Chapter 10
10
Kayla
“Who’s the third meal for?” Meg asks me with a raised eyebrow. I’m packing take-out containers into a paper bag. Sometimes, after a long shift, I’m too tired to cook, and instead bring home Mom and me the healthiest things I can find on the menu.
“Nobody,” I lie. “Hey!”
She snatches the ticket out of my hand.
“Give it back!” I shout like a child, but she dodges my attempts to steal it back.
“Let’s see—a tuna melt, that’s for you. Cobb salad, that must be for your mom. And a burger, done rare…?”
“I might want a snack later.”
“Kayla Johnson, the only time I have seen you eat red meat is after a 5K. Come clean.” She folds her arms and gives me her toughest girlboss/mother-of-two stare. At this point I wish I were a better liar. I write fiction, don’t I? Shouldn’t it come with the territory? But I can’t lie to Meg. Meg, who hand-picked me from among the diner staff to help serve at her earliest catering gigs, who allows me all the time off I need to help my mom, who is more convinced than I am that this current setback is only temporary and that I will go on to have a fulfilling life and career. Her family is not much better off than mine, and yet here she is. She’s an inspiration. And only the tiniest bit scary.
“GabeWilson,” I mumble finally.
“ Who?! ” she says, clutching the counter with obvious delight. “The boy you supposedly didn’t date ?”
“I didn’t!”
“But now?”
“No!” I swear she smiles even more broadly at every denial. I struggle to set her straight. “He’s just been helping me go through some of our financial stuff!” I haven’t told anyone about the possible foreclosure yet, and I’m sure my vague reference to “financial stuff” is not helping my case here. “It’s nothing personal. I haven’t talked to him since high school. I happened to run into him and we were talking and it came up and… we’re not even friends. He just knows more about this stuff than I do. That’s all.” I’m talking far too fast, I realize. She lets me ramble on, eyebrows raised, mouth slightly open.
“And he’s helping you because…?”
“Because he’s nice? Because it’s an elaborate long con, and he’s somehow going to use this opportunity to screw me?” I turn beet red at my poor choice of words. “Screw me financially , I mean, like steal my identity to open overseas bank accounts to launder money from a secret riverboat gambling enterprise?”
“Uh-huh. And so you’re bringing him a burger because…?”
“Because he might be hungry?” I don’t actually know why I feel the need to feed him. Maybe it’s because he’s given me enormously helpful information that could save my house, and I’m grateful. Maybe it’s because I’m uncomfortable being so hugely in his debt. Maybe it’s because his new melancholy expression screams take care of me to the squishiest part of my heart.
“Or maybe,” Meg says, as if she’s read my mind, “you’re doing it because you think he’s hot.”
“ No , no, it’s not that! I don’t think he’s hot! He’s not—okay, yeah, I guess, objectively, he is, I mean some people would think he is, but not me, and that’s not why?—”
She folds her arms and looks at me with a huge smirk across her face. “Then why.”
I stare down at my shoes. “He’s coming over straight after work and I doubt he’ll have time to eat beforehand. Mom and I will be hungry, and I didn’t want to eat in front of him. That’s all.”
She smiles more kindly at me now. “Still, it seems like things have changed since you yelled at him over the counter a few days ago.” I shrug helplessly and look away. Meg laughs and squeezes my shoulder affectionately, clearly done giving me a hard time.
“Have fun tonight,” she says sincerely. “I hope he enjoys the burger.”
Okay, so I’m bringing Gabe dinner, so what? I just want to be polite. Also… well, also, Meg is kind of right. Things have changed since I shouted him down in the café. I am still hurt and confused by what happened eight years ago. But after he left last night, and I recovered from the smell of wood smoke and the sight of forearms, I was able to appreciate the nonjudgmental way he took in all the most embarrassing parts of my life. The fact that he could enter my shabby house, walk over my peeling linoleum, look at the horror of our debt while still treating me with deference and respect… either he’s a psychopath, or he really is the boy I thought he was before that awful night. I still keep telling myself not to trust him, but I also did some Googling, and everything he told me about our situation seems to check out.
When I open the front door, I’m greeted by a loud banging sound that seems to be coming from upstairs. Mom rushes up to me, moving more quickly than she has in years.
“He got here about an hour ago,” she gushes. “He’s putting in the new bathroom fan!”
“He—what?” I struggle to get my bearings. “Gabe is putting in a bathroom fan?”
“Yes!” she practically squeals. “I happened to mention that you haven’t had time to do it, and we’re having all kinds of mildew issues in that bathroom, and he just volunteered!”
