“Jesus. Did you forget your deodorant this morning? You stink, man.”
Jake snorts a laugh. “I don’t have any.”
How does his teacher stand a room full of prepubescent hormone machines and not insist that they use deodorant? Hell, with the way it’s warming up during the day, she needs to institute a midday reapply.
I grab the trimmer and wind the cord as I walk toward the house. “Let’s go, then. We need to run to the store and get you some.”
He zooms past me, zigzagging across the swaying orange cord.
“Get your ass back there and get the mower. The job’s not done until your tools are cleaned off and put away. If you’regoing to do it, do it well and to completion,” I say, sharing a nugget of wisdom that my dad handed down to me.
With the grass rinsed away and our tools put up—in the correct places—I close up the house and nod to my truck. “Climb in and buckle up.”
I fold myself in and crank the engine. The sun-warmed interior magnifies the sweaty-boy smell.
“Open your window, man. You’re ripe.” I laugh as he scans the door, confused. I nudge his shoulder with the back of my hand and point to the knob.
Fresh air fills the cabin, blowing his stink out as we work the windows down.
“How come you don’t have air-conditioning in this thing?” Jakes asks. He squints against the bright midday sun.
I flip his visor down for him, not that it does much for someone his height, and slide my aviators on. Wind whips through the cab as we gain some speed. I throw my arm up on the open window, the sun blazing down warming my skin.
“Maggie’s an old girl, Jake. She’s got classic two-forty AC.”
Confusion paints Jake’s features as he screws his face up at me.
“Two open windows, forty miles per hour.”
Over-the-top laughter swirls in the wind, and Jake reaches his arm up to rest on the window. Just like mine.
I wonder, not for the first time, what his dad was like. Would he have taught his son to mow the lawn by now? Taken him to buy deodorant, or would he have just brought it home for him? Would he have hadthe talkby now? Surely, he would have.
I grin at the memory of Chloe’s pink cheeks when I walked in on that phone conversation. I should have checked with Jack when he was done grilling me the day we all hung out—see where things sit with that talk. At the very least, I need to check in with her, follow up on it.
Jake follows me into the drugstore. I scan the signs above the aisles and make a beeline for the one we need. Like any kid his age, Jake goes straight to the brand that markets to up-and-coming douche bags.
“This one?” he asks.
“You could choose that one.” I rest my hands on my hips and shift my weight.
“That’s what my friend has, theDragonFireone.”
I pluck it from the shelf, and even though the plastic packaging is intact, the scent wafts out. It’s almost a hard choice between this stench and the smelly-boy sweat. “Wow, that’s…”
Jake wrinkles his nose and moves down the aisle, looking for another option. “What about this one?” He picks a classic.
“You can’t go wrong with that one, man.”
“How do you know? I can’t smell it like that other one.”
And that’s a good thing.
I grab the matching bottle of body wash from across the aisle and pop the top.
He gives it a sniff and an appreciative nod. “I like it,” he says. “It smells like… like you.” Jake furrows his brows and thinks for a minute. “Can I get both? The wash stuff too?”
“You know it. Being well groomed—clean and not stinking—is another good rule.”
