Monday, 10:12 AM
My uncle has no decorum.
"Good morning!" Pat says, opening my door with a large tin tray. I sit up in a grog, brushing my hair from my puffy eyes to see properly. As he walks to my bed, he sets the tray between us and sits before me. On it, two glasses of orange juice, two pieces of toast with cinnamon sugar, and a grilled cheese sandwich cut in half diagonally.
"Feeding me like I'm gearing up to run a marathon, huh? Thought I was on the pudgy side," I drawl, rubbing sleep from my eyes. I'm trying to pretend that comment didn't hurt. But it did.
Only a smidge, though.
Pat points to the glasses. "Orange juice is made from fruit."
I can't help my groggy smile, but as I mark his blue work shirt, I frown. "You went to work after the festival? Uncle Pat..."
"Veena kept me supplied with coffee and bran muffins. We heard about the accident with the fireworks. Is Greyson all right?"
I nibble on the toast, trying not to imagine Greyson as a stuntman gone wrong. "Yeah, patched up by the local heroes. Could've used Nurse Raveena's magic hands though."
"She wanted to drive outside town to see the display in the dark. I'm sorry we weren't there."
I glance down at the dark grey sweatshirt on my frame. "We figured it out."
"You all right today, sweetheart?" Pat asks, scanning my face, likely swollen from sleep and lined with fabric marks.
"Yep, just not ready to be a person yet," I admit, sinking my teeth into the grilled cheese and letting the comfort of melted cheese do its magic.
My uncle has no decorum, but he makes a mean grilled cheese.
We sit, eat, drink, and half-heartedly joke about how unhealthy our food is until I finally feel awake. My uncle, on the other hand, has a hard time keeping his eyes open. His face is weary, giving way to bluish-sagging skin under his eyes.
His pension will come soon. He'll have the retirement he deserves one day. He'll meet someone with a kind heart like his own and set up the reading room with two chairs instead of one. They could drink tea together.
"How was your shift last night?" I ask. "Other than the muffins and coffee."
"Always something to clean. But there was an accident early this morning. A drunk driver hit a little boy on a bicycle. The state he was in..."
My hand goes to his shoulder, and he covers it with his own, squeezing it.
"Sometimes I don't know how much longer I'll be able to do this job. It's hard on the old joints." Pat's face tilts into a sad smile.
We both know what he means—it's his heart that takes the pain. To work at a place where people come and go, and sometimes stay until their last breath. The place where he watched his son come into the world and his wife leave on the same day. Lynn suffered uncontrolled bleeding and didn't make it when she birthed their son, Henry.
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.
I hear, rather than see, the Adio's son. Well, that's at first.
Let's play Spot The Distraction, shall we?
There's Michael unloading plastic buckets from that sea-green SUV. The bright blue of his shirt clings to him. Too nicely, in my humble opinion. I bite my lip, shifting on my feet, ready to smile or wave or maybe trip on my shoelaces to get his attention.
He doesn't look up. At all. As if my presence is just another part of a landscape he's seen more than enough of.
Damn.
Adio's face breaks into a wide as he meets us. "Bout time for some refreshments." His voice carries a melodic lilt, but I can't place the accent.
I pout for another second before squaring my shoulders.
I hand Adio a cup, feeling the heat try to melt the plastic. "We thought you might need a break," I say, aiming to keep the pitcher steady as I pour some lemonade into his cup. "Or at least an excuse for one."
He's a handsome man, no older than fifty. His bare chest and shoulders aren't overly defined, and his skin sags here and there, but he's clearly strong.
Pat claps Adio on the shoulder as if they're old friends. "Ember here made the lemonade herself."
Adio's chuckle is deep and hearty as he dips his chin to me. "Thank you, Ember. It's a cruel sun today."
"Ember's my niece," Pat says next.
"Yes, I believe we've met once," Adio says.
My brows furrow.
Huh?
Adio says, "You were just a little thing, then. We were here for a day at most."
Pat hands Adio one of the wrapped sandwiches. "My, my. Greyson's seventh birthday."
Adio laughs, a rich sound that fills the hot air. "That's right. I brought Michael along, hoping he'd make a friend or two in the family, however distant...." He pauses with a chuckle, "Anyway. Ember, you were running around the pool with arm floaties and goggles screaming about dragonflies and clouds."
My cheeks heat up. "I was a loud kid, yeah. Sorry about that."
"No, no, you were highly entertaining. You were going around, blowing kisses to everyone, threatening mermaid siege if they didn't catch your kisses. I think you even managed to scare my son," Adio says, laughing at my horrified face.
I did what?
Oh my god. Oh my god. No wonder he won't look at me.
Adio unwraps and takes a hearty bite, chewing with a nod. "Ah, well, we haven't seen much of you lot since then."
"I don't remember any of that," I mumble, trying to grasp the memory. There's...nothing. Dammit.
Pat nods to me, his face softening with nostalgia. "You were very young."
Greyson's seventh birthday would've made me five. That's the year I lost mom and dad. Is that why I don't remember? Like, a trauma thing?
I glance over to where Michael is working. He crouches to the ground with a toolbox, a wrench between his teeth and a pencil behind his ear as he looks for something.
I really, really wish I could remember.
That's when Pat decides that everyone—literally, everyone—need to know about my scholarship. He launches into a glowing report of my recent achievement for GoldwenU and my cheeks warm even more, staring wide-eyed at my running shoes.
Adio turns his grin to me. "Engineering, eh? No small feat." His dark eyes flick toward the end of the lawn, to his son. "Michael's at Goldwen too, studying music of all things."
