Grandpa clears his throat, and I’m not sure whether it’s to jar me out of my trance or hide his own insecurities over not knowing what to do.
“We’re all really sorry for your family,” Grandpa finally utters, managing to pull himself together. “You . . . you wanna come in, sweetheart?”
His words are endearing, without the chauvinist tinge my mom always scolds him about. They’re flavored by his age and a sincere worry that weighs down his eyes. He pulls a folding chair from the stack we keep against the wall for his card games he sets up in the garage on Thursdays so him and his old army buddies can smoke without my mom losing her mind.
“Oh, uhm . . .” Eleanor glances behind her toward her still house and the quiet media trucks. Some of the police tape has come loose from the cones the officers set up earlier today and it twists in the wind. She and I both stare at it for a few quiet seconds. I break first, moving my gaze to her. I’m suddenly overcome with a deep understanding of exactly how she feels.
Out of place. Lost, and unsure.
Like me, most of the time.
“I got a car. Well, a truck. A Bronco. I’m not sure what you classify it as. A sport utility? It was my dad’s, and it doesn’t run yet. It used to. Sort of, but . . . well.” I nervously vomit out words.
Both my friend’s and my grandpa’s eyes are on me, probably oozing pity while they mentally shout at me to shut the hell up. I keep my focus on Eleanor, though, her attention jerked from the chaos behind her the moment I speak. Her pouty lips hold open as she stares at me, and it’s hard to tell whether they want to smile or quiver with a bottled-up cry.
This is the most I have ever said to her at once, and nothing about it was eloquent. Eleanor is not the kind of girl who makes fun of people on the fringes of high school social circles, though. And even if she were, now would not be the time. I’m a distraction. I have a job to do.
“It was a birthday gift,” I continue. I glance to my left and am hit with my grandpa’s now encouraging eyes. He nods for me to go on while stepping closer to Eleanor, his palm outstretched to guide her to the green metal chair he set up against the wall.
I look back to Eleanor and her head tilts to one side.
“Is today . . . your birthday?” Her eyes wrinkle, as if my birthday is something she’s supposed to know, a date circled on her calendar.
Her arm stretched out toward Grandpa Hank, she lets him play the part of gentleman and take her to her seat. The sight of it tickles me for some reason, and my mouth smiles on one side.
“Happy birthday,” she says, and I realize I never answered her.
“Oh, thanks. I mean, it’s next weekend, but that counts, I guess.”
“Pshhh, dumbass,” Jake mumbles, flicking the back of my head as he crosses the space behind me and moves to pop the hood. It’s not as if my friend and I sit around and talk about crushes, but it’s impossible to live where I do and not let my attraction to Eleanor Trombley slip out a time or two over the years. At one point during freshman year, Jake offered to make an introduction at a bonfire after a big football game. Instead of going to the party though, I decided to stay home and get ahead on my advanced English reading for the semester.
My cheeks flame in embarrassment after Jake’s teasing, but when I glance back to Eleanor, she’s laughing at my expense, and I don’t really mind. It isn’t the kind of laugh that comes with sound, but her shoulders shake and her eyes slit with the fullness of her cheeks. It’s a brief reprieve from the ghost that showed up wearing her skin.
Eleanor is bundled in black sweatpants several sizes too big for her frame and a Sherpa-lined camouflage coat that looks ready to head out for a seasonal hunting trip, probably borrowed from her father’s closet. Somehow, she still glows like an angel. The cold air has kissed her cheeks and brought pink to her freckled skin. Her eyes are a dull green that sometimes looks more brown in the dark. I’ve stared at them from across lab tables and in the cafeteria for four years. Under the bright fluorescents of my garage, they shine like emeralds. And the blonde hair, usually pulled high in a ponytail or curled into these perfect waves around her shoulders, is twisted into two knots at the base of her neck.
“The boys were just getting started for the day. Young Jacob here has offered to help. You’re welcome to stay.” Thank God Grandpa Hank is able to find his way back to acting like a human.
“Yeah, Jonah doesn’t know shit about cars.” Jake snarks out a jab at my expense.
I wince, squeezing my eyes shut. This time, Eleanor’s laughter produces an airy sound. It makes his insult sting less.
“And young Jacob here doesn’t know shit about spelling or math, so that’s why he hangs around all the time,” Grandpa Hank says, coming to my rescue. I ratchet my shoulders up to my ears and grit my teeth, but Eleanor simply laughs harder. Jake, thankfully, isn’t offended one bit, barking out a quick admission and saying it’s totally true.
For a moment, the green eyes from my dreams seem to find solace in
