“You can always erase and edit,” I mutter, lifting the phone back to continue recording. “If you’ve got content you’d like to see, let me know. But today, I’m starting with something that could cause more damage if I ignore it. I’m gonna tear down this fence.”
I look around for something to rest my phone on so it can record a time-lapse of my efforts. I should have gotten a tripod, but I add it to the to-buy list on my phone, then jimmy together a stand from some wood and an old office chair that sat ruined by the garage.
When I’m done and it’s set up, I pop in my earbuds and hit play on the podcast I’ve been loving lately. Today’s episode is titled, “Forgive the You That Didn’t Know Better.”
I wonder if that’s truly accurate, in my case. I think that’s where some of the shame comes from. Maybe I did know better. I had to know, on some level, that it wasn’t healthy to keep throwing myself at men to make them want me.
Right?
The host’s voice is warm and non-judgmental as I grab the rusted crowbar I found in the garage last night.
“You are not defined by your past roles,” the host says. “Let me say that again. You are not defined by your past roles. Your worth isn’t measured by what others once expected of you. And in today’s episode, we’re gonna unpack what it truly means to forgive yourself for your past.”
I raise an eyebrow at that. It’s probably gonna take a lot more than that to get me from where I am to that opening sentence. Telling me something is true is very different from me actually deep-down internalizing that.
Bracing the crowbar against the first fence post, which is leaning at forty-five degrees, I heave, hard.
The wood is ancient and I expected it to be brittle. But it isn’t. It’s soaked and soft. The earth holds tight. After months of being frozen, it’s only really thawed at the surface where the weak spring sun has warmed it a little. I pull again and my shoulders burn. I grunt, pulling back with all that I am.
Nothing.
“Okay, rude,” I mutter, shaking out my hands.
I try again. Sweat drips down my neck. And the podcast is talking about self-compassion as the crowbar slips from the post, digs unto the soil, and then flips dirt back up in my face.
“Shit,” I mutter to the post. “So much for looking like you’re about to fall over.”
I refuse to be defeated by job one on day one. And try to ignore the embarrassment of actually filming myself do that.
Over the next ten minutes, I try all sorts of things. I sit on the ground with my back against it, pushing in the opposite direction, but all it does is sway. I try grabbing hold of the post at the top, trying to circle it first, clockwise, then, counter-clockwise. It budges a little, but never enough to be able to pull it out.
And that’s when I sense him.
Jackal has the kind of presence you feel before you see.
I pull out an earbud and hear his boot scrunch across the gravel.
“Morning, Sunshine,” he says.
Reluctantly, I turn to face him. He’s too handsome for his own good with his long dark hair and gray-blue eyes. But it’s also his chiseled cheekbones and tall stature. Plus, his voice always hit me like a warm hand on the back of my neck.
He’s holding a spade.
“Don’t call me that,” I mumble.
He ignores my comment. “I was watching you through my window.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Well, that doesn’t sound creepy and weird at all.”
“Relax,” he says, in that annoying, pacifying way he has. “I meant, I was watching you struggle out here. Didn’t think it would take an engineering degree to get a fence post out, so I decided to come see what the problem is.”
Heat floods my cheeks. “I’m fine.”
He huffs. “No offense, Isla, but you’re about five seconds away from throwing your back out for the next month.”
I tense at his words, but deep down, I know he’s right. “I just need to do a bit of research.”
Jackal steps closer, his cologne faint. “Isla. Quit being stubborn when we can both take a look and figure it out right now.”
