both of us were probably addicted to nicotine before we even started smoking. I’d scold him for doing it, but then I’d be a hypocrite, so I crack my window, light up, and then change the song before I lose my mind.

“Buttons” by The Weeks clicks on as I pull out of the school lot and Jax and I take a moment to be irresponsible youngin’s who can enjoy listening to music and not have to let it be tied to our past. It’s not until I get to the college that it hits me. This icky, festering need to bawl my eyes out, like I did a week ago when I dropped Mason off for kindergarten. It’s not that I’m sad. Not at all. Yes, it’s a little depressing that Jax’s all grown up, but most of it comes from the proud fact that he’s going to college at eighteen.

Jax senses my impending waterworks.  “Now don’t go there, Avery,” he says. “We all have to grow up someday.”

“But I swear you were just a baby like yesterday,” I whine, glad I have my sunglasses on because my eyes are bubbling with tears.

“You sound like you’re forty years old right now.” He teases with a shake of his head.

“Sorry.” I suck back the tears with a giant sniffle. “It’s just that it sometimes kind of feels like you’re my kid and I’m… I’m just so proud of you.”

The humor vanishes from his eyes and we exchange a look of mutual understanding before he leans over and pulls me in for an emotional hug. “I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for you,” he says and I can tell he means every word. Sometimes I think it’s the reason I came back that night, because Jax needed me to help him get here. But I know that’s not the only reason, can feel it in my bones, saw it in the darkness that night, heard it through the silent whisper before life was breathed into me again.

Help me.

I’m here for more than that. My penance, I’ve decided, for what happened. For the choices I made. If I could just figure it out then perhaps life would be easier.

I stop fighting the tears and let them pour out as Jax gets out of the car. “I’ll text you when I drop off the car,” I call out. He waves before closing the door and I watch him walk up to the arched main entrance of the campus before driving away.

As I’m pulling out onto the street, the tormenting gaslight flicks on so I turn into a gas station. I check my account balance on my phone after I park next to the pump. I have just under fifty bucks and payday isn’t for a week.

“Dammit,” I mutter, mentally calculating how much gas I should put in. I decide on ten dollars which is barely a few gallons. It’ll barely cover the next couple of days and it means I’m going to have to find an extra resource for money when I get home.

Thirty minutes and another cigarette later, I arrive at the piece of property the Habitat for Humanity house is being built on. It’s located in the next town over from where I live, in a quiet subdivision, the exact opposite of The Subs. It puts a smile on my face, remembering what it was like when my own place was being built. But my happiness dissipates when I see all the tools scattered around on the ground and near the foundation, and the workers who clearly look like they know what they’re doing. And me, well I don’t think I’ve even picked up a hammer in my life. That doesn’t mean I’m going to get scared away, though. I’m way tougher than that.

At least that’s what I tell myself as I fix my runny mascara before getting out of my vehicle and crossing the dirt, making my way to a guy who’s carrying a clipboard and wearing a hard hat who I’m assuming is the foreman.

You can do this, Avery.

Turns out, my positivity was a clear overshot because the kitchen fiasco pretty much sums up the first half of the morning. I drop a hammer on my toe, bash my thumb, break one of the boards, and spill nails on the ground. I’d be handling it just fine, except there’s this guy who’s not even in charge, but keeps chewing me out every time I mess up and all the people around us stare every time he raises his voice. Six years ago, I’d be able to handle a guy having a tizzy tantrum, but these days, every yell sets me off like the fire alarms did this morning. I hate when people raise their voices even more than I despise loud music and chaos.

“Would you chill out,” I say in as calm of a voice as I can muster. I bend over to pick up the nails with the ass**le’s shadow casting over me. “I’m trying my best.”

He’s about two inches shorter than me, in his thirties, at least fifty pounds overweight, and has a stick up his ass apparently.

“I’ll stop yelling at you girlie when you stop f**king up.” He continues getting louder every time he talks down to me.

My hands tremble. I’m not afraid or anything, but it’s a nervous tick I’ve developed over the last six years that emerges every time someone raises their voice to me—at least when a guy does.

“Really? Girlie?” I roll my eyes at him as I stand up, tucking a handful of nails back into my tool belt, realizing that we’ve drawn a little audience. “Seriously, who says that except sexist ass**les with a short guy complex?”

A condescending look rises on his face and then he starts name bashing the crap out of me. It only takes about ten seconds before I have to drop the hammer and leave, otherwise I’ll lose my shit.

Tears sting at my eyes as I dash toward the outhouses near the fence line. I can feel stares following me until I lock myself in the bathroom. Then I give myself exactly one minute to cry.

One minute. That’s all.

“Get your shit together, Avery,” I whisper. “That guy isn’t Conner. He doesn’t matter, just like the past doesn’t matter. You have a new beginning which rarely happens and you need to make the most of it.” I suck in a deep breath and finally get the tears to subside. Then I head out, wishing I hadn’t put on the eyeliner because I look like a hot mess.

Wiping the smeared liner from the bottom of my eyes with my fingertips, I step into the sunlight and the busy sounds of power tools. I’m not watching where I’m going and end up running right into someone, my chest hitting their very sweaty one.

I have a flashback.

Not a good one.

And I almost run the other way.

Instead, I stumble back because someone pulls me forward, creating this strange push/pull balance. At first, I’m not sure what’s causing it, but then I realize that the person I crashed into has grabbed my arm to steady me.

