One
Ruin
Don’t be a crybaby, boy. Complaining ’bout a bad situation helps nobody.I hear my father’s words play out in my head as I wipe sweat from my brow for the hundredth time. Construction is hard work. But even harder? Life behind bars.
Been there. Got the scars.
Driving a forklift in the middle of a sweltering Tennessee July isn’t pretty, but it beats washing out blood and who-knows-what working in the prison laundry facility.
“Ruin,” Jay, the foreman, calls out to me. “Lunchtime!”
I give him a nod and park the forklift before heading to my truck. Most of the crew will usually head across the street for burgers and fries, but I like to pack my own lunch to avoid unwanted conversations. Today, they’re having a company picnic, and I intendnotto attend. No matter how hard I try to move beyond my past, people always seem to want to poke me for information.What was it like in the slammer? Do they still call it that? Did you ever see anyone get shivved? Did you ever shiv anyone?
Eventually, I just stopped going to lunch, or any other function, with my coworkers. Can’t annoy the hell out of me with stupid questions if I’m not there to entertain them. Despite the nosy coworkers, I’m very grateful that the Maysons hired me. Mayson Construction is—and always has been and probably always will be—run by the Mayson family. Mr. Trevor Mayson, one of the co-owners, welcomed me on board, no questions asked. He didn’t even bat an eye when I checked off “has been incarcerated or in prison in the last 24 months” on the application. His brothers and co-owners, Cash and Asher Mayson, are regular visitors to the office, along with what seems like a never-ending parade of Mayson extended family members.
Liz Mayson, his wife, frequents the work sites with baskets and Tupperware of home-cooked meals and sweets. She’s never left me out of the loop. The Maysons have always been warm and inviting to me, even more so than my own family. I contemplate my family life as I finish my sandwich and pull open a bag of chips.
The scents of charcoal and barbecue drift over to me with the sounds of soft chatter. The picnic must be in full motion. While I don’t attend these events, I do like to go sit off to the side and at least tell Liz thank you for her kind hospitality—something plenty of my coworkers could work on doing themselves. She will more than likely return my thanks with her usual “I wish you’d come have a meal with us for a change,” in her thick Tennessee accent, and then we’ll go back about our business like always.
I finish my lunch, toss the trash, and make my way over to my typical, out-of-the-way spot. As I glance around the picnic gatherers, my heart nearly stops when my eyes fall on one new face in attendance.
Is that her?
My mind must be playing tricks on me. I haven’t seen her in years, but what is she doinghere? Where has she been all this time? The questions flood in, but unless I take a risk and join the picnic party, I won’t be getting any answers to them. I haven’t seen her since the night that changed my life and record forever. I shake my head, not wanting to think about those dark moments, and instead stand amazed at the beautiful woman she has become.
She still has her honey-brown hair and big brown eyes, but she’s more filled out now. I look her up and down, my eyes following the curves and dips of her shapely figure.
Avalee Sumter.
I roll her name around in my mind, and as I make my way toward her, a distant memory begins to take shape. Sunshine is the first thing I recall about that day. Sunday school had just let out, and the kids were all milling around a woman handing out ice cream sandwiches. I was one of the “older” kids, as much older as eight can be. The frozen treats had been handed out to all but one child—a girl with rich honey-brown hair and big brown eyes. I knew she was younger, so not wanting her to feel left out, I had offered her my unwrapped ice cream bar.
She smiled. “I’m Virtue,” she said. “But everyone calls me Avalee,” she added, still smiling as she opened the package and broke the ice cream bar in half, handing me the other end. Some of the ice cream was already melting at the edges and dripped to the ground between us.
“My name is Ruin,” I said, biting into my half. I waited for her to pinch up her nose and say, “What kind of name is Ruin?” but she didn’t.
Instead, she skipped away, and I followed her. Behind the church was a creek where some other kids and I usually went to see who could skip stones the farthest. That was where she stopped, and together, we laughed, skipping stones and licking ice cream from our sticky fingers.
“If you could be any animal, what would you be?” she asked.
I started to answer, but a hand wrapped around my arm and twisted me around abruptly. My father, reeking of last night’s bar visit, tugged me along toward his pickup.
“Your mother and her church. I told her it has to end,” he mumbled.
I tried to glance back at Avalee, but my father pulled harder on my arm and didn’t stop until we got to his truck. Once there, he kneeled before me, taking my shoulders in his callused hands. “We don’t get to rest on Sundays, son. There’s no time for horseplay, got it?”
I nodded and looked back one last time at the girl by the creek, my almost new friend. She waved gently at me, and I waved in turn.
“Ruin?” A soft, buttery voice pulls me out of the memory, and I realize I am only a foot or so away from the girl I left by the creek that day.
“Hello, Avalee.”
Two
Avalee
It’s him. It has to be. It’s been ages, but those eyes are unmistakable.I glance around the picnic, but everyone else is busy in conversation or stuffing their faces.
“Wow. How-how are you?” I push my brown hair behind my ears and run a hand down the front of my black blouse. My nerves are all over the place. I used to love to be at the center of crowds—life of the party. Now, I prefer to stay on the sidelines. After…the incident, my whole identity was thrown into crisis mode, and I’ve been scrambling to recover ever since. But with Ruin by my side, I feel a touch of relief, almost comfort—something I haven’t felt since before.
