We worked in silence, and I kept stealing glances at him, nervous about whose move it was to talk or what I would say. But he just bent over, running the roller through the tray and sopping up more paint, looking completely at ease.
We took turns, collecting more paint and spreading it over the walls, and after several minutes, my heartbeat finally slowed to a gentle drumming.
Until he put his hand on my back.
At his closeness, I stiffened, but then he reached around to my other side and grabbed the stepladder to take it back to his area.
Oh.
I continued rolling paint as he stepped up and worked closer to the ceiling, using a regular paintbrush to get areas neither of us could reach with the roller. I tried to ignore his body hovering over me as I worked my paint to the edge underneath him, but I couldn’t help how good it felt to have him close. Like the magnets were aligning again.
Like waking up to a summer rain tinkling against my window.
“You can’t use the roller to corner,” Jared spoke up, knocking me back into the moment.
I blinked, looking up to see his hand pausing midstroke on the wall and that he was staring down at me. I glanced to my roller, seeing that I’d run right into the next wall.
I mock scowled up at him. “It’s working, isn’t it?”
He exhaled a laugh, like I was so ridiculous, and climbed down, shoving the paintbrush at me.
“Handle that.” He gestured to his brush and motioned me up the ladder. “And try not to fuck up the crown molding.”
I snatched the brush out of his hand and climbed the ladder, glancing at him as I started to brush on short strokes and making sure not to cross the blue painter’s tape.
Jared grinned up at me, shaking his head before resuming my sloppy painting with a smaller brush, moving vertically down the corners in slow strokes.
I took a deep breath and ventured, “So . . .” I glanced down at him. “Are you happy?” I asked. “In California. Racing . . .” I trailed off, not sure if I wanted to hear about his life out there.
He kept his eyes on his task, his voice thoughtful. “I wake up,” he started, “and I can’t wait to get into the shop to work on the bikes. Or the car . . . ,” he added. “I love my job. It happens in a hundred different rooms, cities, and arenas.”
I could have guessed that much. From what I’d seen of his career through the media, he had looked in his element. Comfortable, thriving, driven . . .
He hadn’t answered the question, though.
“I breathe fresh air all day every day,” he went on, leaning down to give Madman a quick pet, and my brushstrokes slowed as I listened to him. “I love racing, Tate. But honestly, it’s a means to a bigger end.” He looked up at me, giving a half smile. “I started my own business. I want to build custom rides.”
My eyes went wide, and I stopped painting.
“Jared, that’s . . .” I stammered, trying to get the words out. “That’s really amazing,” I said, finally smiling. “And it’s a relief, too. That you’ll be off the track, I mean. I’m always afraid you’ll get in an accident when I see you on TV or YouTube.”
His eyebrows pinched together, and I winced.
Shit.
“You watch?” he asked in an amused tone, looking at me like I’d been caught.
I pursed my lips and redirected my attention back to painting. “Of course I watch,” I grumbled.
I heard him laugh under his breath as he started painting again, too.
“It’ll still mean some travel,” he continued, “but less than what I do now. Plus, I can build the business back here if I want.”
Back here?
So he might want to come back home, then? I looked away, liking the idea of him moving back, and I wasn’t sure why. It wasn’t like I was going to be here anymore, anyway.
He let out a sigh, regarding his work on the wall. “I love the wind out there on the track, Tate. On the highways.” He shook his head, looking almost sad. “It’s the only time you and I are together.”
I looked back down at him, a lump swelling my throat.
I saw his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed. “I never wanted other women.” His thick voice was practically a whisper. “I left so I could be a man for you. So I could come back to you.”
I dropped my eyes, slowly stepping down the ladder.
That was what had been so hard to understand. He had to go off and find himself—cutting me out of his life—by breaking up with me under the guise of not wanting to hold me back while he took however many years to get his shit together?
I locked my eyes on his dark ones and looked up at him, seeing a man who was so much the same, and yet, so different.
But maybe it hadn’t been a guise after all.
Maybe I was lucky, because I always knew where my direction pointed me, and I had it figured out. Maybe Jared had had too many downward spirals, too many distractions, and too much doubt to know what truly drove him.
Maybe Jared, like most people, needed the space to grow on his own.
Maybe we had just started too young.
“And what about the next time you need to shut me out, Jared?” I asked, licking my parched lips. “It was three years in high school. Two years this time.”
He put his hand on my cheek, his thumb grazing the corner of my mouth. “It wasn’t two years, babe.”
I eyed him. What was he talking about?
He bent down, wetting his paintbrush some more. “I came back at Christmas that same year. You were . . .” He hesitated, rolling the paint onto the wall. “You had moved on.”
I averted my eyes, because I knew right away what he was talking about.
“What did you see?” I asked, fiddling with the brush. I shouldn’t feel bad. I had every right to move on, after all.
He shrugged. “Only as much as I could handle. Which wasn’t a lot.” He glanced at me, holding my eyes.
I could tell he was trying to keep his temper in check.
“I showed up one night,” he started. “I’d just gotten started on the circuit, racing and making connections. I was feeling good and”—he nodded—“really confident, actually. So I came home.”
Six months. Only six months.
“I knew you were mad at me. You wouldn’t talk when I called or text back, but I was finally a little proud of myself, but I was never going to be truly happy without you, too.” He dropped his voice to nearly a whisper. “I showed up, and you were with someone.”