CHAPTER 22
REID
The camaraderie lasted al morning. We ate lunch separately— she sat with Roberta, and I sat with Frank, Darlene and Gabriel e —but I don’t think that’s what changed her mood. She was on the phone again after lunch, and though she was standing too far away for me to hear anything specific, her tone was on edge. She’s been bitchy since she hung up.
She’s instal ing brackets in the closets, and I’m adding the shelves and bolting them in. Since we’re working on the same closets at the same time, we’re almost on top of each other. The third time she criticizes something I’m not doing perfectly and then takes over and does it herself, I can’t take any more of this shit.
“Look, just because you had a grisly breakup yesterday doesn’t mean you can take it out on me today. I wasn’t responsible for it.”
She glares at me. “What. Are. You. Talking about.”
“The phone cal yesterday? The crying?”
Her mouth drops open and snaps closed. “Were you listening to me?”
We’re standing inside a closet having this conversation, and the harsh resonance of our voices ricochets around and through us, unable to ful y escape the confines of the space. “You were outside, in public, talking on your phone.
It’s not like I f*cking wiretapped you.” Her jaw sets. “First, you shouldn’t have been listening to what was clearly a private conversation. And second, there was nothing to break up. We just agreed to never actual y start… whatever we might… flippin’ flapjacks. It’s none of your darned business.”
Once I start laughing I can’t stop. “Flipping what?” Where the hel does she get these things?
“If you were capable of doing any of this without assistance, it would be a joy to leave you to it,” she says, glaring.
“Oh, please. This isn’t rocket science. It’s screwing a bunch of boards to a wal . Big f*cking deal.” Side note: I love how much it bothers her when I say f*ck. She winces every time, like she’s being jabbed with a needle.
“You don’t even know how to use the studfinder to find the studs first.”
“Pardon me?”
She sighs exaggeratedly and fixes me with a stare. “You have to locate the studs first—”
“Studfinder? ”
“You use it to find the framework? Inside the wal ?” Her sarcastic pitch is hitting a boiling point inside me, because frankly it’s a little too reminiscent of Dad, which I can’t handle from more than one person in my life. “The skeleton to which we attach stuff that needs to be anchored—like, I don’t know, shelves?”
I stopped listening before she resumed talking. “You finish in here,” I say. “I’l do Gabriel e’s closet.” In answer, she hands me a smal gadget containing a miniature leveler and a red arrow-looking thing. This must be the wondrous studfinder. I have zero idea what to do with it, so I slip it into my pocket as I leave the room.
*** *** ***
Dori
“I’m an idiot,” he says.
“No argument,” I say.
He’s instal ed the hanging rod and an entire row of shelves without finding the anchoring studs first. The weight of the brackets alone probably seemed fine, but when the shelves were added, the weight began pul ing the brackets out from the wal , screws and al . If Gabriel e adds so much as a pair of boots to a shelf or a couple of hangers to the rod, the whole mess is coming down.
Without speaking, we begin to angle the shelves to remove them from their unstable brackets. The boards scrape the wal s on both sides, wringing simultaneous exclamations— f*cking hell from him and gosh almighty from me—which makes him laugh. “It’s not funny,” I mutter.
And then I glance at him and he grins and for no reason it is funny and we’re both laughing.
Once the boards are removed, we survey the damage.
Once the boards are removed, we survey the damage.
He sighs deeply, arms crossed over his chest. “Man. That looks like shit.”
I can’t dispute his opinion, but something about his defensive pose and his dejected inflection reminds me of five-year-old Jonathan from my VBS class. Slumping against one of the ruined wal s, I calculate that the repair and repainting wil add a couple of hours to finishing out the closets. I was hoping to leave at three, which is not going to happen.
“What now?”
I straighten from the wal . “Now, we repair the damage…
and reinstal the shelving.”
He pul s his phone from his pocket, checks the time. “I assume you have a painstakingly calculated timetable…
and the closets have to be done today.”
“Yep.” I grab a couple of the boards and haul them from the closet, and he fol ows with the brackets and the dril .
“Which means you’l have to stay later.”
I answer with a smal shrug and a nod.
“I guess I’l stay later too, then.”
This is unprecedented. “Oh?”
