“Where do you work?” I ask, trying not to overanalyze how civil our conversation is right now.
Owen presses down one more time on the top of my can, then pulls the black hat from his head, running his fingers through his dark hair, smoothing the long strands back so they sit neatly under his hat again.
“It’s just some job. Look, thanks for the shoes, but I’ve gotta go,” he says, suddenly short and on the verge of rude.
He pulls his keys from his pocket and heads toward his truck, tossing the shoes in the passenger seat and leaving me behind—feeling stupid for even asking questions about him.
I still watch him pull away, though. I don’t even disguise it. And strangely, things feel more right talking with Owen than they do with Willow, or Elise, or Ryan. Owen may be my best friend here in Woodstock, and that is pathetic.
I step back inside the house, and the warmth feels good. The air is a constant chill now, and I know real winter is coming. In the city, the buildings hid the snow and grayness of the sky. Everything always felt alive, even when the cold was biting. But you can see it coming out here. The leaves have all fallen, and the trees are sticks. The gray of the clouds, the color of winter is consuming—and it’s all around.
My piano looks like the sky. I just don’t want to play it.
My mother is still cleaning. She’s moved upstairs, working on my bathroom or hers; I can’t tell. Our house isn’t dirty, but I get what she’s doing. She’s erasing my father. Unfortunately, I can’t drag a thousand-pound piano into the driveway, otherwise I’d erase him, too.
My scarf and beanie are still lying on the sofa near the front door, so I grab them and bundle myself up before heading back outside. My feet carry me to the garage, and I lift the heavy door, having to jump to get it up all the way. I walk to the back, to the boxes of tools that my mom will have a much better chance of using.
There’s the hoop. Its rust has left a mark on the wall behind it, and I know it’s heavy. I remember from dragging it here in the first place. I move the boxes out of the way first, knocking one over and spilling bolts and drill bits in a thousand different directions. Once I sweep them into a pile, I pour them back in the box, not caring how disorganized I’m leaving it. My dad would hate that, and doing it brings a smile to my face.
Gripping the rim of the hoop with both hands, I drag it back out of the garage, and it scrapes along the pavement, leaving an orange mark behind. That makes me smile, too.
I unfold the ladder and place it under the spot on the eave of the house where the hoop hung only a few days before. The bolts are still there, and if I can just manage to get the hoop to the top of the ladder, I can slide it against the garage until I can lock it in place.
“Honey, careful up there,” my mom says, her voice igniting a rapid fire in my chest. I wait for her to question what I’m doing, but she doesn’t. She’s too lost in her own world to care about this. “I’m running to the store. I’ll pick up some things for dinner. Need anything?”
“No, I’m good. Thanks!” I yell, thinking to myself about that word—need. A week ago, I needed to move back to the city, needed time alone to play my music…how I wanted to. I needed my friends—the ones I used to trust. But now, all I need to do is get this hoop up on the goddamned garage.
I grunt the entire time, and the metal rim scratches my arm through my sweatshirt in a few places, but after at least twenty minutes, I manage to get the hoop back up on the brackets—the weight of it no longer depending on my strength. It takes several more minutes to find the drill in the garage, but when I do, I’m able to lock the bolts down tight, and I push up on the rim to check that it’s stable.
After putting the tools and ladder away, I walk backward, shutting the garage door with a tired leap, and admiring my work. It’s almost as if it was never gone. I hope the boy who uses it at night comes back.
The car makes a skidding sound as it pulls up our driveway. I turn around expecting my mom, expecting to help her haul in a few bags of groceries. But I’m met with the dimmed headlights of a blue BMW—freezing me instantly.
She looks so different when she steps out of the car. She seems…older…and like a stranger. Her blond hair rings around her face, the curls perfect, and I can tell she spent a lot of time on her appearance. She wanted to look her best for me, for this…whatever this is. Ambush, I am guessing.
“Kensington,” she says, my full name floating from her breath, soft and airy, like she’s trying to seduce me.
“Go home, Gaby,” I say, brushing the dirt from my hands and sleeves, my belly quivering with nerves that my mother is going to pull in the driveway behind her and have to see this.