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“Just keep your hands clean and dry. They’ll be fine. And remember to wear your work-gloves all the time. Now, let me see your elbow.”

I repeated the process of soaking and cleaning, and then used tweezers to pull out a couple of pieces of grit from his elbow. The cut was pretty deep but not too big. I cleaned it with the peroxide and felt his body tense as I dabbed the clear liquid into the cut, but he didn’t speak.

If I had to think of a word that defined Jordan, it would be ‘stoic’. He took pain the way other people took coffee. Definitely stoic, along with ‘hot’.

Still, this probably wasn’t worse than having a tattoo. I couldn’t help wondering when and where he’d got them all done. When he was 16? Possible—just.

His left knee had taken the worst of whatever had happened to him. And I didn’t believe his bullshit story that he’d simply fallen over. If I had to take a guess—which seemed likely since he wasn’t telling me anything anyway—I’d say that he’d been running when he fell, then rolled. Running from something, maybe?

It wasn’t my business, but I was still curious.

I settled down between his feet and took a good look at his knee. Several pieces of grit were stuck in there and I could see that I was going to need a magnifying glass as well as the tweezers.

“Wait here. Don’t move,” I snapped at him.

I thought I saw a flash of irritation, but his blank look was soon in place again. I was kind of pleased that I was getting under his skin. I wanted to know what the real Jordan was like. He was a master at keeping himself closed off. It couldn’t be good for him—it wouldn’t be good for anyone to keep themselves wound so tight. I imagined he’d had eight years of it. I shivered at the thought of what unraveling eight years of fear and tension might look like.

I found a scratched magnifying glass at the bottom of Mom’s ancient makeup bag. Satisfied I had the tools for the job, I ran back downstairs and was pleased to find that he hadn’t moved.

“How y’all doin’ over there, cowboy?” I said, in my best Texas drawl.

“Waal, jest fine, ma’am,” he said, hamming it up for me.

This time there was a definite smile lurking at the corners of his mouth, and it gave me hope.

I knelt down between his feet again and started pulling out pieces of grit.

I saw a muscle quiver in his thigh a couple of times, but he didn’t say anything.

When I heard Mom’s car outside, I felt Jordan tense up again, but I was so focused on what I was doing that I just carried on.

Mom walked in the door and I heard her shocked intake of breath.

“Oh excuse me!” she gasped, and immediately started to back out.

What the hell?

I turned to see her retreating figure.

“Mom! What are you doing?”

She turned around to meet my irritated gaze. Her face was burning with embarrassment.

“What?” I said again.

She took in the sight of Jordan’s messy knee and the first aid kit, then heaved a sigh of relief.

“Oh, I’m sorry! I thought…”

I realized what she’d seen: me kneeling with my head nearly in Jordan’s lap. She’d obviously sprinted to the wrong conclusion.

“Jeez, Mom, really? Did you think I was blowing him right here on your sofa?”

Her face went an even darker shade of red, and behind me Jordan sounded like he was choking.

Mom uttered a few mangled vowels then almost ran to the kitchen, mumbling about making coffee.

“I should go,” Jordan said in a hoarse whisper, standing up awkwardly.

“Sit your ass down and let me finish!”

Hesitantly, he lowered himself to the couch again. I shook my head in disbelief at the weirdness of people and went back to work.

Five minutes later, I was happy that I’d gotten all of the grit. I finished cleaning him up then slapped a large Band-Aid over his knee.

“You’re done.”

He stood up hurriedly, his eyes fixed to the floor, as usual.

“Thanks,” he said, softly.

“Yeah, yeah. I’m a regular Saint Joan.”

“A warrior.”

“What?”

This time he risked meeting my eyes.

“Saint Joan was a warrior. She led the French in battles against the English.”

“Who died and put you in charge?” I said bitchily, still more than a little irritated with my mom.

His face froze.

“Oh, God! I’m so sorry, Jordan! That was…”

But he was already out the door.

Jeez, was there ever a time when I didn’t have my foot in my mouth?

Mom watched him through the kitchen window.

“Torrey…”

“Don’t start, Mom.”

“I shouldn’t have assumed … but what you said—that language was uncalled for.”

I whipped my head around to look at her.

