The Second Jam Read online

  Now that deserved my paint roller to be retired for a moment. I slid it into the paint pan and ran to hug her. I’d watched the girl become a woman and she was coming into her own. It was amazing.

  Maybe I could do this.

  “I’m so proud of you. When this place opens, come see Mrs. Taylor. She’s going to be counseling on grants and scholarships. Don’t do anything until you talk to her.”

  “I won’t. Thanks.”

  We talked a few more minutes before she checked her watch and realized she would be late. She’d pay for it at practice, but it was worth the talk.

  Before I knew it, Zuri and I realized it was almost ten at night.

  “I’ve got to go, B. Some of us still teach in the morning.”

  “I know. I’m sorry. Go home. I’ll clean up.”

  “Call me tomorrow.”

  “I will.”

  A few minutes of cleaning brushes and rollers and a knock rang at the back door. I knew this neighborhood. It could be dangerous at night.

  “Who is it?”

  “Cyrus.”

  The revelation that it was him did nothing to slow the beating of my heart.

  I cracked the door open and gestured for him to come in.

  “How did you find this place?”

  “I asked Pedro where I could find you since you weren’t answering your texts today. I needed to talk to you.”

  I became offended for no real reason. “Well, I’m glad it wasn’t a secret.”

  His face fell. “Look, if you don’t want me here, it’s cool.”

  “No, it’s fine. I was just surprised. That’s all. You texted me?”

  He shifted from one foot to the other. “Well, I called first, then texted.”

  Impatient.

  “Come on in. I’m just cleaning up.”

  I picked up a few of the paint cans. When I turned around, he was putting the tops on the rest of the cans and using the mallet to make sure they were closed well. I hadn’t asked for his help.

  It kind of pissed me off.

  Over his shoulder, he looked at me. A smile broke out over his face and while it was remarkable on its own, I was still miffed—at mostly nothing.

  “The first thing you need to do, in order to help people, is to be helped without that sour face.”

  Where were my skates when I needed to smash someone’s head in?

  I made a circle with my finger around my face. “This is not sour. This is annoyed.”

  “Well,” He topped off the last open paint can. “Whatever it is, it’s the same face you made that night I had to help you with your car.”

  “Nuh-uh.” I argued.

  “Yes-huh. And it mars what is usually a beautiful face. If you help people, some of them are going to want to help you back in repayment. Learn to accept it.”

  I didn’t want to accept it.

  I liked my resting bitch face—it prevented wrinkles.

  “Does this mean you’re going to let me help you?”

  He shifted to a sitting position with his legs stretched out in front of him, crossed at the ankles. At that moment, I was thankful for no furniture. He had obviously showered and changed since working. His hair was back in one of those bun things and his plain white t-shirt fit his relaxed demeanor.

  He was too cool for fashion.

  “Today, your dad wanted me to go over this inventory list for a delivery that came in—I couldn’t do it. He didn’t flinch when I hesitated. He doesn’t know, and I don’t really want him to. It’s time I grow up about this whole thing. But I’ll warn you—I may be nice to you, but I save all my meanness for myself. Always have.”

  I wanted to hug the big oaf. I really did. His eyes always read sincere, no matter what he said. There was no tug of his gaze to the left or right—no shifty blinking or fidgeting.

  He was legit—all the time.

  But hugging wasn’t going to help him.

  It would help me a whole lot.

  I barely contained my smile at the thought of Cyrus hugging therapy.

  “We’ll start tomorrow. Why don’t you meet me here? That way we’re out of gawking distance from any prying eyes. How does six sound to you?”

  “Sounds good. I really appreciate this—even if it doesn’t work.”

  “We will make it work. I won’t let you give up.”

  Cyrus ran a hand down his beard and blew out a breath while he looked around the place. “Are you sure it won’t interrupt whatever you’ve got going on here?”

  I looked around and mentally took inventory of everything that needed to be done for the third time that day. There was more than I could handle, but it had to be done.

