“I borrowed a pair of your
shorts,” Matt informs me as he shakes the cereal out of the box and into his
bowl.
“They fit?”
“Kind of tight, but not
horrible,” he says between bites.
Once we’re finished, we
don’t waste any time getting up on the roof. Throwing off the tarps and sending
showers of water droplets over the edge of the roof, we get to work. We’re
starting earlier than we did yesterday, so at least we have a few hours without
the sun hitting us. Beneath the tarps, we’re lucky that the decking is mostly
dry, except for a few areas where the plastic didn’t cover everything.
Dad comes outside to listen
as Matt briefly outlines what we’ll be doing and in what order. Apparently Dad
is pleased, because he gives us the thumbs up and heads back inside. Most of
this is familiar to me, but I’m glad that Matt has taken point and is basically
managing the project now. The best part is that I get to spend another day with
him and not have Dad hovering over us.
Before we start covering the
decking with new material, we move around the edge of the roof, nailing in
white metal drip edge. It’s supposed to stop water from draining down onto the
fascia boards, I think. Unfortunately, it’s slow going and takes over an hour
before we’re done.
Eager to start actually
laying down shingles, we rip into the plastic wrapped pallets to get to the
rolls of tarpaper and water shield. Carrying one of each up to the roof, we
start at the edge closest to the ground and roll out a length of the thicker,
gritty water shield. Dad even comes outside to help for a few minutes, holding
the bottom from the ladder while Matt and I position it into place. Once we’ve
got it lined up with all the edges and corners, I pull off the plastic covering
from underneath, allowing the sticky backside to adhere to the decking.
After a couple rows of water
shield, we switch to the tarpaper, which is a lot easier to work with. I hold
it in place while Matt tacks it down with the staple hammer. Row after row,
until we reach the peak of the roof.
Matt wipes the sweat from
his forehead. We’re both shirtless again, fully exposed to the beating sun. And
to each other. I like working with him and not just because I enjoy the view.
He’s patient and levelheaded, even when one of us screws up and we have to redo
something. But it feels like he’s still holding back. The first day I thought
it was just because we didn’t know each other very well, which is still the
case. After last night, though, I thought he might be different. If someone
saves your life – or at least saves you from severe injury – does
that make you friends? Or is friendship something that can only ever be built
with the plodding progression of time?
“What you thinking about?”
he asks, surveying me along with the work we’ve done.
I shrug. “Nothing.”
“Doesn’t look like nothing.”
My gaze sweeps across the
swaths of black tarpaper, settling on the path where I slid last night. “I was
thinking about that storm,” I admit.
“Again? What about it?”
Curiosity intertwines itself with his voice.
I give him a long look. For
the first time since meeting him, I don’t feel awkward about just looking. His
jawline is strong and defined, and his bright eyes are staring back at mine. My
voice just above a whisper, I tell him what I’m really thinking. “I was just
wondering if you saved my life. It’s a long drop.”
He seems to like what I just
said, but his emotion is so well hidden that it’s hard to tell. Then he grins.
“You would have lived.”
“Yeah, probably.” But it
would have hurt like hell, and I would have broken some bones.
We work for the rest of the
morning, getting all the tarpaper down and starting on actually shingling
before it’s even lunchtime. After getting the air nailer set up, we haul bundle
after bundle of shingles up onto the roof. They’re god-awful heavy, but Matt
doesn’t really seem to notice.
As we start nailing them
down, I realize he’s not only stronger but also just plain better at this than
I am. I’m not thrilled about that, but it’s true. When I worked on the garage
with Dad, that’s exactly what it was – helping. And it’s the same now.
Matt is running the show. I hold the shingles in place, and he nails them down.
The snapping of his fingers
brings me back to the moment. “Pay attention, kid,” he says playfully, waving
the nailer at me. “We don’t have all day.”
“Yeah, yeah.” But he’s
absolutely right. I really doubt we’re going to finish today, not that that
would be such a bad thing. I would have to spend more time on this stupid roof,
cooking in the sun, but Matt and I would also get to spend another day
together.
Not too long after, we climb
down to eat. Dad made tacos. Loading up my plate, I sit across from Matt, who’s
already chowing down. The last day and a half have been hard as hell, but it’s
kind of cool having him around. In a dorky way, it almost feels like summer
camp. And Matt? He’s fun to be around, especially now that he’s been opening up
more. It makes me wish I’d gotten to know him when he still went to Northfield
High School, where he apparently also went to school just two years ahead of
me.
After lunch we’re back on
the roof, nailing away. Open the bundle, place the shingle, wait for Matt to
nail it down. Wash, rinse, repeat. We’re shingling across the roof diagonally,
which seems to be the most efficient way. It was Matt’s suggestion, and he
seemed to know what he was talking about so I didn’t worry too much.
