Reclaimed (9 page)

Working in the shop was relaxing. I had to focus on what I was doing so that I didn’t screw up by cutting the boards the wrong length or taking off my thumb. When I was building, everything else became background noise. I didn’t have to worry about my parents or probation. I didn’t have to think about the girl in the thrift store, the one I couldn’t stop thinking about, the one I shouldn’t have been thinking about. She’d already met Ian, which put me at a severe disadvantage. Besides, I was supposed to be hiding out and pretending I didn’t exist. So if I didn’t
have
to think about all of this, why was I? I just needed to focus on one thing and get it right. That I could do.

I began building the boxes for the cabinets. Nothing fancy, just a frame for the shelves and around the dishwasher. Another one to go around the stove. There wasn’t all that much room. I was going to have to install some of the boxes before I built the others. Systematic steps. Order always made me feel better. More in control.

Which was ironic, since most people who thought they knew me would disagree if I told them I liked order. Chaos usually reigned in my world, but that wasn’t the way I wanted it. I didn’t know why I kept making choices I knew were bad, as if I had no choice at all. Maybe there was something fundamentally wrong with me. Like Ian got all the good genes, and I got the junk left over. We’d been so similar when we were young, but at some point I quit being able to keep up. I was always just behind him, in grades and sports and my dad’s eyes, and while what I was accomplishing was pretty good on its own, when compared to Ian’s achievements, it looked like moldy leftovers. So I quit trying to compete. I found my own sport, one I excelled in—deviance. And sometimes it just felt really good to piss off my dad. But sometimes even that fell flat. And it didn’t take some catastrophe to make me realize my mistakes. I’d known them all along. But I was only just paying for them.

I laid out my tools like a surgeon, setting my nail gun, wood glue, and drawings in a neat row on the shelf. I fastened the nail pouch around my waist and began sweating out my frustration. Just me and the work. I focused on what I was doing, soon finding a rhythm, cutting boards, fitting them together, driving the nails. I measured. Adjusted. Created. It was better than destroying, and my mind found that quiet place of contentment.

And then she was there.

I was on my way home from work Monday afternoon when the Bronco just steered its way over to Ian’s house. I wanted to turn around; I tried to focus on Ian’s strange behavior and my plans, which didn’t include him, but all I could think about was how easy it was to forget everything else when he smiled.

I parked in front of the house, but I didn’t see his truck. I was starting to climb the steps to the porch when I heard hammering from around the back, in the direction of the shop.

I stopped in the middle of the yard, not sure if I wanted to go in. I’d spent many afternoons watching Pops fix things in his shop. I’d smashed my finger with his hammer after he’d told me not to touch it. I’d found his stash of whiskey and kept it a secret, even from Mops. When Pops died, we’d simply shut the shop doors and left everything the way he had. It would be strange seeing Ian using his tools, but I wouldn’t be like Mom, afraid to move on.

Both doors were propped open. Ian had his shirt off, his back to me. His shoulders were broad, and the muscles in his back moved as he cut a piece of wood. He couldn’t hear me over the whine of the blade and the roar of the fan. I watched him fit the pieces together, eye them, then pull the trigger on the nail gun. He eyed the wood again and nodded that it was right. He was graceful and fluid, skin on muscle on bone, his movements a dance. He was talented, and it wasn’t odd at all, seeing how easily Pops’s shop fit around him; he belonged there.

Ian turned to grab another board and saw me. He froze and I blushed. I couldn’t help it—he’d caught me staring. The fact that he looked so amazing without a shirt made me blush even harder, as if he could read my mind.

He wiped his hands and face with a towel, but didn’t say anything, just gave me a mysterious smile. What was that all about?

“I was headed home from work and thought I’d stop by,” I told him. “But you look busy.”

“No, it’s okay. I could use a break.”

I followed him to the back porch. He leaned against the railing and took a deep drink from a water jug. I tried not to stare at his chest, which was nice and defined, or his abs. His shorts were slung low on his hips, revealing a long pink scar on his right side that I hadn’t noticed at the lake. I sat on the top step and tried looking back at his face.

He smiled wickedly at me. “Ian’s not here.”

I decided to play along. “Do you know when he might be back?”