  The thing was—Cyrus was putting more into this deal than he knew. The relief I felt at him being at the shop took a thousand anvils off my chest. One day, I was sure, I would have to explain to him about my dad’s early affliction—but not until I had to.

  And this wasn’t just teaching someone how to balance their checkbook.

  This was do or die for him.

  “I’ll make the time, Cyrus. It’s important.”

  “Why?”

  I was hoping he wouldn’t ask me that question. I’d hoped against hope that he wouldn’t.

  “You’ve always been so nice to me. I think maybe this would help you—more than just knowing how to read an inventory sheet. Maybe I could be a part of something that could potentially change your life.”

  His gaze never faltered—just like his pure words.

  “I can’t tell you how grateful I am—that you would help someone like me.”

  It wasn’t like he was an ogre.

  I didn’t know what that meant, but I logged it into my memory as something to explore.

  “You’re welcome. I’m about done here. You wanna walk me out?”

  “Are you gonna do the face?”

  We both laughed. It felt good to laugh. I was always so stressed and constantly running from place to place—I hadn’t laughed at myself in months.

  Everyone should be forced to laugh at themselves at least once a week.

  “Wow.” He said before I could answer. “That smile. If you smiled like that outside the front doors of whatever this place is—they’d buy everything you’re selling in a heartbeat.”

  I pressed the back of my hand to my cheek and felt heat where there was usually cold. I was blushing—another thing I hadn’t done in way too long. It was Cyrus, making all of this happen and I didn’t know if I liked it or not.

  “I’m not selling anything here but hope.”

  I thought I may have had to explain it further, but I was surprised that he simply nodded and took it at face value.

  We made our way out to my car. After I unlocked the door, he stepped into my line of sight and opened it for me.

  I was smashed—in the best way possible.

  “I could’ve done that.”

  One side of his mouth tipped up in a sideways grin. His beard rose to the occasion with it. “That’s the thing about being a gentleman, Beatriz. I know you can do any damned thing you want to—but you let me do them for you in spite of that. It’s kind of an ego boost. Everyone says that being a gentleman is just another way to get under a woman’s skin—but I’m the one that’s honored you would even allow me to help you.”

  It wasn’t really fair of him to look like that and be nice too. It was too hard to resist.

  “You should write that shit down.”

  I was so poetic. After crossing his legs in the other direction, he popped his knuckles—I gritted my teeth at the noise. “Yeah, I suck at writing too. Remember the chicken scratch on the forms?”

  “Another thing to work on.”

  I made sure to couple it with a smile.

  “When you say it like that, it almost sounds doable.”

  “See you tomorrow, Cyrus.”

  He crinkled his nose. “I’ll be here.”

  I got into the car. He got into his truck but wouldn’t budge until I’d
left the parking lot.

  The world was in some serious trouble when Cyrus Black got some self-worth pumped into him. He already had more man in him than some men I’d met who could read, write and do Calculus all at once.

  Chapter Ten

  Cyrus

  The mornings in that drafty little apartment came earlier than I wanted. There were no soundproof barriers to block the honks and skidding brakes from my ears as I slept. A nearby neighbor’s rooster claiming his ownership over the morning and over my resting hours didn’t care if it was Monday or Saturday.

  I didn’t really want this day to come anyway, but procrastination rooted in fear could only be handled by meeting it face on—one of my uncles said that—I just couldn’t remember which one.

  And, of course, the one person I’d allowed to help me in any way happened to be cloaked in a killer body with a smile that would melt baby deer.

  It couldn’t have just been an old, fat man who drooled into his beard.

  Scratch that—I’d rather have Beatriz.

  I took a shower before getting dressed. I took one shower just to de-gunk and another to actually get clean.

  It didn’t bother me, getting dirty. I’d always been good at working with my hands—I just wished it wasn’t the only thing I was good at.

