Candy Colored Sky, стр. 40
Here I go, making it worse.
“You don’t really pick the best guys. Sometimes they don’t even walk you to the door. And you—”
“You watch me come home from dates?” She stands as she says this, and I look to either side of her, panicked that she’ll lose her balance. That dose of adrenaline mixes in my system along with the instant burn of feeling caught being creepy, and my chest feels as if it’s been excavated and filled in with concrete.
“Not always. I’ve just noticed sometimes. And I didn’t mean anything about you. It’s the guys. It’s always the guys.” I’m too frazzled to get the right words out, and my stumbling attempt has only resulted in Eleanor walking away.
“Please don’t go,” I call after her.
“I’ll see you later, Jonah.” It’s clear by her tone that she has no plans to anytime soon, and later might mean never again.
“Fuck!” I breathe out, probably loud enough that she heard it. Add this to the words and outbursts I can’t put back inside. I press my palms to my eyes and rest my head against the brick. The sky is close to pink now, and two minutes ago, I’d be in awe. Now, I just want it to be night and then morning—a fresh slate and a chance for a redo.
I pull my phone from my pocket to send Eleanor a text that I can only hope clears up the muddy words I vomited out a moment ago.
ME: I’m really sorry that came out so wrong. I only meant that you deserve a better boyfriend. That’s all. Nobody’s been worthy and that’s probably why it hasn’t been all it’s cracked up to be. Having a boyfriend, I mean.
I hesitate before I hit SEND and consider adding more. I want to tell her I’m not a loser who stares out my window at her, but aren’t I really? I want to tell her that I would never let her walk to her door alone after a date, and I would always be early and always have her home on time. I stop myself, though, because as pathetic as my confessions sound they also sound like a job interview. I’m just lucky she wants to sit in my garage and up on the roof sometimes. I can be satisfied with that. And if she’s gotten what she needs to find her strength in these dark days and decides she’s done with my company, then I have to be satisfied with that too.
I make my way along the roof, never fully standing because now that the sun is nearly down, I’m even less sure on my feet. I leap from the middle of the ladder onto the ground and decide to leave my shortcut out in case I’m lucky enough to experience a repeat tomorrow. A short text in response buzzes at my side, and for a beat, it gives me hope.
ELEANOR: It’s fine. I’m just tired.
I know it’s not, and I know she is.
And that message was more of an ending than a beginning.
Twelve
Eleanor has kept to herself. I guess I’ve done the same. No texts sent either way, and no late-night visits to the garage. I don’t even know what I’m doing on the Bronco at this point, other than fumbling around with wires and constantly checking my periphery, hoping she’ll show up. I spent the last two nights under the hood for no other reason than to make sure she saw the garage lit up and open for her if she wanted company.
It’s the same tonight, only now there’s an empty chair at Grandpa Hank’s poker table that she should be sitting in. He’d be irritated by a no-show under other circumstances, but I’m pretty sure everyone in this garage can read the anguish on my face as I pace around the tight space and constantly monitor life across the street.
“Maybe Hank Junior here can take the young lady’s spot until she shows?” Dale’s suggestion makes my stomach lurch. I don’t know poker very well, but I’m also pretty damn sure Eleanor isn’t coming.
“I think that’s an excellent idea. Jonah, come on, have a seat,” my grandpa says, patting the open chair next to him.
I roll my neck and let my gaze fall on the empty space, reluctantly dragging my feet toward it. I plop down in the chair and instantly feel like a child at a kid’s table. I think maybe my chair is shorter than the others. It seems to amuse them all, tight smiles held back with sucked-in lips, waiting to burst. Dale can no longer hold it in when I lean forward and rest my elbows on the table, which is basically at chin-level.
“Okay, ha ha,” I say, standing and dragging the stunted chair away from the table.
“It’s Hank’s fault. Don’t blame us,” my grandpa’s buddy, Gary, says through a gritty laugh. “He switched it out while you were moping around the driveway.”
“Nice. Real nice, Gary. Thanks for that color commentary. I appreciate it,” I mutter, flipping open a normal-sized chair and pushing it close to the table. I’m a little more motivated to get good at this game now that they’ve pissed me off. None of these guys like losing, even though it’s only twenty or forty bucks a night.
“Deal me in,” I say, resting my elbows on the table again, this time like an adult.
Grandpa smirks at me from the side of his mouth, probably thankful I got the lingo right and didn’t embarrass him. He runs me through a refresher course while he deals; three of a kind beats two pair, a full house beats a flush, and if I get a flush these old bastards are going to assume I’m cheating.
The first seven or eight hands go by with me dropping a couple of bucks and folding each time. I endure their razzing, and get called a few terms I’ve never heard before, my favorite being gollumpus. I Googled