“Seriously? You’re that much of a hypocrite that what bothers you is not the fact that you leapt to a hugely wrong conclusion about both me and Jordan? But that’s not what bothers you—oh no! The fact that I called you on it is a big fucking problem!”

“Please don’t swear! You know I don’t like it.”

“Fine! I won’t swear if you won’t assume that I’m a giant slut!”

I walked out of the room, fire just about shooting from my eyeballs. By rights the house should have been alight by now.

I ran up to my room and upended my purse to try and find my car keys, causing unpaid parking tickets, lipstick and loose change to rain down on my bed.

Then I sat down heavily, bouncing slightly on the too soft mattress—I couldn’t take off in a cloud of smoke and squeal of burning tires because my car was still fucked.

I looked out of the window, my eyes searching for Jordan. He was standing with his shoulders slumped, staring at the thicket of brambles and roses in front of him.

The way he was just standing there was painful to watch. He looked so defeated. I hated that I’d contributed to him feeling like that. Just because Mom had assumed I was being my usual sluttish self. Okay, so I’d hooked up with quite a number of guys in the couple of weeks I’d been here, but did she really think I’d do a guy on her sofa in the middle of the day? Scratch that, because the answer was obviously ‘yes’.

I couldn’t really blame her—I hadn’t given her many reasons to think well of me. She didn’t know that I still had boundaries; they just weren’t the same as her boundaries.

I heard the front door slam so I assumed she’d gone back out. She was probably as eager to get away from me as I was from her. I sighed heavily. I might not be able to fix my relationship with my mom, but I could try to make things better for Jordan.

I went back downstairs and opened the screen door leading from the kitchen.

“Hey, cowboy!”

He turned around; his face stiff with the studied blankness that seemed to be what he did to hide himself. I guess it was a necessary skill in prison.

“You going to fix my car for me or what?”

He blinked and stared at me warily.

“You still want me to try?”

“Well, duh! Of course I do!”

He nodded and limped toward me.

“Are you going to tell me what the hell happened now, or do I have to play twenty questions again?”

His eyes wouldn’t meet mine when he replied.

“I fell over,” he said, again.

“Fine. So don’t tell me. You fell over. Whatever.”

I tossed my keys to him. “Fix my car and I’ll fix you something amazing for lunch. How about feta and quinoa spring rolls with roast tomato nam prik?”

His eyes widened.

“Um, I don’t know what that is. The only words I recognized are spring rolls and tomato somethin’ or other.”

“Guess the prison wasn’t too hot on Thai food, no pun intended.”

He shook his head.

“I’ve never had Thai food. Is that, as in, Thailand?”

“Oh, baby, you’re in for a treat! I make the meanest nam prik this side of Bangkok. You feeling brave?”

“Not so as you’d notice,” he said, his mouth twisting down. “And I’m real sorry I made things tougher between you and your momma.”

His voice was rough with sincerity, and he wouldn’t meet my eyes.

“Ha! That was nothing to do with you. We have our own drama, so don’t worry about it.” I paused. “It was pretty funny though, when you think about it.”

From the way his face immediately reddened I guessed he wasn’t ready to make a joke of it.

“So, the Princess: why won’t the bitch run?”

I followed him outside and realized immediately what was missing.

“Jordan, where’s your truck?”

His eyes slid to my car and he wouldn’t look at me.

“Had a problem with it this mornin’.”

“So … you walked here?”

“Yes, ma… yeah, I like to run, so … um, can you pop the hood for me again and I’ll take a closer look?”

He was clearly unhappy talking about whatever had happened, so I left it at that.

It was fascinating watching him work, he was so competent and in charge. It offered another glimmer of the person he used to be, and the person I hoped he could be again.

And I admit it, seeing his tight body bent under the hood of my car was a real turn on. If he’d been anyone other than who he was, I’d have jumped him by now. But knowing he was in a vulnerable place—that had me hitting the brakes hard. He needed a friend, not a casual hook up. Although, on the other hand, maybe he wouldn’t be so uptight if he got laid.

“Well, you seem to know what you’re doing,” I said, after several minutes of enjoyable ogling, “and I feel like a spare part. I’ll go whip up something exotic for lunch.”