  My phone chimed and a little too eagerly, I reached for it, thinking it was Beatriz. It was my mother. I’d been betrayed.

  My dad was so whipped.

  I miss you. I love you. Don’t be mad at your dad. He’s a pushover.

  A large part of me wanted to press the phone icon and call her back right away. My mom was the best of both worlds. She was tough and no nonsense when we needed her to be, but consoling and loving the rest of the time. It was hardest to stay away from her. Short of murder, that woman would forgive me anything and had over the years, more than she should have.

  I held off on the text—my pride getting in my way. I was actually surprised that my dad had held out this long. Another text came through. I didn’t even have to look to know who it was—to most my dad was somewhat of a Sasquatch, but those who knew him best knew there was nothing more than a bear under the exterior.

  I worked the rest of the day by the energy of a bundle of nervousness.

  The only calming thought I had was that it would be easier to be friends with Beatriz. Friends, I was good at. I’d never dated much. When you dated girls they wanted to talk to you and when they talked to me, they’d inevitably find out about my little issue. Then came the fixing stage—the worst stage of all.

  The Fixing Cyrus phase.

  It never failed. Scout was in a constant state of that phase until middle school and then we both just gave up. I thought maybe she had gotten tired of the dumb cousin and I’d gotten tired of studying more hours than a dozen other students put together to just fail.

  Mom, I just can’t yet.

  It would hurt her feelings that I hadn’t told her I loved her, but she knew I did.

  I just needed sandwich material.

  That thing where you sandwich a bad thing between two good things.

  So far, all I had was an apology that didn’t stretch halfway to where it should.

  The ramen noodles I’d had earlier bobbed in my throat on my way to meet Beatriz. There was nothing I hated more than ramen noodles, but where else could you find dinner for twenty-five cents?

  “Hello?” I yelled out, opening the double doors she’d escorted me through the night before.

  “We are back here.” Someone yelled back. It wasn’t Beatriz and the thought of we being involved in my learning to read—or making a complete ass of myself learning to read—made me want to turn coat and bring my impaired ass back to my family.

  But the voice belonged to a girl. At least it wasn’t the suit.

  I hesitated. They said they were in the back—it wasn’t exactly an invitation. I didn’t want to interrupt her. The clock on the wall told me I was still early, so I stood still, waiting.

  “Hey, Cypress Tree, get on back here.” A girl who couldn’t be more than five foot tall stepped out of a room down the long hall and barked at me. A giggle could be heard after she called me.

  The hallway had been freshly painted. Maybe Beatriz was giggling because she was high on fumes.

  “Beatriz?” I called out.

  “I’m here, Cyrus.” She was mocked in a whisper.

  Entering the room, the paint smell grew stronger, almost making my eyes water. The short girl was on her hands and knees painting the baseboards with a brush that looked like it had seen better days. Beatriz was in some plastic-looking coveralls with neon green paint on one of her eyebrows.

  “Nothing like a man who stands there and gawks while women work their ass off.” The snide remark came from the tiny one who never missed a beat while tearing me down.

  Beatriz’s expression was hidden by her hair.

  “Where’s a brush?”

  The tiny one didn’t even bother to stop painting to tell me. She stuck out one of her legs backwards and arched her foot, pointing to a ladder in the furthest corner. The color of paint they’d chosen would put someone into a spell of color-sensitive epilepsy. Instead of grabbing a brush, I opted for the roller. In less than thirty minutes, I’d finished two walls and turned to find them now gawking at me.

  “What did you do, go to painting school?”

  I shrugged one shoulder. It was just another thing I could do with my hands. Those things came natural.

  The friend looked at me and back to Beatriz about fifteen times with a penciled on eyebrow cocked in suspicion. How someone cocked a painted on eyebrow was beyond me, but she was a professional.