“Wel , it’s my fault we have to redo the whole closet, so yeah.” Hitting a speed dial number, he watches me carry the remaining boards from inside the closet and lean them careful y against the pink wal . “Hey George, can you reschedule that interview? And also let the driver know to be here at five instead of three today.”
Avoiding his eyes, I listen as he and his manager rearrange his after-hours agenda. Before now, I hadn’t rearrange his after-hours agenda. Before now, I hadn’t considered that Reid had anything else to do between filming movies, aside from goofing off.
The typical schedule everyone keeps is 8 a.m. to 3 p.m., and I’m used to him leaving with the rest of the transient volunteers. Those of us making up the regular crew come in earlier sometimes, and hang around a bit later sometimes, finishing up projects or readying things for the next day while the house grows gradual y quieter, the sounds of an entire crew of workers fading to nothing.
Since we have to repaint the closet in Gabriel e’s room, her shelves are the last thing to be done. When Reid volunteers to instal them alone (again) while I finish up the linen closet shelving, I take a breath and ignore the threatening sense of déjà vu. Instead, I simply hand him the dril and the studfinder (his lips twist, and I know he’s repressing a wise crack) after showing him how to use it.
While finishing out the linen closet, I stifle the desire to check on him at least a dozen times. Final y, I head back to Gabriel e’s room, bracing myself for whatever catastrophe awaits.
Reid’s back is to me as he attaches the last shelf, the hard muscles of his shoulders and arms flexed and defined through his white t-shirt as he presses the dril , driving the screw through the bracket and into the wal . When finished, he leaves the dril on the shelf and steps back, every line of his body radiating pride, unaware that I’m watching. He’s not wearing the safety goggles (he never does unless I make him put them on), but I won’t chide him for it.
“It looks good,” I say, and he moves to the side as I step
“It looks good,” I say, and he moves to the side as I step in next to him. I tug on the shelves, testing them. They don’t budge. I could probably climb on them if I had to. They’re more than secure enough to hold Gabriel e’s shoes and storage boxes.
Relaxing against the doorjamb of the closet, folding his arms loosely over his chest, he glances towards the bedroom door. “It’s real y quiet in the house now. So weird.” I nod. “Everyone’s gone except Roberta and Gene, and they’re doing paperwork in the office.” His body fil s the closet doorway, and he’l have to move for me to exit.
Which is an odd thought to have, and makes me very aware of the enclosed space. “Being in here is sort of like burrowing into a piece of bubblegum,” I say nervously, glancing at the closet’s pink wal s.
He doesn’t answer, staring at me like he’s analyzing a complex riddle. Uncrossing his arms, he hooks one hand in his front pocket while the other lifts, his fingers catching a strand of hair too short to stretch to the elastic pul ing the rest of my hair back. He slides it behind my ear, grazing the tip with his finger, and suddenly there’s no sound but the pounding of my heart. This is where I should put my hands up between us like I did before. This is where I should say excuse me and get out of here.
His hand drops to his side and he stares down at me, making no movement towards me or away. I suck my lower lip into my mouth, a nervous habit leftover from childhood, and his gaze drops there, sticks. A minute passes before he braces a hand on the wal just over my shoulder and leans closer, his eyes flashing to mine. “Tel me what to do next, because I’m not sure what you want.” His voice has gone rusty and low, like he hasn’t used it in weeks.
I know what he’s asking, despite the words threading across this scene: this is not happening. I shake my head, barely moving. Thoughts tumble through my mind, blurred, flashing in and out, opposites: kiss me, don’t touch me, come closer, move away.
“Al I’m asking,” his knuckles brush along my jaw, “is that you tel me, Dori, what… you... want.”
When he straightens and begins to back away, I almost protest, biting my lip to keep from doing so. This movement betrays me, though, because again, he stares at my mouth a long moment before his gaze shifts to my eyes.
“Or maybe, just tel me if I do something you don’t want,” he says quietly. And then his palms are skimming down my arms, and his mouth is on mine and he’s kissing me, sliding his arms around me and pul ing me up against his chest, hands pressing my lower back. Gently, his lips play over mine, teasing and testing and it feels so incredible, but somewhere in my mind is the tiniest nagging disappointment that he’s kissing me like Nick did, the few times he’d kissed me— safely—the last thing I expect from Reid.