Page 22 of Fragile hearts

“No reason.”

I had left Alexis at her house yesterday, lighter than I had felt in years. I hadn’t told anyone what’s happening to me, but talking to her helped. Her words replay in my head. How she said she doesn’t have a family, how she sounded as if it didn’t affect her in the slightest. But it can’t be easy, seeing kids grow up with loving parents while you’re going home to someone you just met. I had an easy childhood. My parents raised my brother and me with all the love they had. They always welcomed our friends with open arms. Their love didn’t waver when Connor came out to them as gay. They love him just the same.

I hate that Alexis didn’t have that. I hate that she grew up without knowing what it feels like to be loved. I’m going to change that. I don’t know how yet, but maybe she would like to hang out with my family. So she can experience what it’s like to be included. I’m going to try my best to make her feel welcome here. So she could call this town her home.

“Dude, be careful. That’s fragile!” I turn the keys, opening my front door, holding a bag of groceries in one hand. Killian is carrying a crate with the other groceries and trips over air. “This tile is loose.” I narrow my eyes at him. The moment I set the bag on the granite countertop, a bag of chips falls out. Killian lowers the crate to the floor. A creaking sound fills the room.

“Was that your back?”

“No!” he exclaims, “How old do you think I am?” I stare at him with a raised eyebrow.

He sags in defeat. “It was my knee.” I open the upper cabinet that’s filled with snacks, or rather, Killian’s snacks. When I hear a loud bonk. And then again. And again. Confused, I walk over to the window that’s looking out on the garden.

Alexis is standing in her backyard, the wooden fence blocking my sight. But I can see enough. And what I see confuses me.

“Is she…?” Killian starts. As he stares at my neighbor, just as confused as me. “Using a shoe as a hammer? Apparently so.”

Alexis is currently bent over some wooden structure, a black shoe in her left hand, hammering down on a nail that’s sticking out of the structure.

Her hair is in a braid like it usually is. She swipes her other hand across her forehead, wiping away the sweat that was forming.

As if she can feel our eyes, she swivels on her feet. Her eyes meet mine. She lifts her hand, still holding the shoe, and waves sheepishly. I wave back before turning around, grabbing my toolbox from my dining room table. Killian is still standing near the window.

“I should ask her what brand of shoe that is. I’m impressed it’s still in one piece.”

I chuckle, opening the door to my backyard, the hot, humid air blasting in my face.

My skin burns in the burning heat. I carry the toolbox in my hand as I make my way over to Alexis, who’s still using that poor shoe as a hammer.

“Do you need help?”

She jumps in surprise, her hand on her chest, staring at me with wide eyes. “Holy fuck,” she shrieks.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

She shakes her head. Waving me off. “It’s fine. I didn’t see you coming.” I look over my shoulder. Killian is still inside, probably eating all my snacks.

“Carson?” Alexis’s voice brings me back to the present. She gives a small smile. Her green eyes light up. “I would love for you to help me,” she says, holding up the beat-up shoe. “This thing is not working like I had in mind.”

“No? I thought that shoes would make great hammers,” I tease the words out of my mouth before I can stop them. God, I never knew I could be the teasing type.

“Apparently not, but it’s better than nothing.”

I place the toolbox on the grass, open the lid, and grab my hammer. “Good thing I have the real deal then, huh?”

“You don’t have to do this.”

“What? Piece together whatever the hell this is?”

“No, helping me. And it’s supposed to be a lounge chair.” I stare at the pieces of wood spread across the yard.

Lounge chair?

Seeing the confusion on my face, she explains further. “You know to lie on and sunbathe, since it’s like a thousand degrees outside.”

“I know what a lounge chair is, smart-ass.”

She opens her mouth, but before she can say anything. I interject, “I don’t want to offend you. But this does not look like a lounge chair.”