Page 84 of Wrecked

After the camping trip, I knew I wouldn’t be able to work with Adam again. Having him at my home and taking the forty-minute trek here together are out of the question. I told Noreen that she would be in charge of the bar until I got there. That place might be my life, but this is my commitment. At least for the next four months.

I quickly finish my lunch, toss my bag in the trash, walk across the dirt, and enter through the back of the middle house to paint. Today’s crew is pretty light, so I’ll be able to find a spot to work by myself.

I choose one of the bedrooms, set myself up with the sandstone paint, and get to work. Climbing up a ladder, I start with the top of the wall, cutting into the corners.

The wooden handle feels sturdy in my hand. I dip the brush in the paint and place it on the Sheetrock. Gliding the creamy paint on the wall, I realize I’ll need more control if I don’t want to get it all over the ceiling. The paint is too lovely, too smooth, and too enticing, and one small sway will leave a mark where I don’t want it.

Kind of like Adam.

I had ahold on him—on our past and our interactions. I had ahold on the feelings I was developing. But he was too lovely, too smooth, and way too enticing. I made one sway and left a mess of everything.

I move the ladder a few feet to a fresh area and climb back up. Working with the utmost control, I paint so perfectly that you’d think a machine did it.

I climb down again, move the ladder, and pause when I notice Adam is standing in the room. A tingle runs up the backs of my arms, travels the length of my neck, and rushes up my hairline. It passes quickly as my brain reminds my body what happened in the woods.

If I climb up the ladder, I’ll probably fall off from the way my nerves are acting. There’s a window in the center of the wall. I move closer to it and start painting around the trim.

Adam takes a step closer to me. He’s wearing a salmon-colored shirt. Other than that, I can’t tell a thing about how he looks. But I can tell how he smells. Like someone who came here right out of the shower. Even with the pungent smell of paint in the room, I can detect the citrus of his shampoo.

“I know you’re trying to ignore me,” he says.

I tightly clench my jaw as I continue to glide the brush down the wall. It’s shaky, and if I don’t watch my hand, I’ll get sandstone all over the white trim. My earbuds are still in, but there’s no music coming through them. I stare at the wall, pretending like I can’t hear him.

“I was right to stop us,” he continues, “but you are wrong with why I did it. I don’t want Jessica. I never wanted her.”

He takes a step closer, and I walk toward the ladder and dip my brush in the can. I start on the other side of the window.

“Don’t ignore me. We’ve done that for seven years, and I’m not going back to living that way again. You mean”—I catch his reflection in the glass as he runs a hand through his hair—“more to me than I ever realized. Are you listening to me?”

My eyes start to burn. I widen them and take a deep breath to control the feelings that are swishing around.

“Leah,” Toby calls out. “Oh, hey, Adam. You got here fast. I feel like I just spoke to you. Leah, can you give me a hand in the other room? I need someone who can do the trim without hitting the molding.”

I turn to the ladder and grab my can of paint. “Yeah, I’ll be right there.”

Keeping my head down so as not to look at Adam, I start to walk toward Toby, who is standing by the door. My arm is being pulled back. Adam’s hand is gripping on to me. It’s a purposeful grab, meant to ground me in place. I follow that hand up to his corded arm, over the jaw that hasn’t been shaved in a few days, and into eyes that are zeroed in on me.

His mouth is pinched in. “Nice to know you could hear me.”

He releases my arm and turns away.

I manage to make it through the rest of the afternoon without seeing him. I virtually lock myself away and paint, only stopping if Toby asks for a hand.

At five o’clock, I’m done for the day and make my way toward Luke’s car. I really need to figure out what I’m going to do about transportation. Luke goes back to school next week. Maybe I should have helped him get that motorcycle. I could have borrowed it to cruise around town.

I’m walking across the dirt pathway when I see Adam’s truck parked on the other side of the road. I look over, and his frame is visible from the front seat. I chose to volunteer today because Adam was on duty. Looks like I’m his project on and off the job.

I proceed to get in my car and drive away. So used to driving this route in silence, I keep the music off. I follow the dirt road and watch as Adam’s car trails right behind me.

“Leave me alone!” I call out even though he can’t hear me as I enter onto the highway.

I dip into the right lane. He dips, too. And then he honks, probably mad I didn’t use my blinker.

I hold up my middle finger nice and straight, so he can see it.

My rearview mirror gives me a view of his scowl.

The speed limit on the highway is sixty-five miles per hour. People do eighty without blinking an eye. If Mr. Tailgate wants to follow me home, he’s going to have to do it at my pace. I drop my speed down to fifty-five miles per hour and settle into the far right lane. It doesn’t seem like a huge deal, but following someone at this rate is like water torture. Especially for me. I’m not a reckless driver, but watching the cars pass by on the left makes me feel like I’m a turtle.