Split(31)

Turning toward the truck, I find Lucas checking the ratchet straps and securing the pallets of tile for the trek up the hill. His shoulders and back muscles flex beneath his shirt, and my eyes are drawn to a strip of tan skin where his jeans sag just below his hip. His clothes are worn thin but in a way that is more nonchalant than unkempt. He sees me coming and I motion to the bag in my hand, hoping it’ll distract him from my blatant gawking.

“Dinner. Figure my dad, Cody, and you could use a good meal tonight.”

His eyebrows pinch together and he blinks. “Me?” He looks genuinely shocked.

I lightly smack his upper arm. He jerks and his gaze darts to where I’d hit him. “Yes, you.”

Still studying his arm, he mutters, “Why?”

I prop my hands on my hips and tilt my head. “You liked the taco, right?”

His charcoal eyes finally slide up to meet mine, but the relaxed and elated glow from earlier has been replaced by something different. He seems guarded but curious. “Yes, ma’a—um . . . Shyann.”

“So let me treat you to dinner.” Buying extra tacos seemed like an innocent gesture at the time, but judging by the intense way his eyes are locked on mine, I’m thinking something heavy just happened between us.

Without warning, he quickly drops his chin and stomps past me. “We better go.”

I stand there for a few seconds too long but startle when the flatbed engine roars to life, and I scurry around to the passenger side.

I climb in, placing the bag at my feet and trying to settle in for the drive home amid a tension that rolls around and pricks my skin. I watch the minutes tick by on the clock. The truck’s engine seems too loud in the quiet cab, and at the fifteen-minute mark I can no longer take the silence.

“So . . . what did you do before you moved to Payson?”

His eyelashes flutter, but his lips remain closed.

“Do I make you uncomfortable, Lucas?”

He blinks and the tight lock he has on his jaw softens. “A little.”

“Why? Because I get the sense that you’d rather me shut up so you can get this time stuck in a truck with me over with.”

He doesn’t confirm or deny it.

I don’t like the way that feels one little bit. “Okay.” I won’t make him say it.

Turning my head away from him, I lean my temple against the window and decide closing my eyes will help to get me through the last leg of the trip without unleashing hell on the poor guy.

But really . . . I’ve done everything I can to dissolve this unexplainable strain between us, but he refuses to let it go. I don’t expect him to kiss my ass, but it would be nice if he made a little effort to engage. He’s one of those quiet artsy types, antisocial and awkward, but still! I can tell he forces himself to talk to me and even that is giving me the bare minimum. What pisses me off is why I even care.

Whatever. He can have his tortured and brooding artist bullshit.

“Why do they call you Shy?”

I glare at him and have to remind myself that he didn’t do anything wrong, so sending him the death stare probably isn’t cool on my part. “Because it’s my name.” Duh.

“Hmm.” His thoughtful eyes scan the horizon.

I go back to watching the scenery.

“But you’re not shy.”

“No. I’m not.” I sigh heavily. “My mother’s name was Annika. In Native American culture, you name your child after they’re born and according to who they are, how they act, or what they look like. The Ann was taken from my mom’s name, and my grandfather believes by naming me Shy I was cursed to be the opposite.”

He makes a sound, somewhere between a chuckle and a huff.

“My middle name is Blue Eyes.” I motion to my eyes. “Obviously. It’s a little much so I dropped the ‘Eyes’ and go by Shyann Blue.”

He smiles. It’s subtle but warm.

“If you think that’s bad, my brother’s name is worse. My dad named him Cody. My mom gave my brother his middle name. Shilah.”

“What does it mean?”

“It’s brother in Navajo. His name is Cody Brother Jennings.” A snort of laughter brings Lucas’s eyes to mine. “You must think we’re crazy.”

“No.” He looks uneasy and pulls his hat lower to shield his eyes. “You miss her.”

The way he says it, his words dripping in a childlike fascination as if he wants to understand me, makes me want to pour out my deepest darkest secrets. “Sometimes so bad I can’t breathe.”

“I can tell. I hear it in your voice when you talk about her.”

I wish I remembered more. As much as I scramble to recall the simple things like the way her hands looked after a morning in the garden or the way her arms felt when she’d hug me, they slip through my fingers as soon as I bring them close. But I’ll never forget the softness that would touch my dad’s face when he looked at her. Nor will I forget the look on his face when he watched her take her final breath, and certainly not the expression he wore when he stared at her, seated at her bedside for hours after she died.

Even worse is what she looked like, her brittle hands curled up against her rib cage, paler than the sheet covering her emaciated body, her eyes slightly opened, lips parted, totally void of life. Of spirit.