“Shit, I’m sorry.” I regain my balance before I glance up at them. Then I trip over my feet again. “Tristan?” I’m at a loss for words as I stare into the sky blue eyes that belong to the guy who wrote the note I read every night.

The one exception guy.

The guy I’ve been telling myself was just one of those people who was meant to go in and out of my life. But now that he’s here in front of me, I have to wonder if I’ve been wrong.

He takes a good look at me and then recognition clicks. He seems a little startled but not as much as he should be, which makes me wonder if he noticed me earlier.

“Are you okay?” Tristan asks concernedly.

I stare at him speechlessly. He’s here and it’s so... Well, I’m not sure what it is yet.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” I manage to get out.

He looks the same; blonde hair, sky-blue eyes with a hint of darkness in them, and right now, a little bit of uneasiness. The only difference between now and three months ago is that he’s scruffy around the jawline, like he’s in the early stages of growing a beard. He’s also much more underdressed than the last time I saw him, wearing a pair of worn-in jeans, work boots, and a tool belt that sits on his narrow hips. I never got to see his chest the first time we were acquainted and I find myself thinking what a shame that was as my gaze scrolls over his muscles and the intricate tattoo inking the damp flesh of his ribcage. It’s absolutely stunning, colors and patterns that curve and collide with dark lines that form a face that looks half human, half skeletal. He told me once his tattoos have meanings. I wonder what that one in particular means. One word comes to mind when I look at it though. Death.

He wipes the sweat from his chest with the palm of his hands. “Why...What are you doing here?” he asks, running his fingers through his damp hair as his gaze lingers on my eyes for a beat or two—he can tell I’ve been crying. Thankfully, he doesn’t say anything about it. He just stands there, nervously waiting for me to answer his question.

Why is he nervous?

Why am I nervous? Or at least my heart is.

And why is he here, standing in front of me?

“I’m here to work off my probation hours,” I joke nervously. When puzzlement etches his face, I hurry and add, “I’m just kidding.” I glance around at the worksite, at the saws, the drills, the people with bright yellow hardhats, and then my focus lands back on him. “I’m here to help build.”

The pucker at Tristan’s brows deepens. “You do this now? The whole Habitat thing?”

“It’s kind of a deal since they built me my own house,” I explain, scrubbing at a smudge of dirt on my forearm. “Give back what you’re given.”

“That’s good, I guess.”

“Yeah, it’s good to give back, especially when it comes to houses. You can never be too grateful to have a roof over your head.”

His lips tilt upward, but the silence that follows stretches on forever. He seems confused over something then he finally simply asks, “So then we’ll both be here for a couple of months until the house is finished, right?” An adorable full smile appears again, the same one he tried to use on me the first time we hung out. That was when I’d explained to him that I don’t do guys at all, especially cute pretty boy ones, which he seemed to find more amusing than I intended.

I fight a smile, but my mouth ends up matching his. “Well, I’ll only be here in the mornings. I’m doing half days since I have work, school, and a ton of other crap.” And suddenly my internal sunshine fades as I’m reminded that even though we’re close in age and are doing something similar now, we are far from being on the same path in life. That guys aren’t on my path.

“That’s good… that I’ll get to see you.” He seems conflicted though, like he kind of wants to run away, and I kind of want him to because I’m having the same problem with him as I did the first time.

Push.

Pull.

Run.

Stay.

Tristan doesn’t know much about my life, but he knows more than most, like how long I’ve been sober, how many tattoos I have, and then he met Conner. But he doesn’t know the story behind Conner, or know about Mason, know what my story is, where my scars come from or how severe they are both mentally and physically. Then again, no one really knows my story.

Only me.

And the stars.

I also learned a few things about him, like how he used to be addicted to drugs. I wonder if he’s clean right now.  His eyes do seem clearer, and he doesn’t appear twitchy or out of it. Still, sometimes it’s difficult to tell.

Suddenly, his adorable smile enlarges and I realize I’ve been staring at him for at least a minute.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” he asks curiously.

I shrug with indifference even though my heart accelerates. “Like what?”

His eyes sparkle mischievously. “Like you’re picturing me naked. You know, the same way you looked at me back when we first met.”

The corners of my lips threaten to turn upward. “Not funny.”

“Oh, I wasn’t trying to be funny. Just stating a fact.”

I roll my tongue in my mouth, biting back a grin. “Cute. Really cute. I forgot how cute you are.” My voice drips with sarcasm.

“Aw, and now she’s calling me cute.” He presses his hand to his chest, appearing touched, but his voice is playful, flirtatious. Still, beneath it is a hint of nerves just like there was the night we hung out.

Nervous or not, I’m already getting in over my head with him again so I do the only thing I can think of and change the subject.

“So have you been living in North Carolina for a while?”

He seems thrown off by my random, non-flirtatious question. “Yeah… I left for a little bit but have been back for a few weeks now.”

I inch out of the way as an older guy walks up to go inside one of the outhouses. “Are Nova and Quinton with you?” I look around for them.

“Yeah, Nova and Quinton are here. I actually just got back here this weekend.” He stuffs his hands into the pockets of his jeans and rocks back on his heels. “I had to go home for a little bit.”

“Where’s home exactly?”

His face twists with animosity, but it seems like a subconscious reaction. “Wyoming.”

“Wyoming?” I slant my head to the side and inspect his expression intently. “Are you lying to me?”

“Um, no. Why?”

I point at myself. “Because that’s where I’m from. I actually moved here like five years ago.”