Ben
Instead of running along the
road, I duck back into the wooded area beyond the yard. The trees extend like a
dark wedge between the fields surrounding Jeff’s property. Luckily there isn’t
much undergrowth, and I’m able to maintain a reasonable jog along the little
path weaving through the trees. My thoughts drift back to several hours earlier
and the conversation with Cherie. The woman is certainly unique.
I haven’t gone very far, not
more than a quarter mile into the woods when the trail widens into a clearing.
The far side is devoid of trees, giving way to expansive wheat fields, but in
the middle of the open space is a giant boulder. Not a typical boulder though.
Slowing to a walk, I cross the sunlit grassy area to the gray mass. About three
feet tall, the top is flat and wide. About as big as Jackson’s bed but more
rounded, the whole thing is reminiscent of a really thick pancake.
Resting my hand on the
smooth, dark gray surface, I let the coolness seep into my skin as my breathing
slows. Trailing a finger across the stone, I circle the object until coming up
to a wide depression in the ground, roughly the same size as the stone and
covered in grass like the rest of the clearing. I wonder if years ago someone
heaved this giant rock out of that hole in the ground. Why would anyone do
that?
Pulling myself on top of it,
I sit in the very middle and cross my legs. It’s at a gradual slope, so the top
is dry and clean, but still flat enough that I’m comfortable sitting like this.
Overhead, the wind rustles through the trees, carrying the lush scent of summer
and field crops. Beyond the clearing, countless acres of wheat bow before the
breeze in waves, paying homage to the afternoon’s graceful breath.
The last few weeks have been
such a change. Not just in where I’m living and what I’m doing, but in how I
feel about myself. And about my brother. Back in L.A, I never could have
imagined that I would actually find gratification in a hard day’s work, even
when the only things I have to show for it are dirt under my fingernails and a
few scrapes.
But even though it’s not the
way I wanted to spend my summer, and it’s no question that living with Jeff and
Jackson can be so damn irritating at times, my biggest regret is that I never
visited sooner. Summers came and went, year by year, and I never knew what I
was missing. If only I could go back in time and talk some sense into myself.
Under my vigil, the sun has
dropped steadily toward the horizon, counting the passing time without needing
numbers. The wind picks up again, catching the tips of my hair and brushing
against my neck. And the wheat, its stalks bend obediently at the command,
ceaselessly and tirelessly. The movement is so mesmerizing that I couldn’t look
away even if I wanted to.
Nothing lasts forever, but
if anything could, this summer would be one of those things that persisted on,
refusing to relinquish its place in time.
* * *
*
Between running, eating
dinner, and watching TV for a while with Jeff and Jackson, it seems like I
never have any time in the evenings. It helps that I’m getting decent sleep
now, thanks to Jackson sharing his bed, but mostly that just means I’m more
awake for the few short hours I have.
Taking my time brushing my
teeth, I examine my face in the mirror. A few stray hairs have appeared between
my eyebrows. Rinsing out my mouth, I open up Jackson’s drawer in the vanity.
Toothpaste, floss, hand lotion, deodorant, a tube of acne cream, followed by
more boring stuff. How does he not have a tweezers? Reaching all the way to the
back of the drawer, I start pulling things forward.
Another deodorant stick, a
small mirror, and a half empty bag of cotton balls come out. I reach back
again, feeling for small stuff. A clump of objects in hand, I drop them onto
the counter. Bingo, a tweezers. Beside them are a bottle of lube and a pair of
condoms. Halfway to the tweezers, my hand freezes.
Lube? What does he need that
for? We’re both uncut, and I assume
that
hasn’t changed since we moved
apart. Lube might make it more fun, I guess, but it’s absolutely not required
to have a good time. My gaze jumps to the turquoise plastic squares, a ring
inside each indenting against the packaging. Is Jackson having sex, or are
these the ones they give out in school “just-in-case”? Hell, maybe Jeff gave
them to him.
It’s strange to think about
my brother in this context. The last time we were close, the biggest issues in
our lives were recess plans and what flavor of juice box we got for lunch.