Ian shrugged. “I have no idea. Not for a while, I hope. He might get angry if he thought I was trying to seduce his girlfriend.”

I didn’t have a response to that. I wasn’t sure which part I was supposed to be concerned about—the seducing, or the fact he’d called me his girlfriend. I didn’t know what to do with either.

He must have seen how uncomfortable I was. “Sorry.” He raked a hand through his hair. “He’s really not here.” He did look serious. “Ah,” Ian said, his face changing to understanding. “He hasn’t mentioned me, has he?”

I had absolutely no idea what he was talking about.

“I’m Luke,” he said. “Ian’s brother. Twin brother, obviously.”

Obviously. And I was staring. With my mouth open a little. “Sorry,” I mumbled. I shut my mouth with a snap. There were two of them?

“No problem,” Luke said. “It happens all the time.”

There were two of them. “I’m Jenna. But I…why wouldn’t Ian…” I still couldn’t make any sense of this. The fact that Ian had a brother he’d never mentioned was kind of hard to take in.

Luke’s face darkened. “We aren’t exactly getting along right now. He blames me for the move.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s my fault. Ian is perfect. I’m the outlaw. You picked the right brother.” Despite his crooked smile, Luke’s voice was black.

“I didn’t pick anybody.” I wasn’t sure why I was protesting.

He raised his eyebrows. “Oh? Still browsing? Maybe you’d like to try me on for size.”

I narrowed my eyes. “You know, you could get dressed,” I said. His skin was making me uncomfortable.

His smirk was pure arrogance. “Am I bothering you?” His tone suggested that was exactly what he hoped he was doing.

“No, it’s just rude.”

“Yeah, well, my brother got the manners. I got the looks.”

“That’s really too bad,” I told him. “Seems like you got the short end of that stick.”

“There’s nothing short about my—sorry.” He looked abashed. “Reflex.”

“So how do people tell you two apart?” I asked, trying to change the subject. They couldn’t. I hadn’t. Right then I was having a hard time believing that Ian wasn’t playing some elaborate joke on me. They were beyond identical.

“Easy,” Luke said. “I’m the one with all the girls following me.”

“It doesn’t seem so in this case.”

His grin was appreciative. “Touché. But you were not aware of my existence until ten minutes ago. Now that you’ve met me, you won’t be able to think of anything else.”

“I’m sure I’ll manage.” Although I did find myself staring at his abs. It wouldn’t have killed him to put on a shirt.

I jerked my chin in the direction of the shop, giving my eyes something else to do. “What are you working on?”

His grin made his arrogance fall away, unmasking a big kid. “Wanna see?”

“Sure.”

I followed him into the shop. Almost everything was exactly where Pops had left it—even one of his hats. There were several piles of old wood on the floor, along with scraps and wood shavings. An outline of a box was sitting on the worktable.

“What kind of wood is that?” I asked. It was full of nails and covered in old paint, chipped and peeling in places.

“Old cypress. Some people call it reclaimed cypress. It’s just really old wood that’s worth a lot. It looks way better when it’s all cleaned up.”

“Why would you use old wood?”

“Because it’s pretty—and rare. It’s not like they’re making more of it. Imagine where this stuff has been. What it saw. Once I get all the nails out and plane it down, it’ll look really good. And it’s worth more because of the nail holes and everything. I like taking something that’s all beaten up and making it better.”

“Like redemption,” I said.

Luke looked at me then, really looked at me, his eyes intense. “Exactly.”

I broke his gaze, which made me feel like I was standing naked in church, by walking around and looking at all the memories piled in the back corner. The fishing poles and tackle box were as familiar to me as the Bronco. Pops used to take me fishing in the little pond down the hill. We threw most of the fish back, but every once in a while we’d keep the big ones and fry them up right there by the pond. Sometimes, Mops and Mom would come too, and we’d have fried potatoes and hush puppies. On those long afternoons, no one was drinking. On those days, we didn’t have to pretend everything was perfect.

My little red wagon was propped in the corner, the bottom rusted out. Sometimes I had carted a stuffed animal or two, but usually I was wheeling around a frog or some lizards or, even once, a harmless grass snake. Mops had nearly fainted over that one. The rusted Coca-Cola sign was still there, as was the scar on my calf where it had sliced into me. I’d had to get a tetanus shot. There were so many other things, which, while I had no tale on them, probably had plenty of stories of their own.

