Excerpt: Written in the Scars
His shoulders flex under the brown thermal shirt as he works the rake back and forth. His thighs fill out his jeans, and I pray he doesn’t turn around because I don’t want to see his ass.
Not in those jeans.
“Cat got your tongue?” he teases, dropping the rake. He heads to the pile and grabs a pair of corduroy jeans we bought together at Goodwill almost ten years ago.
“What are you doing, Ty?”
“What do you think I’m doing?”
He ignores me and shoves leaves down the leg of the pants. I just watch with amazement that after everything that’s happening, he’s here. Doing this. Like we’ve done for the last decade. Together. Finally, he looks up.
“You gonna stand there or you gonna come over here and help me make this scarecrow?”
“I . . .” I’m speechless. I shouldn’t help him. I should make him leave. But I find myself walking across the lawn and grabbing the pants. I’m rewarded with a mega-watt smile.
“I think the rain that’s supposed to come this weekend will put an end to the scarecrow days. I figured we better get it up today before it’s too late,” he says, working on the second leg.
I watch him, my brows pulled together. “Why are you doing this?”
“Because it’s what we do,” he says, pulling rubber bands out of his pocket and fastening them around the leg holes.