Jackson’s favorite was berry splash, mine was orange breeze. Or orange wave, I
don’t remember exactly. I shove the condoms to the back along with the rest of
the junk, except for the tweezers.
Jackson is already in bed
with the light off when I tiptoe across the room. Sliding under the covers next
to him, my elbow brushes his arm.
“Took you long enough,” he
says.
Jeeze, talk about crabby.
“It was like five minutes.” I reach up to adjust my pillow, this time bumping
his shoulder. “Sorry,” I mumble before he has a chance to say anything.
“It was fifteen at least,”
he hisses back.
I suppose it did take a
while to dig through and analyze his toiletries, but I’m not going to validate
him complaining about stupid things. “Tough,” I say.
“I could kick you back to
the floor,” he warns, but we both know it’s an empty threat. When I don’t
answer him, he rolls away onto his side.
Ben
It’s been humid all day, and
my shirt is sticking to my back as I finish counting the till. Per usual, Jeff
has been tucked away in his office most of the day.
Jackson stows the broom in
the corner behind the counter. “So I know you said you weren’t really
interested, but I’m going to meet up with Matt as soon as we finish here. Going
to hit the gym quick and then maybe going swimming afterward.”
I’m wary about that Matt
guy, but getting in the water sounds really good right now, even if I get
dragged to the gym first. Reminded of the heat, I wipe a drop of sweat from my
forehead.
Biting the corner of his
lip, Jackson adds, “I’d like it if you came.”
Shutting the spring-loaded
drawer, I slip a rubber band around the bundle of cash and checks from the day,
leaving only the five hundred in the register. Jackson is still watching me
expectantly, a filament of anticipation woven into his expression.
“Yeah, let’s go.”
His face breaks into a
smile. “Great. I’ll ask Dad if he’ll drop us off instead of taking us home.”
Walking out to the parking
lot, I hop up on a pallet of landscaping brick while I wait for them to finish.
Shielding my eyes from the sun with my hand, I let my vision roam across the
store and the greenhouses. If the intake of daily cash is any indication, this
place doesn’t rake in much money, but it’s an accomplishment nonetheless to run
a business like this. Jeff has been working hard these last few years it seems,
and whether or not it’s paying off in a monetary sense, he’s built something
here that he and Jackson can be proud of.
I’m proud of Mom and her
career too. It isn’t easy to become a vice president of a Fortune 500 company,
but she did it. She has to work a lot, but she always makes time for the two of
us. I can’t remember a week that she wasn’t home for dinner at least twice, and
I know that sometimes means she has to go in early and stay later other nights.
She makes a lot more money than Jeff I’m sure, but it costs more to live in L.A.
than it does here. She also drives an Infiniti compared to Jeff’s Ford F-150.
Jackson and Jeff appear
outside the store after what feels like almost twenty minutes. Opening the
passenger side door, I wait while shimmering hot air escapes from the cab.
“So you boys are hitting the
gym tonight, I hear,” Jeff says, sounding pleased.
I nod, taking the middle
spot so Jackson can have the outside. “I guess so.”
Jackson steps up into the
cab and squeezes in next to me. Reaching over with the seatbelt, he hits the
top of my hand with the metal part. “Sorry,” he says hastily, his eyes briefly
catching mine. I lean over toward Jeff so he can find the buckle.
“You have dirt on your
face,” Jackson says, pointing somewhere above my eyebrows.
Usually I’m careful, but I remember
wiping the sweat away after counting the till. I brush a hand across my
forehead. “Still there?”
“Kind of,” he says with a
shrug. “But the rest of you is covered in dirt anyway I guess.” I rub at my
forehead anyway, more vigorously this time.
“Here,” Jackson says
quietly, licking his thumb and pressing it against my skin just below my
hairline. The moisture on his thumb is warm just like the day’s heat.
Jeff drops us off at the
Snap Fitness in Northfield, and Jackson leads us inside, toting a duffel bag. I
assume he has clothes for me, because otherwise why would he have invited me?
“I do have guest passes,” he says as we pass the empty front desk.
The gym isn’t all that big,
definitely not like the sprawling weight room at my high school or the Lifetime
that I had a membership to for a while. Yet for its size, it’s pretty packed.