I straighten. "Music?"
Adio grimaces, swallowing roughly. "I told him to choose something practical, but music it was. And some minor...oh, what was it? Some sort of mathematics." He shakes his head. "I think he threw that in to spite me. Or sate me, not sure. Hell of a thing to add, that's what I know."
A smile tugs at the corners of my mouth. Music and mathematics—a combination I'd much rather take than engineering. But I can't sing.
Oh, I can play guitar, though. I'm bad, but hey, it's something.
"Congratulations," Pat says. "Sounds like you've got a successful son, there." They share a nod and a grin, a silent acknowledgment of mutual pride.
Success—what a loaded word. Here I am, on the precipice of my journey to Goldwen, laden with expectations and the weight of my scholarship. The excitement of leaving Middlebridge, of venturing into the capitol for the first time, is weighed down by a nagging fear of failure. Will I measure up? Will I even last a week? I'm scared that by the end, I'll ache to crawl back here and hide from it all.
Adio takes another large bite of his sandwich, showing Pat the work of the steps, I clutch the pitcher of lemonade. My thoughts swerve towards Greyson and his father's indifference. It's stark versus these two proud men.
My chest tightens, my skin sweat-slick and irritated under his sweater.
I force a smile for Adio and cut into their conversation about landscaping. "It was nice to meet you. Um, again."
"Likewise, Ember," he replies, tipping his head in a gesture of thanks.
I hand the pitcher of lemonade to Pat, then the other plastic cups. "Could you make sure this gets to Michael?"
Concern flickers across my uncle's features. "Sweetheart, you all right?"
"Yes, just have to get ready for work," I say, the half-truth slipping out too easily.
Turning away, I make my way back up the lawn. Behind me, they continue to talk. Adio's question about my work leads to Pat launching into a recount of my myriad part-time jobs—the delay in my university career to work, the sacrifices I'd made, the hours I'd toiled—all leading up to the scholarship that had seemed like a lifeline in a storm.
I slip back inside the house. I need a shower. Mrs. Jones is expecting Keiko and I to roll out twenty loaves of rye. Stupid, plain, bland rye.
Adio's son studied music and math because his heart had told him to. My heart says, Bake something with colour for once. But I'm not allowed to.
Because of that, my shift at the bakery comes and goes in grayscale.
Later, I arrive early at the park bench near the Bell River Trail.
This is the place Greyson and I have agreed to meet every Monday after work for the last year. The summer heat has waned into a pleasant warmth of evening, a gentle breeze whispering through the leaves above.
Sitting here on the bench, I inspect my hands with a frown. The burns from the hot trays at the bakery are red and raw but won't blister.
The Bell River flows steadily beside me, trickling and sloshing. I lean back against the bench, closing my eyes and letting the sun kiss my face. I soak these moments in. I know I'll soon be in the big city where any flowing water will be drowned out by traffic.
Then I stand with a wince and shuffle to the river's edge, kneeling and dipping my hands into its cool current. Underneath the shallow clear stream, the rocks lay smooth and steadfast, worn by time and the relentless flow.
"A Fluffy in the wild! Someone grab a net!"
I turn, a smile breaking across my face. There he stands, in black leather boots, dark pants, and a tight white shirt smeared with car oil.
"Grease lightning!" I greet, straightening up, drying my hands on the fabric of my shirt.
"Pillsbury dough boy," he shoots back.
Despite the pain in my hands, I go over and shove him. "Watch your mouth," I laugh.
That's when I notice the gash on his left eyebrow up close, now held together with a piece of medical tape. I wince at the sight, but Greyson is unfazed.
"I'm fine, Fluffy. Let's walk," he says, grabbing my shirt to pull me to the trailhead. It will lead us home one mile into the trees.
The path under our feet is familiar, comforting in its constancy. The Bell River keeps us company. The setting sun paints the sky in hues of orange and pink. I love Mondays because of this walk.
"How was the garage today?" I ask, kicking a pebble along the path.
"Just the usual."
"Bill didn't try to fight you again?" I press, recalling his split lip.
"Nah, Bill's a good guy. We're fine. I did manage to fix up that '67 Mustang I told you about, though. It's running smooth."
I let relief settle over me, just at the fact that he seems okay today. "That's great. You've got magic hands, you know."
His grin is devilish. "I've heard that before."
I elbow him in the ribs. "I'm trying to compliment you!"
He chuckles. "It's just nuts and bolts, Ember. Nothing magic about it. You're going into electrical engineering."
"Pish posh."
We lapse into a comfortable silence, the only sounds our footsteps cracking branches and the gentle rush of the river.
Grey used to talk to me easier. We used to spend our nights under the stars in his yard, pointing up at comets, finding big and little dippers, and talking for hours. He'd run all his story ideas by me before ever putting pen to paper. He said my brain was his sieve—I'd keep the best parts of his ideas and let the rest go.
I glance at him as we trek, the setting sun casting his face in a soft glow. "Have you written anything lately?"
"Nope. Left all that behind in my teens. Along with the last of my tears." He slides me a grin, but the joke doesn't land. "How are your hands today? Ada Jones working you to the bone yet?"
I shrug, a sort of defeated feeling settling on my shoulders.
We walk in conclusive silence after that, strolling side by side, and even though there's a space between us that feels cold, his presence is a comfort to me. We're still together, still walking the same path. For now.
I wish paths were predictable, but they're not. It's against their nature.
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Thanks for reading We Sleep at Sunset.
Laurel's Fun Facts #6: the oceans are our greatest source of oxygen (not trees).
—Laurel Montaze—
🌊
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