“You know him?”
“He was my fifth grade teacher,” Ben says, smiling.“I think my dad used to date his sister, way back before he married my mom.”
“What? That’s so great! That’s—Ilovethat,” I say, and Ben sends me a sidelong glance, curious, so I explain.“I love how you know so many people here, in all these different contexts, you know? From your neighborhood, or from going to school around here, or from people you meet at the yard. I always wanted that, but it was hard to get any traction with the way I grew up. You’re so lucky.”
“I suppose I never thought of it that way.”
“Do you know a lot of people in Houston?” I ask, tentative. I usually strike out on this, but I’m so curious—in Houston, is Ben more like that guy I met in the lab? Or is he this guy too, jeans and a t-shirt, tan, stubbled, his hair still wet from a shower?
He takes a minute to answer, thinks about it.“I know a lot of people through work. Not just my company, but other professionals in the area. I suppose—no. I don’t know people the same way there as I do here. But that was a good thing for me, I guess.”
I wait for him to say more, but he doesn’t, so I reach over and nudge his thigh with my hand.“Because why?”
“Well, because around here, I knew so many people, but as the guy I was. The guy who set fire to a house, the guy who almost killed someone.”
I shift in my seat, so I’m turned toward him more.“I’m sure no one thought of youonlythat way,” I say.
He flips on his turn signal, lowers his speed as we head down a gravel path.“I was a pretty bad kid. Not only that time. I was always tearing shit up, getting into trouble. I’m sure it was exactly only that way.”
His eyes are on the road. There’s a muscle in his jaw that ticks, and I figure he’s done with this topic. I try not to sulk about it—so what if Ben’s a bit slower to open up than me? Not everyone cracks themselves wide open the first chance they get. Still, though, he must see some change in me, because he sets a hand on my thigh, warm pressure that gives me that familiar, pleasant flutter in my stomach. I lean my head back, close my eyes, and feel the breeze that’s blowing in the window ruffle my hair, caress my face.
I must doze, because when the truck rolls to a stop, we’ve pulled into a circular gravel driveway. To my right is a massive house, Tudor-style, a little worse for wear with a few windows boarded up, some half-timbers missing from the facade.“Is this a haunted house?” I ask.“Because I am not into that.”
He chuckles.“It’s the dead of summer, Kit.”
“So? A house can be haunted any time of year. Ghosts don’t take vacations.”
“It’s not a haunted house,” he says, laughing, getting out of the truck and coming around for me.“It’s called the Ursinus Mansion. It’s getting restored—it used to be a pretty famous home in the area, way back before World War I, because the house itself was dismantled and brought over from England. Lots of the materials are actually seventeenth century.”
“Wow,” I say, seeing it through new eyes. It makes me feel immensely better about my own house.
A man comes out from the front door, wearing coveralls and a carrying a big toolbox in one big hand. When he sees us, he offers a casual nod in Ben’s direction.“Hey, Tucker.”
“Good to see you, man,” Ben says, walking up to shake the man’s hand.“Kit, this is Rick Jarvis. He’s the lead contractor on this restoration.”
“Hi,” I say, shaking Rick’s hand. It’s dry and scratchy enough that he could probably do sanding just with his skin, but his eyes are kind, his smile twitching beneath his full beard.
* * * *
I guess he’s a man of pretty few words though, because once he lets my hand go, he only looks over at Ben and says,“Out by dark.”
“Sure thing.Thanks again.”
Rick raises a hand in farewell as he walks over to his own truck, puts his toolbox in the bed. He pauses, looks back over his shoulder at us.“You don’t got any matches on you, do you?”
I stiffen next to Ben. I’m ready to open my mouth and defend him, but Ben laughs.“You always were a dick, Jarvis.” There’s no heat in it, just that teasing familiarity Ben has with his dad too.
“Let’s get that beer sometime,” Rick says, and then he’s in his truck, driving back down the gravel path, the tires popping as he goes.
“That wasn’t very nice,” I say.
“Ah, Rick’s all right. He was there that night. He was a good friend.”
“Still,” I mumble, pissed on Ben’s behalf.
“Anyways, one good thing about knowing so many people around. You’re going to get to see this place now, before it opens this fall for tours and all that stuff. You thought your house was a handful, you know?”
I grab his hand, linking my fingers through his.“I can’t wait.”