“You don’t have to do that,” he said, peering up at me. “I brought a sandwich.”

“Pah! Sandwich, smandwich! I can do better than that. Prepare to be amazed.”

I headed back to the kitchen, pleased that I’d gone grocery shopping with Mom earlier in the week, and stocked up on the kind of things I liked to eat. I was so bored of pasta with spaghetti sauce, no matter how many mushrooms Mom put in it.

I lined up my ingredients like soldiers about to go into battle, which was an apt simile, because when I cooked, I always seemed to end up using every utensil in the house, and left it looking like the fridge had exploded.

Quinoa had been a go-to staple when I was a student: easy to use, you could store it forever, and it went great with whatever you threw into it. Today, I added frozen peas, onions, Greek cheese, lemon juice and foraged a bunch of dried mint leaves. Maybe when Jordan had finished on Mom’s garden I’d plant some herbs for her so we could cook with fresh spices.

The nam prik needed a bit more preparation: tomatoes, olive oil, garlic, red chili, ginger, coriander, lime juice and the secret ingredient that I’d had to order from Galveston, tamarind paste.

I cheated with the filo pastry, using the ready-made frozen stuff. I was pretty sure Jordan wouldn’t know the difference, unless I was dumb enough to leave the packet wrapper out.

After a lot of fiddling around, and more cursing than usual (which was saying a lot), just as the spring rolls were ready to be taken out of the pan, I heard my car start.

I ran to the window in time to see Jordan smiling from ear to ear while he revved the engine.

I screamed for joy and ran out of the front door.

“You did it! You are amazing!”

His cheeks pinked with pleasure, and I had to stop myself from hugging him.

“Thank you so much! You’ve saved me from selling my blood.”

His expression wavered, and I could tell he wasn’t sure whether or not I was joking.

“Okay, come on in and wash up. Lunch is about ready.”

He nodded and cut the engine, before following me hesitantly into the house.

I got back to the kitchen just in time to stop the smoke alarm from going off. Great: ten slightly singed spring rolls. Oh well. It’s the thought that counts, right?

Jordan hovered by the kitchen door with a look on his face that said he was expecting to be ordered right out again.

It broke my heart to see him looking so beaten.

“Sit,” I ordered, pointing at one of the kitchen chairs.

“Um, is your momma gonna be back, because if she is, I…”

“Sit!” I said, emphatically. “You’re my friend and until she says otherwise—which she won’t—this is my house, too.”

He smiled tentatively.

“Somethin’ smells good.”

“Yup, my special recipe.” I laid the dishes out in front of him. “You want chopsticks?”

His eyes widened anxiously.

“That’s okay. You can have a regular fork, but it’s not nearly as much fun.”

I grabbed a fork from the silverware drawer and placed it in front of him.

“Dig in.”

He waited for me to pick up one of the spring rolls, and put some of the nam prik dip onto my plate. Then he skewered his own spring roll with a fork, dunked it in the dip and tentatively tasted it.

His eyebrows shot up and he instantly started coughing.

Darn. Perhaps I should have warned him that I’d added extra chili.

I poured him a glass of milk and sat back, watching his eyes water.

“Too hot?”

“It’s … great,” he wheezed.

I couldn’t help laughing.

“No, really,” he coughed. “I just wasn’t expectin’ that…”

“It’s okay. I like it spicy—it’s not everyone’s thing.”

He gulped down the milk and tried nibbling at the spring roll again. This time he stayed well away from the dip.

I guess it wasn’t too bad because in the end, he chewed his way through seven of those babies, finishing up with a couple of apples.

I gave him a glass of green tea to take out to the porch. He sniffed it suspiciously then took a sip.

“Tastes like dirty bath water,” he said, his tone slightly accusing.

“It’s not supposed to,” I replied, rolling my eyes. “It’s a delicate after-dinner refresher—good for the digestion. At least try something new!” I complained.

He nodded slowly, but I don’t think he was agreeing with me.

“Just because everyone in the South seems to like sweet tea! This is much better for you.”

I watched him sternly until he drank most of it then took pity on him, promising to make coffee later.

“Can I do the dishes for you, seein’ as I didn’t cook?”

“Hell, no! You’re my guest, although I might not let you off so easy next time. But seeing as you fixed my car, we’re good.”