The familiar sound of Matt’s
snapping fingers gets my attention again. He frowns when I look up from where I
was staring out at the wispy branches of the weeping willows. “Come on,
Jackson. If you keep spacing out, we’re never going to finish.”
“You think we’ll actually
get done today?”
“Probably, if we push.”
With the end almost in
sight, we work straight through dinner without stopping. Matt becomes a
taskmaster, snapping at me whenever I get distracted or take too long getting
the shingles in position for him. The sun sinks toward the horizon, and the
tips of my fingers become so raw from the fiberglass in the shingles that I’m
afraid they might start to bleed. And still we work.
I don’t know how we do it,
but just before it gets too dark to work, we nail in the last cap shingle on
the peak. I never thought we’d get done in just two days. I’m so sore I can
barely move, but the job is done. From the ground, we finally take a moment to
survey our work. It looks good. Dad joins us, walking slowly around the house
before giving his approval. “Looks good, guys.” He shakes Matt’s hand and gives
him a check, then leaves us alone once more.
Matt yawns as he stretches
his neck from side to side. “I guess I’ll head out, then.”
“Thanks for your help. I…” I
bite my tongue, changing my words. “It was fun.”
He laughs. “What do you
mean? It sucked. Roofing is horrible.”
I look away quickly so he
won’t see the disappointment in my expression.
After a moment of silence,
he adds, his voice softer, “I had a good time too.”
I nod, taking a step toward
the house. “Drive safe.”
“I will,” he says. He seems
to hesitate, making no movement toward his truck. His eyes lift upward,
eventually settling on me. The moment stretches out with a decided reluctance.
At last he says, “I go back to college in a few days, but…”
“But?”
He shrugs, looking unsure.
“I could show you through a workout if you’re still interested. At the very least,
I owe you for hooking me up with this job. Your dad paid me like four hundred
bucks.” He holds up the check.
Ah right, working out. I’d
almost forgotten about that, but my heart beats a little quicker at the
unexpected offer. “And what do I owe you for saving my life?” I counter, a
smile sneaking up on me.
That gets a nod out of him.
“So maybe we’re even.”
After that, both of us are
quiet for several seconds, and I’m afraid the earlier awkwardness will force
its way back into our conversation.
“You’ve got my number,” he
says, catching my eyes for just a second. “Shoot me a text if you want to meet
up.”
“I might do that,” I tell
him, trying my hardest to impart at least some pretense of doubt.
Matt gives me a fleeting
smile and a two-fingered wave before getting in his truck. Not turning back to
the house yet, I watch him back down the driveway and turn onto the dirt road.
I wait until his truck is long gone and the dust from its passage has cleared
in the evening summer breeze before finally heading inside.
Jackson
I manage to make it almost a
whole day – well, sixteen hours – before breaking down and texting
him.
Hey, it’s Jackson.
As soon as I’ve hit send, I
throw myself back on my bed. He probably won’t respond. He was just being
polite yesterday when he offered to hang out. I’m not trying to be pessimistic,
but it’s really the only explanation. Guys like
that
, they just don’t
live around here. Especially not hot ones with midnight black hair and wide
shoulders and a smile that could get away with murder.
Beside me, my phone buzzes.
I’m sitting upright in less than a second.
Lol I know it’s you… I
saved your number.
He saved my number? Suddenly
I’m grinning like a fool.
He saved my number.
We exchange a few
messages, concluding that neither of us has been busy. Fingers rapidly tapping
back messages as soon as I receive them, I eventually ask,
you still up for
the gym?
His reply comes a moment
later.
Sure! This afternoon work?
That exclamation point practically
makes me lightheaded. I haven’t actually worked out in a real gym before,
unless you count the high school weight room, but I know my way around a bench
press and everything. Hopefully enough so that I don’t embarrass myself.
* * *
*
Sun glinting in my eyes, I’m
leaning against the brick exterior of Northfield’s Snap Fitness when Matt’s
crappy red truck pulls into the parking lot. I had to search all over for a gym
bag, but I eventually found one buried at the bottom of my closet. I don’t know
if Matt is planning on showering after our workout, or if they even have
showers here at all, but I didn’t want to be missing anything just in case.
Missing, as in, not having a towel. Not missing out on… I push away the
thought. I have to be careful, because basketball shorts can be pretty
revealing.
“Hey,” Matt greets me with a
smirk. “You’re all ready to go, huh?” He’s wearing a tank top and gym shorts
like me, but he doesn’t have a bag.
“How much is it for just one
time?” I ask as I follow him through the glass doors. “I don’t have a
membership here or anything.”
