His expression fills with disgust. “Should I love the smell? Or the constant work? Or our draining finances? Or the way someone out there wants to kill us? There’s so many options, it makes it hard to pick.”
“When you’re determined to only see the bad, of course it’s hard.”
He lifts his hands either side of himself and looks around. “My bad. There’s a lot oftimberhere too.”
At least one of my brothers is heading in a good direction. And I’m working on myself too. Hart has always been the one of us who doesn’t have ambition or drive or … passion, maybe? Whatever that flicker of something is that most people have pushing them along. It’s absent with him.
Sometimes I want to know what’s happening in his head, and other times I assume it would only scare me. I’m not going to give up on him, but Wilde’s End might not be the answer like it was for Hudson, and I’m hoping it will be for me.
“And if you look outside,” I say, matching his tone, “you’ll see some trees. And the sky. And maybe even hear birds calling.”
“Think the birds will still be calling after we flatten their home, or …”
“You’re not going to put a dent in my good mood.”
He plays with the tape measure, pulling it out and letting it snap back, over and over. “Never do. Wouldn’t want you to end up like me anyway.”
“Nothing wrong with being like you.”
“Uh-huh,” he monotones. “Say it again and I might believe you.” There’s a short pause. “Ziggy’s out the front, by the way.”
My gut flips suddenly. “Why didn’t he come in?”
“I’m assuming it’s hard to clean the car while it’s out there and he’s in here.”
That isn’t at all what I meant, but there’s no point in arguing with Hart about it. Ziggy’s been gone for days, and then he suddenly shows up to wash our car? It’s not the first time he’s done it, and no matter how many times I tell him not to, he ignores me. I’m really starting to see that Ziggy has a mind of his own. I like it.
I hurry for the front door, something inside me lighting up that he’s back. I brush the dirt on my hands off onto my shorts, and I spot him the second I step outside. He looks exactly the same as he always does. He’s in baggy jeans and a loose T-shirt, and his wild black hair is pulled back into that wire headband he always wears.
“Ziggy-zag!” I call on my way over, and his head snaps in my direction.
His whole face softens whenever he sees me, and I hope it’s because he’s comfortable with me around. Whatever the reason, I like that I get that reaction from him.
“I’ve told you that you don’t have to wash our shit.”
He rolls his eyes at me and turns to dip the sponge into the bucket. Talking or not talking, no one can call Ziggy a pushover.
I hate washing the car, but I’m not about to let him do it alone, so I grab a cloth floating in the soapy water and take the place beside him. His curious gaze runs over the side of my face, but I pretend not to notice.
Finally, I’m treated to the sound of his voice. Soft as the breeze and craggy like it crawled out of the depths to reach me. “What are you doing?”
“Helping.” I shoot him a little wink and acknowledge the curiosity staring back at me this time. “I figure the sooner this is done, the sooner you can take me somewhere.”
He tilts his head for me to go on.
“Maybe you can show me your favorite place. That would be cool, right?”
He goes back to washing the car without a response, and I have to trust that he’s thinking about it. I want to ask him where he’s been and what he’s been doing, but those kinds of questions are the type that would overwhelm him and make him disappear on me. So I keep them inside, and instead of expecting him to tell me about it all, I stay silent.
Painfully, patiently silent.
Ziggy will show me when he’s ready.
CHAPTER
NINE
ZIGGY