“Thanks, Torrey. It’s been great.”

“Liar!” I laughed. “You hated it!”

“No, really,” he said, earnestly.

“You are such a bad liar, Jordan Kane! But it’s okay.”

He looked at me sheepishly. “You’re not mad?”

“Nah. I can’t help it if your culinary experience is stuck at meat and potatoes.” I had a brain wave. “But you know what, I can help with that. Tomorrow I’ll make you a real Thai curry—just not so hot.”

“Um … thanks?” he said, his expression somewhat wary.

“Make the most of it. I start work next week so you’ll never see me after that.”

His lips thinned and his eyes dropped to the ground.

“Okay.”

Gah! I really want to slap him! I hate this subservient crap he keeps giving me. But I knew he’d had eight years of it—a couple of days with me ragging on him wasn’t going to fix it.

I slapped his shoulder and went back inside, leaving him to attack the garden again.

But when I turned to look at the disaster of a kitchen, I wondered if maybe I should have taken him up on his offer to do the dishes after all.

Oh well, Mom was always saying that hard work was good for the soul. I wanted to know what sucker came up with that load of horse shit?

 

 

 

At 4:30 PM I banged on the kitchen window. Darn—I made him jump again. I couldn’t seem to remember. Maybe I should put a sticker on the window: Don’t give the hot handyman a heart attack.

“Quittin’ time!” I yelled.

He nodded and scrubbed the back of his arm across his sweaty face.

“Come on, cowboy, I’ll give you a ride home in my newly fixed car!”

He walked toward me slowly, obviously still in considerable pain from the way he was limping.

“That’s okay. I can walk home. But thanks.”

“Don’t be such a sap. Get in the damn car.”

He shuffled from foot to foot until I felt like yanking open the car door and tossing him inside. And I would have, if it weren’t for the fact that he was probably 200 pounds of solid muscle.

Eventually, he grimaced and stared at a spot somewhere near my left foot.

“Uh, I kind of stink right now.”

“Yeah, well, I’d let you shower here, but I can’t risk giving my mom another stroke, which would certainly happen if she found a naked man in her house. I’m pretty sure it’s been a while for her. So just get in the damn car, and I’ll open the windows.”

He mumbled something I couldn’t hear and pulled open the passenger door, carefully rolling down the window first. It would have been kind of sweet, if it wasn’t so sad.

I turned the radio up loud so he wouldn’t feel forced to talk if he didn’t want to. But it was Jordan who started a conversation.

“Why do you call me ‘cowboy’?” he asked, softly.

I shrugged. “Just ‘cause.”

“I’ve never roped a cow in my life. I’ve probably even forgotten how to ride,” he said.

“No riding, huh? What a pity!” I smirked, and saw his ears turn red. “Look, I won’t call you ‘cowboy’ if you don’t like it.”

His reply was so soft I could barely hear it.

“I didn’t say I didn’t like it…”

“Okay fine … cowboy.”

I saw a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

I drove out of town and took the turning for Placedo Road.

“You’ll have to tell me which way because I don’t know exactly where you live.”

He nodded and after a mile or so, told me to hang a right.

“You can drop me here,” he said, quietly.

“Don’t be dumb and don’t think I haven’t seen you limping. I’ll take you all the way.”

I couldn’t help noticing that the nearer he got to his home, the more rigid he became. It didn’t take a genius to work out that home wasn’t a very happy place.

Finally, more than three miles from the main road, we even ran out of the dirt road and were bumping over clumps of wiry grass. A small, two-story clapboard house stood among a grove of cottonwood trees. It might have been pretty once, but now it just looked sad and neglected—probably an indicator of the state of mind of the people who lived there, too.

His truck was parked in front of the house and covered by an old tarp.

“Something you couldn’t fix?” I asked curiously, climbing out of the car.

“Somethin’ like that,” he said, evasively.

Before he could stop me, I peeped under the tarp and immediately wished I hadn’t.

The word ‘murderer’ had been sprayed in red paint along the side, and every tire had been slashed.

Murderer? Oh my God! A thousand questions rushed through my mind. My hands were shaking as I stared at the man next to me. I just couldn’t believe it. He was a murderer? No, that couldn’t be right. Mom would have told me. Surely? She’d said he was dangerous … but a murderer?

