An hour later, an Uber driver drops Jobe off in front of Harold Keller’s Tudor. Jobe is a ball of sweat from head to toe. He’s not limping or babying one of his limbs. He’s not holding a bandage to his head or hunched over. There aren’t any casts on his arms or legs. Frankly, he looks fine, unharmed by the accident.
Jobe walks into his grandfather’s house. It’s not really an appropriate time to study his jeans-covered ass, but I can’t resist, unable to control my attraction to him. Shame on me. Will I ever learn when to be less of a Neanderthal?
To my surprise, approximately twenty minutes after Jobe’s arrival on Shelton Street, he ends up on my doorstep just as the blue-purple-orange sun is about to completely set over the city. He taps on the screen door’s aluminum frame three times.