Most of the cardio machines are being used, and a bunch of buff guys are
mingling around the free weights without actually working out.
I’ve been to the gym enough
to know my way around, but I’ve always been self-conscious in front of guys
like that. Their macho bravado just oozes out, polluting the air around them
far worse than their stinking sweat. If you could wring one of them out like a
towel, you’d get at least a quart of testosterone.
“Come on,” Jackson says,
leading me to a locker room at the back.
Two short rows of lockers
and some naked old dude changing are all that’s back here. “This place doesn’t
have showers?” I ask.
“Nah,” he says, dropping his
bag on the bench between us. “Sometimes I shower at home, but if I just do
weight training, usually I don’t break enough of a sweat to need one. If I give
myself an extra minute or two between sets, I don’t sweat much at all
actually.” He tosses me a pair of basketball shorts and a tank top before
pulling off his shirt.
While we change, I give in
to a single stray look at him, and it strikes me again how similar we are. His
abs have a little bit more definition, which is probably from coming here a lot
more often. And there are those sparse freckles at the top of his cheeks, but
other than that, I’m staring at myself. A shiver climbs up my spine, despite
the lingering heat from the day.
“What?” he asks. “Is there
something on me?” He glances down, brushing an invisible something off his
chest.
A rising wave of emotion
catches me hard in the throat, but I can’t swallow it away. I want so badly for
us to be close like we used to be. He’s part of me, and I’m part of him. No one
else in the world can understand me as well as he does. Or I him. We belong
together, to be each other’s closest confidant and best friend. It seems crazy
to think that’s even possible, but we had it once. I just don’t know if we can
ever get it back.
He seems to detect the
change in my demeanor. “Is everything okay?” His eyes, the same intense blue as
mine, are earnestly searching my face for an answer.
“I’m fine,” I strain to keep
the gruffness from my voice.
“Hey guys, sorry I’m late,”
Matt calls over to us. “Just got off work,” he explains, dropping his own bag
as he begins to change. It’s the first time I’ve seen him without a shirt. He’s
tan, and definitely the tall and muscular type, so he’s not bad to look at.
“Did I miss anything?” he
asks.
“I was just giving Ben some
tips and tricks.”
I roll my eyes at him.
“Telling me how not to sweat doesn’t count as a tip or a trick.”
Matt glances from me to
Jackson. “I thought you were Ben.”
Jackson gives him an
incredulous look. “
Please
, I am way better looking.”
“Also, you should be able to
see his ego from a mile away and know it’s him,” I say, raising my eyebrows to
Jackson.
The two of them are silent
for a moment, surprise on their faces, before they burst out laughing. Matt
grins. “Looks like you know Jackson pretty well after all.”
“Some things never change.”
“So what about those
tricks?” Matt grins, eyeing Jackson. “Will you show me some of your tips and
tricks too?”
“Um, no.”
The two of them exchange a
look. Jackson seems irritated. “I’m going to start with cardio,” he declares.
“Cool,” Matt says. “Ben, want
to spot for me on bench?”
Abso-fucking-lutely not.
Flying solo with Matt was not part of the deal. I fire a dirty look at Jackson
for his treachery. “Sure,” I tell Matt.
To my horror, he leads us to
a bench in the middle of the pack of drooling gym rats. I don’t mind jocks at
all. Really. I played on my high school football team for four years, and I
loved it. But these guys aren’t interested in sports or teams. They just want
to prove that their dick is bigger than the next guy’s – something that
apparently can only be done by comparing the amount they can lift.
Matt loads up the bar with
two forty-five pound plates on each side. Holy shit, this guy can lift. The
guys around us seem to perk up too, especially when Matt powers through a set
of ten, only struggling on the last two reps. On the last one, I help him get
the bar all the way up, but I’m not convinced that I was contributing that
much.
“Your turn,” Matt says with
a smile that borders on sardonic.
Approaching the bar, I pull
a plate off each side. Matt raises an eyebrow at me. Cheeks reddening, I lie
down on the bench. I should have grabbed different weights to drop another ten
or twenty pounds, but after the look he just gave me, I’m already embarrassed.
