“Truth,” he mumbled, and looked down at the specs he’d drawn on the wood. Lately he only ever said truth, possibly because my dares had been pretty lame. By now, he’d probably grasped how courageous I really was, which was not a whole lot. My dare last week for him was to sing the tune he’d been humming out loud. He’d only rolled his eyes before belting it out.
I hesitated, looking at him a long minute before asking my question. “Why did you . . . leave school?”
He got this resigned look in his eyes like he knew it had been coming. I prayed he didn’t think I’d overstepped bounds. Because what he thought was beginning to matter even more to me.
“I had to drop out . . .” He heaved a long sigh. As if he’d finally decided to let it all hang loose. “And move back home to take care of some . . . responsibilities.”
That hadn’t been the answer I was expecting.
“I know a little about responsibilities,” I said, keeping my voice smooth and low. “What kind?”
He lined up the wood under the saw, ignoring my question. I waited him out. When he simply drew the safety goggles over his eyes and began cutting, I decided to try a different approach.
As soon as he placed the piece of wood to the side and gathered another in his fingers, I said, “Do you . . . have any brothers or sisters?”
His hand paused on top of the lumber in order to look at me. “One brother who’s in high school.”
“Does it have to do with him?” I asked, tentatively. “Do your mom and dad need some kind of help?”
“I only have a mom, and yes, she needed help,” he said, looking back down at his task.
“I only have a mom, too,” I muttered. “Never met my father.”
“Well, I guess we have something else in common.” He got this faraway look in his eyes before the corners crinkled in irritation. “I’ve only met my dad once. He’s a musician and travels all the time. I used to have a pipe dream that I’d join his show after graduation—as a roadie—but screw that. Besides, I need to stay close to my family.”
“Wow. I often wonder who my father is,” I said, thinking about how closemouthed my mother had been about him. I’d always fantasized that he was some famous celebrity she’d dressed for a shoot one day. More than likely, he was some photographer or model she’d worked with regularly.
Sadness and surprise filtered through his eyes. “You don’t know? Gosh, that would be tough to live with.”
I nodded. “I haven’t pressed her about it in a while. But hearing you talk about it makes me think that I should try again.”
“I think you have that right, Chloe,” he said. “To know where you came from. And to decide whether to be your own person.”
“Yeah.” I fingered the edge of my shirt. “The truth is, sometimes I don’t even know how to act when I am able to step from beneath my mother’s shadow.”
I had no idea where that revelation had just come from. He tilted his head to the side while his gaze softened and I suddenly wanted to take the focus away from me.
“That’s incredibly cool that you’re helping your family,” I said lamely.
He looked into my eyes as if searching for something—maybe pity—but I showed him none. All I felt at this point was admiration. Had I taken the time to get to know him earlier, I would’ve realized that he was kind of special.
“My truth is that I had to drop my classes to help with my mom’s mounting medical bills. Insurance only paid for thirty days of rehab and she needed to continue outpatient treatment.”
He paused and I tried to keep my lips in a neat straight line. He didn’t need me reacting to his news right now. He needed support and I would try to offer it.
“I would have finished my theater degree this year, but now it’s delayed.” He shrugged. “I moved back home to make sure my brother was keeping up his high school grades while Mom secured an AA sponsor and attended daily meetings.”
“Gosh, Blake, I’m sorry that I . . . that you . . .”
He held up his hand, effectively cutting me off. “No, it’s okay. You don’t need to say anything.”
He trudged to the back room without uttering another word. I wasn’t sure if it was in an effort to get away from me or to discontinue the conversation. I couldn’t help feeling bummed that he had gone through that with his family. How brave he had been to take all of that on.
When he reemerged with a broom and dustpan to clean the sawdust off the floor, he didn’t look my way again.
He flipped to a station on his iPod, and the low sound of classic rock filled up the space. I headed in back to change into my casual clothes and then got busy staining wood.
After another thirty minutes of working in silence, his voice startled me. “What do you think?”
He’d already put together one of the A-frame shelves and it was leaning against the far wall.
I walked over to it and slid my fingers along one of the lower shelves. “It looks great.”
“Cool,” he said. “Then I’ll start working on the middle piece until your stain dries.”
When I looked back a few minutes later, Blake was sitting on the same box that’d been supporting his lumber, trying to fit angled pieces together. My hands were stained and messy and I bent down to change brushes, in order to garner a smoother finish.
“Truth or dare?” His voice rang out above the din of “Back in Black” by AC/DC.
I lowered my hands so I could catch a better glimpse of his eyes. He looked calm and perfectly relaxed, a contrast to an hour before.
“Truth,” I said rather easily now. He knew it would be my answer anyway. But one day soon I planned to surprise him. When I got up enough nerve.
“Do you ever go up to the Cedar Mountain Theater to see those old movies that you’re so fond of?” he asked in a soft voice.
I was surprised that he even knew of the place. Not many of my friends were familiar with it. The theater was tucked away in an old corner of the town. It’d been there for years and had somehow survived, even though it only showcased the classics. Every now and again, it featured art deco films and probably drew a larger crowd.
“I used to go all the time,” I said. “By myself, of course. Not many people I know like those movies.”
He hummed a little of the tune piping through his device. “What do you like about them?”
No one had ever asked me that question. But I knew my answer straightaway. “I like how they’re set up. The lighting, the mood, the music. It’s all staged perfectly.”
I took a step toward him without even realizing it. “Plus there’s just something about those old-time romances. The special looks, the anticipation of a simple touch. I think it’s way more of a turn-on than the sex scenes in modern films.”
He quirked a seductive eyebrow at me like it was a question or a proposition—or just that he was being adorably playful—and I liked that side of him. I felt a rash of heat break out over my cheeks and neck.
I cleared my throat. “Your construction buddies could learn a thing or two from those movies.”
His laughter echoed around the space—pure and open and real. And I loved hearing the sound of it. It made me want to summon that noise from him as often as possible. Especially in light of his somber news.
“Do you like musicals or plays?” he asked, curbing his entertainment.
“Not really a fan of live theater.” I shrugged. “I like my stuff staged, remember?”
“There’s plenty staged in live theater. Obviously,” he said, motioning with his hands and reminding me in his own away that he used to build sets.
“Sure, but I don’t know,” I said, standing back and trying to decide if the lumber I was working on needed an additional coat of stain. “Live theater kind of makes me nervous.”
“How?” His eyebrows scrunched together as he reached for the hammer and nails.