“Fuck, Jordan! What…? Who…?”

I wondered if I should be afraid of him, but he looked just the same—sad, beautiful, broken.

I couldn’t believe he was a murderer. The truth was I didn’t want to believe that, and I was too much of a chicken shit to ask him directly. Yet.

He shrugged tiredly.

“I don’t know who did it. Kids.”

“What did the police say?”

He threw me an incredulous look. “I didn’t call them.”

I shook my head at him impatiently

“You have to! This is serious harassment! Vandalism, Criminal Trespass, Criminal Mischief, and, of course, Graffiti.”

“No,” he said, firmly. “No police. Not here. No way.”

It was the most definite statement I’d ever heard him make.

“And how did you get in that condition?” I asked, pointing at the bandage on his knee. “You look like someone tried to run you over.”

My eyes widened when I saw the truth in his face.

“Shit! That’s what happened, isn’t it?”

“Please, Torrey,” he said, hoarsely. “Don’t tell anyone. I don’t need any more trouble.”

His eyes were pleading

“I think you’re wrong, but it’s your call,” I said, quietly.

He let out the breath that he’d been holding.

“Thank you.”

Then I had an idea and pulled out my cell phone, quickly snapping a photo of the damage. I figured he might need evidence of the harassment. Guess my legal training was good for something even if I couldn’t force him to file a complaint.

“What’s that for?” he asked, suspiciously.

I shrugged. “I don’t know, but you might be grateful I’ve got that one day.”

He didn’t look like he believed me, but he didn’t ask me to delete it either.

“Most people around here didn’t have cell phones with cameras when I went inside.”

My mouth dropped open. That small statement made me realize how much he’d missed; how much had passed him by. I didn’t know what to say.

“Well, thanks for the ride,” he mumbled.

“Sure. What time do you want me to pick you up in the morning?”

He shook his head quickly. “Nah, that’s fine.”

“Your folks going to give you a ride?”

His eyes slid away from mine, something I noticed he did when he didn’t want to answer a direct question.

“I’m good.”

Just then the front door banged open, making me jump. Served me right for all the times I’d scared the crap out of Jordan.

A woman I assumed was his mother stood there. She didn’t look much like her son. Jordan must have gotten his looks from his dad.

She looked pissed about something.

“Hi!” I said, as cheerfully as I could manage, given her baleful expression. “I’m Torrey Delaney, Reverend Williams’ daughter.”

“What’s he done now?” she snapped, ignoring my outstretched hand.

“Excuse me?”

She seemed to pull herself together because her demeanor changed instantly.

“Oh, I was wonderin’ if there was a problem, Miss Delaney?”

“Well, apart from the wreck some asshats have made of Jordan’s truck, and the fact that it looks like someone tried to run him down, no, we’re all good,” I said, sarcastically.

Her eyes flickered up and down me, and then she turned and went into the house without saying another word.

“Seems like a very warm person,” I said, in a low voice.

“She wasn’t always like that,” Jordan said quietly, shaking his head. “She used to laugh all the time. Everyone wished their momma was like ours.” He shrugged. “Things change.”

“Is she like this all the time with you?”

He nodded and sighed.

“She hates me. They both do. But no more than I hate myself.”

I could feel tears prick my eyes; I never cried.

“God, Jordan, I’d fix it for you if I could.”

He gave a small smile. “I know you would. Thanks for the ride.”

Then he turned and walked into the house.

 

 

 

Jordan

 

Everything hurt. Torrey had called it right when she’d guessed how I’d gotten injured.

After I’d seen what they’d done to the truck, I’d had no choice but to jog to the Rectory. It was only five miles, so nothing I couldn’t handle. But I hadn’t counted on the bastards who’d wrecked my truck waiting for me.

They’d followed me as far as the main road, yelling and cussing at me, throwing some trash that they’d stored up in their car. I’d thought that was the extent of it, so I’d just ignored them. Maybe that made them even more pissed.

They looked like high school kids, so it wasn’t as if I’d known any of them from before. But one of them had auburn hair; it reminded me so much of Allison. Then I remembered that she’d had a younger brother named Trent.

