Why was I so hungry?

I jumped the last two steps and immediately straightened, hearing music coming from the dining room.

Taking a left, I rounded the entryway and halted when I spotted Jared.

The tree on his naked back stretched taller as he reached up and rolled paint in a long strip on the wall and then returned to normal as he came back down, the taut muscles in his back and arms flexing and accentuating the fact that he hadn’t gotten lazy during his time away.

He was still wearing the same black pants as last night, but with his shirt off now, and I noticed his hands were splattered with drops of the café au lait color the painters were using as he rolled the thick paint onto the linen-colored walls.

“What are you doing?” I blurted.

His head turned to the side, and he glanced at me and then back to the wall, almost dismissive.

“We helped your dad paint this room, like, ten years ago, remember?”

I dug in my eyebrows, weirded out by how calm he seemed. “Yeah, I remember,” I said, still confused as I walked over and turned down Seether’s “Weak” coming off the iPod. “We’re paying people to do it now. They’ll be back to finish the job tomorrow,” I told him.

He glanced at me again, a playful smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

And then he turned his attention back to the wall, dismissing me again, to continue painting.

I stood there, wondering what I was supposed to do. Go make a breakfast that I was no longer hungry for or kick him out?

He changed hands, putting the roller in his left as he absently smeared the paint that had dripped on his right hand on his pant leg. I almost laughed. The pants looked expensive, but of course, Jared wouldn’t give a shit.

I folded my arms across my chest, trying to restrain my smile.

Jared was painting my dining room. Just like ten years ago. He wasn’t grabbing me, fighting with me, or trying to get in my pants, either. Very well behaved.

Also like ten years ago.

Patience and peace radiated off of him, and my heart skipped a beat, finally feeling some semblance of home for the first time in forever. It was a summer day just like any other, and the boy next door was hanging out with me.

I buried the knot of despair I’d been carrying around and walked up behind him, picking up the second roller in the tray. Stepping up to the wall perpendicular to his, I rolled on the paint, hearing his uninterrupted strokes continue behind me.

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.”