Nope. Delete. Everything I write feels insincere. I’m not emotional, especially publicly.

I wish I could express myself. I wish this were easier. I wish I was different and…

I wish… I type.

But nothing comes.

I hesitate a moment, the urge to speak there but not the courage, and I discard the draft, closing out the app.

Pressing my thumb to the Twitter icon, I drag it to the trash and do the same with my Facebook, Instagram, Snapchat, and email. Going into the app store, I uninstall each one, cutting myself off. I want to speak, but I’m not ready to deal with the response to whatever I say, so I take away the torture. The accounts still exist, just not my immediate access to them.

Plugging my phone back into the charger and far away from my person, I spend the next hour unpacking my suitcases and re-arranging the room, despite myself. I never actually decided I would stay, but I know I’m not leaving today, and I need something to do that keeps me away from them.

Underthings in the top drawer, then night clothes, workout clothes, and T-shirts. I hang up everything else—jackets, blouses, shirts, pants, jeans… Left to right, dark to light.

I arrange all of my shoes on the floor of the closet, knowing my heels won’t see the light of day here, but I expected as much. No one to dress for sounds fine to me.

I stick the few magazines and books I’d brought on the empty built-in bookshelf and set my make-up cases, hair dryer, and irons neatly next to the desk and then walk my shampoo and conditioner into the bathroom. I set my soaps on the edge of the tub before pulling out my toothbrush and swiping some toothpaste across the bristles.

Finishing my teeth, I secure my toothbrush back inside its travel tube and take that and my toothpaste back into my bedroom, setting them both on the bedside table. I always kept my toothbrush in my bathroom back home, but only because I was the only one to use the bathroom.

But men are gross. They leave the toilet seat up, and according to a study I once read, fecal matter sprays into the air when toilets flush. The bacteria can get on everything. No, thank you.

I brush out my hair, pull it up into a ponytail, and then look around the neat bedroom for something. Anything.

I don’t want to leave the room, and I might be repacking tomorrow, but if nothing else, at least I didn’t think about my parents while I was unpacking. Or while I was mad at Jake earlier.

Blowing out a breath, I walk out of the room, closing the door behind me, and head downstairs. A drill whirs from the shop, and I hear a pounding in the front of the house, so I head outside, knowing I don’t know shit about building motorcycles.

Jake stands off to my left, planting his arm against the house and hammering a piece of siding.

“Can I help?” I ask reluctantly.

But I don’t look him in the eye.

He stops hammering, and out of the corner of my eye I see him look over at me.

“Come and hold this,” he instructs.

I step down off the porch.

Treading through the grass, I approach his side and fit my hands next to his, taking over holding the board for him. He points a nail at the board and pounds that one in before adding two more.

He reaches down to pick up another piece of wood, and I follow his lead, helping him, but then I catch sight of something on his waist. His T-shirt is tucked back into his back pocket again, and I try to make out the tattoo.

My Mexico. It’s in dark blue script, an arch over his left hip, on the side of his torso, just above his jeans line.

I hold the next board for him as he puts a nail into the center, and then I spot another hammer in the nearby toolbox and take it out with a nail from the coffee can.

I place the point on the wood and Jake taps the space about an inch over from where I have it. “Right there,” he instructs and swipes his hand up, showing the line of nails on all the previous boards. “Follow the pattern.”

I nod, moving the nail. I tap, tap, tap, aware of his eyes on me.

“Here, like this,” he says and reaches toward me.

But I pull the hammer and nail away, seeing him immediately back off.

Putting it back in place, I hammer the nail into the house, accidently hitting the edge and bending the piece of metal. I clench my teeth and dig out the nail, replacing it with another and trying again.

He’s still staring at me.

“I won’t learn anything if you don’t give me a chance,” I tell him.

He moves, a hint of humor in his voice. “I didn’t say anything.”

We continue working in silence, both of us lifting board after board, pounding nail after nail. My pace quickens, and he watches me less and less, probably because I’m not slowing him down anymore, although this is a two-person job. Why wasn’t Noah helping him? He’s in the garage, but this would’ve moved a lot faster than trying to do it alone.

Noah’s words from this morning come back to me, and the meaning behind them finally hits me now, hours later.

They don’t get along, do they?

And I almost smile a little. I suddenly feel a slight measure of camaraderie with Noah.

Jake picks up a board, and I take my end, both of us fitting it right underneath the previous piece of siding, but as I slide my hand down its length for a better hold, something sharp digs into my skin, and I hiss.

I drop my end of the board and bring my hand up, seeing a long, thick piece of wood imbedded into my palm.

Wincing, I gently tug at the half still sticking out, increasing the force when it doesn’t budge. A sting shoots through my hand, and I need more light.

But before I can turn around to head into the house, Jake takes my hand and inspects the splinter.

I try to pull away. “I got it.”

But he ignores me.

Focusing on my hand, he presses down on my skin where the sliver is embedded, holding it in place before he snaps it in half, breaking off the slack.

I jerk, sucking in air between my teeth.

“Who taught you to shoot?” he asks, poking at the rest of the splinter. “I can’t imagine Hannes taking up any outdoor activity that didn’t include a yacht or a golf cart.”

I shoot my eyes up to his face. That’s two digs today.

Jake’s eyes flash to me for a moment like he’s waiting for me to say something. “You’re not sad at the mention of him.”

It’s an observation, not a question.

My shoulders tense, a little self-conscious, because I know what he expects.

I’m not acting right, and he’s noticed.

I look away, hearing the faint, high-pitched sounds of motorcycle engines growing closer. “I don’t want to talk about my father.”

“Yeah, me neither.”

He digs his thumb under the splinter, trying to push it up and out, and I try to yank my hand away. “Stop that.”

But he tightens his hold and pulls my hand back to him. “Stop moving.”

While he keeps working the splinter, trying to push it out, I hear the buzz of engines grow louder and spot a team of dirt bikes speeding up the gravel driveway. About five guys crowd the area behind my uncle’s truck and pull to a stop, pulling off helmets and chuckling to each other. They’re all dressed in colorful attire, looking very Motocross. Or Supercross or whatever it is they do here.

Noah trots out of the shop and approaches one of the guys. “Hey, man.”