She’s a mom…
My stomach burns when I think of how I felt when I left here. I had planned to come back and marry her after college. She was supposed to have my baby. A low growl rises in my throat, and I’m back at the scaffolding.
Wyatt is out on his porch. “I’m not paying you to walk around. I’m paying you to paint.”
Glaring at him, I bite my tongue to keep from lashing out with all the fury ripping through my chest.
Instead, I pick up the brush and climb the scaffolding to the second floor where I left everything. I crack open a gallon of sandy beige and get started.
* * *
My arm aches, and I’m covered in sweat when I finish the second floor exterior. Hours have passed, the sun is directly overhead, and my mind hasn’t stopped turning over what happened this morning.
Hour after hour.
Over and over.
Glancing up, a bead of sweat rolls down my cheek. The heat is blasting like an oven. It’s too hot to keep working, so I head down to get food from André.
I can’t stop my eyes from flickering in the direction of the third building on the row. It’s quiet. No one has come in or out since this morning. As much as I tried to stop, I kept watching for a crack in the door.
Grabbing a cloth, I wipe my face and step into the poboy shop. André is in his usual spot behind the register, only this time his expression is slightly more approachable.
“Jackson Cane,” he says, holding out a bottle of water. “You’re working hard.”
“Thanks.” I take it and twist the top off, finishing it in one long gulp. “What’s the special for today?”
“Today is California Reuben, or what some people call a Rachel.”
“A Rachel?”
“Roasted turkey and Swiss on rye with sauerkraut and Russian dressing.”
My eyebrows rise. “I’ll take it.”
He walks down behind the glass case and lifts a large sandwich into wax paper, placing it in a white bag with a paper napkin and a fork.
“Side of pickle,” he holds up what looks like a kosher spear in a skinny bag. “And a pot of my famous potato salad.”
“Damn,” I say with a laugh. “When word gets out, you won’t be able to stay here.”
“Then how will we keep this place integrated?”
I glance up, and his brow is lowered. “Yeah, sorry about that,” I say, feeling like an ass. “It was kind of a boneheaded thing to say.”
He stares at me a moment longer, until finally a crack in the wall. “I won’t hold it against you.”
“Thanks.”
I dig in my pocket to pay him for the food. “Throw in a Coke and how much for the water?”
“Water’s on the house. Don’t want you dying of heat stroke out there.” He punches the register and hands me back my change. “So you’re from Oceanside?”
“Grew up here. Just me and my dad.”
“Is he still around?”
“He moved to Connecticut when I was in college.”