we sleep at sunset | 18+

06 | Nice to meet you. Again.

A quick glance to my left, to the wall I filled with old pictures, shows the face of a young, dark-haired Henry, Pat's late son. Eighteen years after Pat lost Lynn in the hospital around the corner, Henry was taken from him too.

Car accident. Drunk driver.

"Uncle Pat," I say, hesitant to breech a new topic, "I saw a custodial management posting at the hospital. I know you like nights, just thought I'd mention it."

Pat exhales a dejected breath. "Ember, you know I don't have the education."

"Why does it matter? I read the post. It never said anything about having a degree."

"It never does, but the person they hire will have a bachelor's degree in some kind of business management field."

"You have more experience than all of them."

Pat offers a soothing half-grin. "I'm content. That's all I can ask for."

"Is that what you'd tell me? To aim for content?"

My uncle raises his brows in warning. "It's too late for me, Ember. I want you to aim higher."

"Raveena would want you to apply. You should apply just in case. And when you do get it—"

"I will not apply to be rejected."

"What a great attitude. What if this changes things, huh? What if you look back on this and think how important it was that you applied? You can't keep—"

"Enough."

The word is a cut.

Pat gathers our dishes, the glasses and plates clinking against the tin platter. When he straightens, he smiles tightly. "I know this is out of love, sweetheart, but there are certain things you don't understand."

I hold my glass with both hands, staring at the juice.

As he goes to leave my room, hunched slightly from arthritis, we hear scraping from outside my open window. Like trowels on old cement.

"Sounds like they're making progress next door," Pat says, setting the empty tray on my dresser. He walks over and peers out. "Met Adio Rhoden yesterday. Strong fella."

I debate acting like a child, ignoring my uncle altogether, but I can't do it. I change the subject instead.

"Did you know that Greyson and Michael are super distant cousins?"

"No," Pat says, observing them out the window. "I reckon Steven hired them aiming for a discount."

The air from my window carries heat into my room. The thought of them working under the blazing sun, with only the harsh Virginia summer for company, has me frowning.

"I'm going to make some cold lemonade to bring over," I declare, pushing off the covers and swinging my legs out of bed.

"Fine idea. I'll fix up a couple of turkey sandwiches."

Yeah, I have good ideas. He should listen to me.

Fresh lemons, a bag of sugar, and a pitcher with ice for lemonade. Turkey, mustard, and bread for the sandwiches Pat wraps in wax paper. I grab four plastic cups in one hand and the pitcher in the other and follow him out our front door.

The heat hits me like a wall. I'm still in Grey's sweater, but the high sun hits my pale freckled legs, the skin exposed under my pink shorts.

As we approach the Scott's driveway, the scrape and clank grow louder. Adio, who's ditched a shirt, is digging up old concrete with a trowel, his rich brown skin and bald head reflecting the sun like a beacon. He's like a character from an Old Spice commercial.