Chapter 8 - JayceNamidJayceNamid

Chapter 8

Jayce

It's been a month, and everything is back to normal. Whatever it was I'd felt the day I took Namid to my studio was just a fluke. He's my friend, and I'm perfectly happy with that. I don't know what I'd been thinking that afternoon.

Namid has come to do my books every other week for months now, and ever since the Saturday I first told him about Jordyn, we've had brunch every weekend. As the short Alaskan summer has passed and it's gotten cold again, on the days he works on my books, we've shifted to having our coffee and pastries in my small break room before we head our separate ways to work for an hour or so. On the alternate weeks, we meet in the small café corner of the grocery store. Those are the boundaries of our friendship, and neither of us has pressed for more, so I was surprised when Namid texted me yesterday and asked if there was any way I could help him and Ken move some old metal cabinets out of the basement of the funeral home.

The basement of the funeral home is the last place I ever want to go. In fact, I'd be happy if I never even had to look at the funeral home again, but Namid has never asked me for anything before. After all he's done for me, I'm thrilled to return the favor in any way possible, even if this particular favor takes me into the realm of funeral home basement nightmares.

When I arrive, they have the door propped slightly open, and I can hear the slight screeching of metal sliding on concrete as soon I step into the building. I can't stop the chill that runs through me at being back here, but as the sound of Ken's voice and Namid's bright laughter floats up the stairs, I can't help but smile and head in their direction.

"Hi."

Ken jumps slightly at the sound of my voice.

Namid just laughs harder.

They're both filthy, covered with streaks of old dust and cobwebs, and there are half a dozen large metal cabinets that have been pried away from the wall sitting in the middle of the room. They've clearly been at this for a while already, and despite the dirt and hard work, they're obviously enjoying themselves. A fleeting wave of jealousy washes over me. They're family, something I no longer have.

Namid's eyes seem to darken, and his smile fades .

"Everything okay?"

Huh. Why would he ask that? I'm smiling, I'm sure of it. My expression must have changed for a moment, even though I didn't notice. I can't help but soften and smile once more at his concern as the momentary jealousy passes. It's hard for me to feel anything too negative when he's around.

"Just wondering if we shouldn't just burn the place down and move to the Caribbean with the insurance money instead of trying to get those upstairs," I joke in an attempt to bring back Namid's laughter.

Ken snorts out a laugh. "Not the first time I've had that thought."

"Sorry it's such a mess, but thank you for coming to help." Namid scrubs his hands through his hair in an attempt to push it off his forehead and out of his eyes. It falls back into place the instant it leaves his hands.

"Happy to." I grin as I roll up my sleeves. "Looks like they've been here a while now; what have these poor cabinets suddenly done to offend you?"

Ken chuckles as he grunts and shoves the last of the cabinets into the center of the room. "This room has been nothing but a pile of junk for twenty years now, and I'm at the point in my life where I don't want projects like this lying around anymore. I'm not exactly getting any younger here."

Namid rolls his eyes. "You're sixty-six, not ninety-one."

This is clearly a conversation they've had more than once .

"Which is why we're doing it now." Ken grins.

Namid rolls his eyes again and huffs out an annoyed breath. Somehow, it feels like Ken won this particular battle this time.

"Is there a game plan?" I ask no one in particular.

It's Namid who answers with a grin. "Umm. Get them upstairs."

I can't help but chuckle. "Good plan."

"Thanks, I thought so." His smile lights up even this depressing, dirty basement.

We've congregated around the cabinet closest to the stairs as we've talked, and they both join me as I bend down to lift one corner. It takes a bit of time and a dozen tries to get it situated, but between the three of us, we're able to slowly lug it up the stairs and out into the yard.

Namid falls into the few inches of fresh snow that coat the driveway. "Good job, team. I'm going to tap out; you get the rest."

Without giving it much thought, I slip my hands under his arms and lift him back to standing. He groans in protest, but the smile on his face shines even through the grey mist that hangs heavy in the air.

Three dirty, exhausting hours later, there are only two cabinets left, and we all look like we've run some kind of mud obstacle course marathon. The dust and grime of forty years in a basement covers our snow and sweat-slicked faces and exposed forearms.

There is nothing different about the weight of the second-to-last cabinet, nothing different about the way we lift it or the route we take, but four stairs up, Ken's foot slips. Namid and I scramble to redistribute the weight of the cabinet as Ken falls back toward the cement floor, but it's awkward, and there is nothing we can do other than watch in slow motion as the unrelenting steel clangs into the wall, slips from our hands, rolls down the stairs, and lands squarely on Ken's bicep, pinning him to the floor.

Ken's cry is loud in the sudden silence.

Namid's is louder.

"Ken!"

"Jesus. Ken. Are you okay? Oh my god. Okay. Let's just. Can we…"

We're both at his side in an instant, and it takes only seconds more for us to lift the cabinet from his arm and chuck it, uncaring, toward the center of the room. Even through the flannel of his shirt, it's clear his arm is broken; arms aren't meant to bend that way.

"God. God. Ken. It's okay. Jayce, call 911. It's going to be okay, I promise."

I already have my phone in my hand as Namid rambles, drops to his knees, and grasps Ken's torn shirt sleeve. He rips it open, and there is blood and bone where there should only be skin.

Ken is pale and quiet as he tries to grasp at the damage until Namid covers his searching hand in both of his, clutching it until his knuckles whiten.

"Hey. Ken. Hey."

Namid's voice is shaking, but his tone is calm and steady .

"Hey, look at me, okay? There ya go. Hey, it's just your arm, okay? You're going to be okay. We'll get you taken care of."

"Ambulance is on its way," I offer. My voice sounds more scared than supportive. How is Namid doing this? How is he staying so calm?

"I mean, if you didn't want to help anymore, you could have just told us, old man." Namid's voice breaks only once as he tries to engage Ken in any way he can.

Ken's body shakes in a pained laugh. "Why didn't I think of that?"

"Drama queen." Namid's voice is gentle and caring as he curls his body over Ken's, gripping his hand and distracting him as best as he can.

I'm in awe as I stand frozen in place at the bottom of the stairs, watching the way he cares for Ken. While it takes less than fifteen minutes for the ambulance to reach us and for the EMTs to get Ken strapped onto a board and carry him upstairs to a wheeled gurney, it feels like a lifetime.