At my best, I could only ever bench this amount, but that was at the height of
the football season last year. I haven’t lifted much since then.
Doing my best to ignore the
guys standing just a few feet from us and laughing about some stupid bullshit,
I lift the bar off the rests. Fuck this is heavy. I get it down to my chest,
then push, driving my shoulder blades into the padded bench. The bar moves up
an inch. Then another. But it’s too much weight, and I’m just pushing myself
toward muscle failure.
Matt is watching all of
this, but he’s just smiling. Smiling like a douchey asshole. “Help,” I manage
through gritted teeth.
“Seriously?” He waits for a
second, but I don’t know what for. It’s obvious that I’m not going to get this
thing more than a couple inches off my chest. Finally he reaches down and helps
me set it back on the rests.
My face burns. “Can we drop
another twenty pounds?”
“If you think that will
help,” he smirks. Behind him, one of the guys closest to us laughs, but I can’t
tell if it’s at my expense or not.
Matt watches while I exchange
the forty-five pound plates for a twenty-five and a ten. I hope to God that’s
enough.
Thankfully, it is, and I
push my way through eight reps. He doesn’t make any more comments as we
alternate to each finish our three sets, but my blood teems with a seething
rage that refuses to cool.
“Jackson is a lot stronger
than you,” he says as I sit up from my last set. Who the hell does this guy
think he is? I came along because I wanted to spend time with Jackson, not
because I wanted some asshole to critique my lifts.
He seems to notice I’m
getting pissed, because he raises an eyebrow at me. That’s it, I’m done with
this. “Hey, where are you going?” he calls after me.
Turning, I give him the
coldest glare I can manage. “Tell Jackson I’ll be waiting outside.”
By the time the two of them
emerge from the glass doors, I’ve been leaning against the outside of the
building for over a half hour. My anger with Matt has abated somewhat, leaving
me with a pervasive disdain for the guy. What does Jackson even see in such a
shitty friend?
“You need a ride home?” Matt
asks as he passes me.
“I guess,” I say, annoyed
for having waited so long.
Like its owner, the truck’s
charm is a bit lacking once you get close. The paint is cherry red, but rust is
creeping out from under the fenders. I tug the door open for Jackson, because I
refuse to sit right next to Matt.
A funny smell permeates the
cab. Vaguely like old engine oil mixed with rancid dreadlocked cat fur. I make
a face at my own analogy.
“What is it?” Matt asks as
he reaches a hand under the dashboard.
“Nothing,” I reply quickly.
Concentration bounces around his expression as he fumbles down near the pedals.
“What are you doing?”
Out of nowhere, a metronomic
clicking noise begins emanating from the instrument cluster. Except not like a
metronome at all, because the clicking is completely irregular. Click, click.
Pause. Click. Pause. Click, click, click. He grins as he sits back up in his
seat. “Hooking up the turn signals.”
I glance at Jackson, then
back to Matt, waiting for him to laugh. But he doesn’t. Click, click. Instead
he turns the key into the ignition. The engine awakens with a tyrannosaurus
roar.
“Jesus,” I say. Jackson
shifts beside me, his bare arm grazing against mine. Click, click, click.
Matt pats the dash. “She’s a
good old girl.”
Click. “What
is
that
noise?” Jackson demands.
“I told you, the turn
signals. The relay or whatever is busted. The signals work fine, but the thing
that makes the noise when the signals are on is totally broken. But if I let it
do that when the engine is off, the battery goes dead, so I just disconnect the
whole thing when I’m not driving.”
“It’s annoying,” I say,
barely able to hold back a flood of other comments.
Matt shrugs and presses on
the gas. The engine grumbles but it takes a full three seconds before we
actually start to move. “I’m going to take you guys home,” he says. I guess
swimming isn’t going to happen after all, which is fine with me. I don’t want
to spend any more time with Matt than I already have.
The twilight of evening
settles over the endless rolling fields of green as we travel. It’s a wonder
his truck can actually get to highway speeds, but it does, and soon wind is
rushing through the open windows. I look over to see how fast that actually is,
but the speedometer is stubbornly stuck at zero.