“I know, it’s a lot of junk,” said Luke. “I need to go through it and throw most of it out when I get a chance.”

That comment, that people’s lives could be tossed aside so easily, made my heart hurt, even if we
had
left all of this stuff to rot. “It’s not junk,” I told him. “My grandpa owned this once, and it wouldn’t have been here if it hadn’t been important.”

“Your grandfather?” he asked.

“You didn’t know he used to live here? Your mom bought the house from my mom.”

“Really?” He sounded interested—and surprised.

“I guess Ian has been keeping us both a secret,” I said. “See that fishing pole back there?” I pointed to the one with the pink handle. “I’ve caught more fish with that pole than I can remember. And two snapping turtles. It’s not junk.”

“So why’d you leave it here?” he asked.

“Because sometimes there are too many memories and not enough rooms.” There was a softening in Luke’s face that made me think he knew exactly what I was talking about. He handed me a pair of goggles.

“What are these for?” I asked.

“I thought you might like to help me clean up the wood.”

“I don’t know how,” I told him.

“There’s nothing to it. Just turn this on,” he pointed to a switch on the side of a monstrous piece of equipment, “and run the board through. The planer does all the work—it peels off the old layers of paint and stuff. You’ll probably need this, too.” He handed me a dust mask.

“You want me to do your work for you?” I asked. He had to be kidding.

He nodded. “You’re probably right. I mean, you’re pretty small, and a girl at that. You probably couldn’t do it even if you wanted to.”

And even though I knew he was manipulating me, it totally worked. “Give me that.”

He grinned and handed over the mask. He showed me how to feed the wood into the machine, then stepped back and watched.

He corrected me a couple of times, but after a while I didn’t even notice he was standing there. It was hot, even with the fan on, but it was nice working up a sweat and getting my hands dirty. It was even better when I finished with a plank of wood. I stepped back and looked at the grimy, dented board that was now smooth and golden. Beautiful. The nail holes left black streaks in the honey-colored wood, a smudge of character that proved the board had history.

The cut wood smelled so clean. I had shavings all over me—they coated the front of my shirt, settled into my hair, and filled the edges of my tennis shoes.

“That’s really good,” Luke said, startling me as he came up behind me.

I smiled. “I know. It looks amazing.”

“If you came over here every day, I could have this job knocked out in no time.” Luke reached up and touched my shoulder.

“You couldn’t afford me,” I said, surprised at how nonchalant I sounded. My stomach was knotted in a million different places, and I found myself wishing we were standing closer together. And farther apart at the same time.

“I should go,” I said.

Luke gave me a dark look. “That’s probably a good idea.”

What the hell did he mean by that? “Tell Ian I stopped by.”

“Sure,” he said. But he didn’t sound like he would.

There were seven pencils in the ceramic mug on Dr. Benson’s desk. All of the erasers were still new. There were also a picture of a smiling family at Disneyland and a bronze clock.

I tried not to notice how slow the hands on the clock were moving.

“I’m glad you’re getting settled in,” Dr. Benson said. “Meeting new people. Tell me about them.”

I tried, but their names and faces blended together. They were shadows in the light. Her light. I only remembered them because she’d been there.

“Jenna.” My voice surprised me. I hadn’t meant to say her name out loud.

Dr. Benson looked at me over the top of his glasses. “You met a girl?”

I gave him a faint smile. “They do make up half the population. It was bound to happen eventually.”

“Of course,” Dr. Benson said, writing something down. “She’s just a girl.”

“There’s nothing
just
about Jenna. She—” I leaned forward, my elbows on my knees, and stared at the floor. “She makes me believe it’s possible to be normal again.”

“How so?”

There was a small burn at the corner of the rug, a mar in its pattern. “When she talks, it’s like I can see again. Like I’ve been sitting alone in the dark and she stepped in to turn on the light.”

“Could you explain what you mean by that?”

I tried. “She has all these stories. These memories. And I envy that. It makes me want to find mine even more.” I needed those memories to mend all the cracks. Spending time with Jenna helped. “At the lake…”