“Don’t worry about it.” He
holds up a plastic fob to the inside door and it clicks open. “This is a
twenty-four hour gym, and they don’t usually staff it in the afternoon.”
It’s smaller than I
imagined, but the space still contains dozens of weight machines. The far wall
is covered in mirrors, and in front of them are racks with free weights.
Farther yet from the wall are lifting benches, and beyond those are treadmills
and cycles. It feels a bit like cluttered chaos.
“Coming?” Matt calls to me,
already at the benches. I’d be embarrassed at him talking across the room to
me, but there are only two other people here, both on the treadmills with
earbuds in.
Dropping my bag beside him,
I ask, “Where do we start?”
His eyes flit over me,
appraising. “I suppose I should ask what your goals are specifically. You’re
slim, so I’m guessing you don’t want to lose weight or anything. You’re what,
like one seventy?”
“Um, one fifty-five,” I say,
my cheeks growing warm. “Is there a good way to gain muscle all around? Without
some crazy complicated routine?”
Thinking for a moment, he
points to the bench. “Honestly, if you want to gain weight quickly and keep it
simple, powerlifting will get you results pretty fast.”
“Powerlifting?” Sounds kind
of cool, but I have no idea what it is.
He grins, seeming to enjoy
that he’s teaching me things. “Bench presses, squats, and deadlifts. It’s an Olympic
sport class or something, but that doesn’t really matter. The important thing
is that those are all compound lifts that hit multiple muscle groups. Combine
them with eating more, and you’ll put on muscle.” He pauses, glancing first at
me and then around the gym. “Sound good?”
When I nod, he gestures to
the bench next to us. “Let’s start with this.”
Matt starts me at a low
weight and then bumps it up for the subsequent sets. As I push through the
reps, he gives me tips on form and breathing, but he doesn’t make me feel
self-conscious. Even when a super ripped guy comes in and starts working out
next to us, Matt’s attention stays solely on me, so it still feels like it’s
just the two of us here.
After every set I do, he
does the same one, albeit with a lot more weight. After ten minutes, I’m
starting to legitimately enjoy myself. I’m four reps into my third bench press
set when I feel his eyes on me, moving over my chest and along my arms. More
than him just spotting for me in case I can’t get the bar off my chest. It’s
like when I watched him all those times on the roof. Heaving the bar up so my
arms are straight, I hold it there, breathing heavily. He’s still gazing at me,
like he’s wanted to do this all along but is only now allowing himself to.
“You’re staring,” I breathe,
daring to fully meet his eyes and not look away.
He almost jumps. “Shit,
sorry,” he says hastily, flushing as he helps me guide the bar back to the
rests. “I just, uh, spaced out. Let’s move on to squats.”
“Don’t you have another set
on bench?” I ask.
“I’m going to skip that set
today, I think.”
The normal squat rack that
has the safety wires is already occupied, but Matt is insistent that they
should come before deadlifts, so he shows me how to use the unassisted rack.
From underneath, he lifts the bar up on his shoulders. It looks a little
ungainly, but it works. I watch as he squats down, the muscles in his thighs
and butt tightening against his shorts. After his fourth rep, I have to look
away.
“You’re up next,” he says
after depositing the bar back on the rack.
Pulling off a few weights, I
get under the bar and lift it up just like he did. Except as I adjust my
position, my balance is thrown off by all the extra weight on my shoulders and
I stumble backwards. In an instant, Matt’s hands are on my back, stabilizing
me. One between my shoulder blades and the other at the bottom of my t-shirt.
He holds them there two seconds, three seconds. I’m definitely not going to
fall anymore, but his hands remain. Five seconds, six seconds. Finally the
warmth from his touch disappears.
Across the gym, someone
coughs. In my peripheral vision, Matt reddens but he doesn’t turn around.
“Wanted to make sure you weren’t going to drop the bar,” he says, his voice
strained.
“Sure.” I think he’s lying,
because through the rest of the workouts, he’s careful to keep his hands and
eyes off me. So careful that it becomes obvious he’s doing it on purpose when I
have to ask him on my deadlift form and he admits he wasn’t even watching.
I refuse to let him see that
his behavior is bothering me. I don’t know if he’s testing me, or if he’s
struggling with his own shit, but regardless, it’s not my fault.
When we’re done with the
three different lifts, he finally looks at me as he speaks. “So that’s it, I
guess. Maybe we can do this again sometime.”
The least he could do is try
to sound like he believes what he’s saying. Because I sure as hell don’t.
“Thanks for showing me that stuff.”
He waits while I get a drink
from the fountain, but he’s acting like he’s in a rush. You’d think his truck
was getting stolen outside. On our way out, I thank him again, but he only nods
and says “see you” when we split up at the door. I watch him cross the parking
lot to his truck, but he never looks back, not even as he drives away.