He doesn’t wait. Instead, he steps up to the post, buries his spade in deep with the heel of his boot, and then tosses a spadeful of dirt onto the sidewalk.
“Jackal. I have a spade.” At least, I hope Nanna did and it’s in the garage with all the other junk. “I can do it.”
But he ignores me, tossing compacted soil like it weighs nothing. Once he’s done, he drops the spade, circles the post twice, and then pulls it out with a lump of ugly gray concrete attached to the bottom.
I gape. “Are you kidding me.”
He tosses the post aside with a thud. “What? You loosened it for me.”
“Thank you for showing me what I’m working with, but you can go. I said I didn’t want help.” I wipe my forehead as I look to my phone sitting on the jimmied rig, filming me accusingly.
My only relief is Jackal isn’t wearing his cut. He’s wearing a plaid jacket lined with fleece.
“Heard what you said. But I also couldn’t watch you keep fighting the thing with a crowbar”—he lifts his spade triumphantly—“when I had a strong suspicion that the reason this shitty lump of wood didn’t just blow away was because it was anchored.”
I put my hands on my hips. “I had it under control.”
He snorts and moves to the next post.
“Jackal. Stop.”
“Nope.”
“Jackal!”
“Are you gonna keep calling my name, or are you going to use that crowbar to strip the panels between the posts before I’m ready to dig this next one out?”
Immediately, I jump for the crowbar and attack the panels with all the anger and frustration that Jackal’s presence is stirring up. I don’t know how to tell this man why I don’t want him here.
The panel goes flying onto the front lot, and Jackal yanks the next post free a minute later.
Something snaps. Maybe it’s pride. Maybe it’s anger at having my first video ruined. Maybe it’s wanting to keep the last shred of control. “I don’t want to have to owe you anything.”
He stops mid-motion and slowly turns. There’s something sharp in his features that looks a little bit like hurt. His eyes lock onto mine. “When,” he asks quietly, “have I ever asked you for anything, Isla?”
When I think back over our interactions since he joined, I realize he’s right. He hasn’t. Maybe the occasional request to grab him a beer from the bar, but nothing of a sexual nature.
I used to be so confident with men, with insults, with sarcasm. And now, I can’t say a word because my throat is tight. It’s as though I’ve forgotten how to interact with the world.
“You think I’m doing this shit for you because I expect something back?” He tugs out the elastic holding his long dark hair off his face and then bundles it into a man bun at the back of his head. “I helped because you looked like you’re killing yourself, because the job is easier with two, because I wasn’t doing anything else beyond scrolling on my phone when I saw you, and because I give a damn. That’s it.”
A rock lands in my stomach. And I hate the heat that’s brewing in my cheeks. There’s the sting of shame too.
“I didn’t mean—” I don’t know the words that should come next.
“Yeah,” he says, stepping back. “You did, Isla. And I’m really fucking sorry for whatever it is I did to you. I’m gonna give you some space because consent matters, but you come find me when you’re ready, and we’ll talk about it.”
He drops the remaining post where it is, turns, and walks back across the street without another word.
The distance between our houses grows until it feels like it’s the size of the canyon.
I stand there, crowbar hanging from limp fingers, heart thudding. Maybe I’ve messed up something I can’t fix.
The podcast host in my ear says, “And it’s okay that not everyone carries the same memories of what happened as you do. You don’t need to explain your version of events and make others understand. You can make a choice today to be different and move on.”
“Fuck you,” I mutter to the host.
Because, right now, I can’t even make myself understand. So how the hell would I be able to make anyone else?