When I’d called out his name, the car sped by me, clipping my hip as it went, sending me somersaulting down the road, and leaving me sprawled out in the dirt. It sucked, but there was nothing I could do about it.

I hadn’t expected Torrey to take care of me the way she had. She was just so fucking compassionate. It spun my head. I couldn’t work out why she was wasting her time on me. If I was honest, I’d been expecting her to want some sort of payback. So far she’d just treated me good. I’d heard Dad and Momma talking about her so called reputation, but other than being a little flirtatious, she was just a really nice person to me.

I’d nearly had a heart attack when she’d called her momma on the whole couch thing. I was still sort of shocked that she’d found it funny, although that was later on. At the time, I was mortified. I’d been able to hear her yelling at her momma from the garden. I hoped I hadn’t screwed anything up between them. I probably had. I was good at that.

I limped into my room and peeled off my disgusting, sweaty clothes. I don’t know how she could have stood to be in the same car with me. You didn’t really notice it that much in prison because everyone smelled like ass. But it was different now. Every time she came near me, I caught the scent of summer flowers.

The shower felt amazing. It was a real luxury to have as much hot water as I wanted, and not have to keep one eye open the whole time for who was coming into the shower block. I still couldn’t get used to having so much privacy. When I first got out, I used to forget where I was and wore my boxers in the shower to wash them. In prison, everyone did that—for obvious reasons. But as I only had the one pair, oftentimes I didn’t bother wearing any now that I was home.

The water stung my arms and legs. I had to admit I was looking pretty busted up. But I’d had worse in prison, and had gotten several black eyes and my nose broken once. I’d been put in solitary for 72 hours even though it had been nothing to do with me, just the wrong place at the wrong time. Shit like that happened; there was no point being a whiny bitch about it. And anyway, it had healed pretty straight.

I was surprised to see that Dad was waiting in my room after I finished in the shower.

He looked at the new holes in my body but didn’t comment.

“This isn’t workin’,” he said, flatly. “I cain’t have your momma harassed like this. She’s gettin’ so she’s scared to leave her own home again.”

I stared at the bare floorboards, pretty sure I could guess what he was going to say.

“We have our home searched by strangers; comments in the street—you don’t know what that’s like for us. Then last night with your brother’s truck—well, that was the final straw. I’ll contact your parole officer and tell her you need to move out. They have places for people like you in the city; I think it would be best for everyone if you just left.”

He stood up and walked out. I didn’t bother to argue because, well, he was right. And it didn’t matter to me where I went—I still had to live inside my skin. But maybe it would be better if I went somewhere no one knew me. I wouldn’t be leaving anything behind—except Torrey.

I felt the pain of regret in my chest. Yeah, I’d miss her.

 

 

 

Torrey

 

I didn’t want to admit it, but I needed to talk to my mom.

I called her cell phone, but it went straight to voicemail. When she turned it off it usually meant she was visiting with some parishioners. I waited a while, standing in the kitchen staring into the garden as the shadows lengthened. I could see the hulking shape of the dumpster with long fingers of torn brambles hanging from it, as if they were trying to crawl out. The idea made me shiver.

I looked at the clock on the wall again, ticking away with annoying regularity.

In the end, I decided to head on down to the church in case she was caught up there.

It was close enough to walk so I didn’t bother taking my car.

It was the kind of neighborhood where people walked their dogs, and kids rode their bikes and played in the street. Real small town. Nothing like where I’d grown up.

The church was in the middle of a bunch of newish houses on the intersection of one of the bigger roads. It was large, but as I stared at the outside, I was unimpressed with the bland modern exterior. It wasn’t supposed to matter what a place of worship looked like, but I thought the right ambience helped, you know?

But as soon as I walked inside, I was swept into another world by the scent of beeswax polish. I hadn’t smelled anything like that since my grandma’s house. It brought back memories of home baking and listening to her bedtime stories.

“Torrey? What are you doing here?”

Mom’s voice floated out from behind one of the rows of chairs.

“Oh, hey, Mom! What are you doing on the floor?”

She sighed.

“Both of the ladies from the cleaning roster called in to cancel. One has gone to look after her sick sister in Gainesville, and the other has an ingrown toenail so she can’t walk.”