Sittin' in the backyard with two other girls, legs tucked to the side on a big white blanket, a pitcher of lemonade sweating on a tray. Her dress reminded him of a peeled peach, soft and southern. Her bare feet curled against the grass, nails painted some innocent shade of pink.
She laughed again. God help him.
He ducked his head, suddenly aware of how his shirt was halfway unbuttoned, collar stained and sleeves shoved up over scarred forearms. His hands were black with oil. He wiped one down his thigh out of instinct — it left a darker smear. He hadn't shaved in days. A streak of dirt lined his neck.
Still, he couldn't stop lookin'.
Her head tilted back when she laughed. A sliver of sun hit the hollow of her throat. He watched the way her hand curled around the glass. So clean. So delicate.
Bet she's never had to wash blood off the porch steps.
Never sat by the radio hopin' for a weather report so the roof wouldn't cave in.
She probably thinks "hard" means math homework and a boy not callin' back.
And yet...he stood there for a second too long, one thumb hooked through his belt loop, the other hand half-raised like he forgot what to do with it. The hay between his teeth rolled back and forth as he stared. Grease under his nails, sweat dripping down the arch of his spine — and all he could think about was the way her laugh curled like ribbon 'round his ribs.
She turned her head suddenly — maybe feelin' eyes on her. He dropped his gaze fast, pretendin' to fuss with the toolbox, but his ears burned.
Goddamn. What're you doin', Eli? Lookin' at her like that. Like she's somethin' you could hold.
She ain't for you. Ain't for this place. And sure as hell ain't for a Carter boy smellin' like iron and motor oil.
He blinked, heart skipping, and looked back down at the wrench in his hand. Jaw tight. Chewing the stem between his teeth like it could anchor him to the ground.
Girl like that don't belong in the same story as me.
But hell if I don't wish I could write her into mine anyway.
When the job was done, Mr. Yates handed him a few crumpled bills and mumbled something about supper, but Eli wasn't listening. He glanced toward the backyard again.
She was alone now. Still on the blanket. Knees pulled up, fingers playing with the hem of her dress. She was looking at something in her lap — maybe a book, maybe a letter — but the sun behind her turned her hair to gold.
He hesitated. Took a step. Then stopped.
Instead, he turned, headed down the dirt path, boots crunching beneath him like bones. He didn't say a word.
But in his chest, the thought burned anyway:
God help me, but if she ever called me by my first name like it meant somethin', I think I'd fall right there in the dirt.