  “B won’t tell me what the deal is with you—mostly because I’d know if she was telling me mentiras.” I didn’t flinch at her use of Spanish, but she clarified anyway. “Lies. She’s left with no choice but to tell me nothing.”

  “I appreciate her discretion.”

  “I bet you do.” She turned to Beatriz and they bumped hips in some kind of goodbye ritual. She waved to me on her way out, but then stopped with vengeance in her eyes.

  “By the way, B. You were right, the scruffy makes him even finer.” A sound of appreciation came from her mouth as she looked me up and down without shame. One look at Beatriz and her friend’s intentions were clear—to embarrass the hell out of Beatriz. It worked too because I’d never seen a more furious blush on a girl.

  “Get out of here, Zuri. Like now.”

  “What no introductions? You are rude.”

  With her wrist, Beatriz pushed up the bridge of her glasses. I thought I saw her roll her eyes, but she hid it well. “Zuri, this is Cyrus.” She intonated my name. “Cyrus this is Zuri, my best friend and my derby wife.”

  This time it was Zuri’s turn to roll her eyes. “He doesn’t know what a derby wife is. Boys don’t get that stuff.

  She had no idea.

  “Don’t you have somewhere to be?” The sarcastic remarks didn’t seem to faze Zuri. It must’ve been the status-quo between the duo.

  “I do.” She didn’t move an inch until a few seconds had passed—a silent protest.

  After she left, I continued to paint, taking up the brush Zuri had abandoned.

  “I think I’ve had enough paint fumes. Are you ready to start?”

  I would’ve rather painted.

  “Sure.” After slipping out of the coveralls, which revealed tight jeans and a tank that looked innocent enough in the front, but when she turned around the replace the brushes, revealed that her entire back was exposed. I expected tats, but instead, there was only one tiny diamond in between her shoulder blades.

  “Follow me. I thought we could just use the kitchen area. I ordered tables for this place, but they haven’t come in yet.”

  “Whatever you think is best.”

  When we reached the kitchen, she pulled out two barstools and patted one for me. I took a seat and tried not to cringe as she pulled out flash cards and notebook
s.

  “So, the first thing I need you to do is to stop saying that you can’t read.”

  I heaved out a breath of insecurity. Maybe this was a bad idea.

  “But I can’t.”

  “That’s crap. You can read some things. So, if you must refer to this bump in the road, let’s call you a slow reader.”

  “It doesn’t really make a difference.”

  “It does.” I tried not to look at the stuff she’d pulled out and had now slid over to me, but it was nearly impossible. “Can we just act like it does?”

  “Tonight, I just want to see where you’re at. I know that you know some words. And you know your alphabet. After that, it’s simply a matter of phonetics and practice.”

  I swore to myself that if she pulled out some puppy books, I was out of there quicker than a roadrunner.

  A nod was all I had to give her.

  For the next hour, she showed me flash cards of words. Most were easy. They were sight words that Scout had me learn in elementary school. And she’d taught me the ‘ing’ sound. So going and being were easy too. Toward the end, she progressed to some harder words and that’s when I showed her my true colors—on a barstool—in front of the last person I wanted to pity me.

  It always started with the stuttering.

  I could control it a little more as I got older, but it could only be hidden by not speaking at all.

  “I have—have—to—go.”

  She pouted her lip out. If I hadn’t been so preoccupied with getting out of there, I would’ve taken the time to appreciate it.

  “Okay. Can we meet again tomorrow night? I have derby on Thursdays.”

  “Not—to—tonight?”

  Damn you tongue.

  “Practice was cancelled tonight.”

  Either she was ignoring my slanted chatter or she was really good at this helping people thing.

  “Thank you.”

  One point for me.

  I bolted out of there as soon as she smiled back at my appreciation. I was such a mess—there was just so much mess another person could take.

  I sped back to the apartment. This was when I missed Scout most. She was that friend for me. She never judged me or acted like anything was amiss when I couldn’t do something. She just knew that was me—and she stuck around anyway.