Today we were cleaning the other side of the road. It was much,mucheasier work with proper shoes. I could actually focus on collecting trash rather than trying not to trip and fall.
“You’re getting the hang of this,” Jayce said after an hour.
“High praise,” I joked. “I can pick up trash like a pro. Maybe I ought to make a career out of it.”
Jayce picked up a plastic straw, tossed it in his bag, and then pointed at me with his stick. “I noticed you’re not limping. Guess your ankle’s better.”
“And I noticed thatyou’renot wincing every time you take a deep breath. Guess you don’t have any cracked ribs?”
“Nope.”
His answer didn’t sate my curiosity.
“Was it a bar fight that landed you in jail the other night?” I’d given it some thought while trying to fall asleep last night. Sure, it was the stereotypical thing to assume a guy like Jayce got into a bar fight, but it would explain both why he was in jail, and why he was licking his wounds.
“Nope,” was all he said again.
I watched him for a few steps. I thought he was telling the truth. Whatever reason he was out here, it wasn’t for a brawl at Flop’s.
“Motorcycle crash?” I tried.
“Wrong again. Any other questions, or is this interrogation over?”
“What does your tattoo mean?” I pointed at his arm. Three vibrant orchids were tattooed on his bicep, above the number 3194. On the other side of the flowers was the number 8233. “Got a thing for orchids?”
“How about I ask a question before answering any more of yours,” he said.
“If you’re afraid of explaining why you like orchids, then sure. Ask away.”
Jayce ignored the dig. “Where were you going in such a hurry when the sheriff pulled you over?”
“I wasn’t speeding,” I replied. “And I was heading home. My parents live in a little town south of Atlanta.”
“Just going home to visit?”
I hesitated before saying, “Uh huh.”
He stabbed a Styrofoam cup, then scraped it into his bag. “With three suitcases in your back seat?”
I shot him a look. “How’d you know what was in my car?”
“Small town. Word travels fast.” He pointed his stick at me again. “Plus, the folks in Eastland get mighty itchy when they see someone transporting a bunch of stuff through town.”
“What do you mean?”
“Nothin’,” he said absently. “Were you moving back home, or what?”
“Sorta, kinda.”
He frowned while stepping over a pothole. With his bronze skin and the way he held his stick, he looked like an ancient Greek warrior holding a spear. “How does one sorta kinda move back home?”
“Well…” I hesitated, then found a spurt of courage. “I kind of broke up with my boyfriend.”
The words hung in the crisp morning air. Saying it out loud made it real. It was the first time I’d said the words, thoseexactwords, to someone else. It hurt a little, but it felt good, too. Like I was untying a knot in my soul.
Jayce frowned at me again. “How does onekindabreak up with their boyfriend?”
“I’ve been wondering the same thing these past few days,” I grumbled. “It’s complicated.”