Gabe Wilson. Is upstairs. In my mildewy bathroom, which I did not have time to clean yesterday, with my tampons and my cheap razor and my Walgreens-brand body wash and… well, now he has officially seen all the most embarrassing parts of my life. We should just let the man rifle through our underwear drawers and be done with it.
“All right, Joyce, the fan’s in, and I also painted some of that mold-killing primer on the ceiling and the upper part of the wall, so that should help, and… oh.”
Gabe catches sight of me as he comes into the living room. I can’t help burst out laughing, he looks so exhausted and disheveled. Professional Gabe is gone, replaced, apparently, by Handyman Gabe. His dark brown hair is tousled and flecked with Kilz primer. He’s taken off his button-down, and his white cotton t-shirt and bare arms are covered in dust. I can’t help but admire the way his tee stretches over his broad chest and shoulders, but try not to let my gaze linger.
“I didn’t know rich kids knew how to put in a bathroom fan,” I tease before I can stop myself.
“I watch a lot of YouTube videos. Is that food?”
“Yup.”
“Thank God.”
He walks to the kitchen and collapses into a chair. “You don’t have any Miller, do you?” Against my better judgment, I find this more relaxed Gabe charming. I fight the urge to rub his tired shoulders.
“Sorry, no. Would you like some ancient Bloody Mary mix? With no vodka?” It’s seeming increasingly unlikely that I’ll have to use it in self-defense. Murderers, I decide, probably wouldn’t go to the trouble of first putting in a bathroom fan.
“Kayla will get some beers for next time,” Mom interjects.
I mouth “next time?!” to her in horror behind Gabe’s back.
“Water’s just fine,” he replies, a note of surprise in his voice, as if her cheerful acceptance of him has caught him off guard.
I scoop papers off the kitchen table and set it, weirdly, for three. Mom doesn’t have much family on her side, and we never see anyone related to my dad, so it’s rare—and maybe even sort of nice—for us to have a guest for dinner.
“We can just eat out of the takeout containers,” Gabe objects, as I set out plates. “You don’t have to go to all this trouble.”
“It’s no trouble. It’s nicer this way,” I reply, serving the food. Is it weird that I’m taking the time to plate it attractively? I do think Meg’s recipes should be treated with respect. I do want to give myself something to focus on other than Gabe’s pecs. I do feel a rising swell of affection for him that is making me want to please him.
Shit.
He pulls out my chair for me, just like last night, and once again I squeeze next to him and try to avoid looking at or touching him. But Mom’s open-mouthed shock makes me turn my head, and we both watch in morbid fascination as Gabe scarfs down his burger in about three bites. How is it that he still eats like a teenager? Is he trying to grow even taller?
“I should have gotten you two,” I say, impressed.
“Nah, that’s okay. But I’ll eat the other half of that sandwich if you’re not going to.” I silently hand it over, exchanging a look with Mom. Is this what men are like? They fix things, and then they eat all your food? I realize that, having grown up without a dad and being chronically single, I actually have little experience with this half of the species.
“So, Gabe, your folks must be happy to have you home,” Mom says.
He shrugs and looks slightly uncomfortable. “I think they would’ve been a lot happier if things had gone according to plan.”
“What do you mean?” I ask carefully.
He looks back and forth between Mom and me. “Well, I just barely managed to finish law school,” he says slowly. “And I didn’t pass the bar. I mean, don’t worry, your case is pretty straightforward, and I wasn’t actually bad at law school, I just had some… personal problems that made it hard to focus.”
“I get that,” Mom chuckles. “I always meant to pick up my painting again once Kayla was in school, but somehow it didn’t quite happen.”
I feel enormously guilty about this, also because so far I haven’t been able to capitalize on the education I was so lucky to receive.
“Your paintings are incredible, though,” Gabe says, now eating half my fries. “I love the one in the living room.”
“There’s plenty more where that came from! But Kayla’s the artist in the family now. Or writer, I should say.” She turns to me, beaming proudly. I resist the urge to tell her to shut up. There’s no reason why Gabe Wilson needs to know about my literary ambitions. God, what if he asks to read something?
“I remember,” he says with a small smile. “You wrote for the student lit review. There was at least one story I really liked… about a woman homesteader who uncovers a murder mystery? She was a great character. That painting in the living room made me think of her yesterday.”
“I can’t believe you remember that!” I laugh. “I barely remember it myself. I write different stuff nowadays, more fantasy and sci-fi.”
“Yeah?” he says. “Well, whatever genre you pick, I’m sure it’s good. I knew a couple of creative writing majors in college, and none of them could write as well as you.”
“Thanks,” I say, genuinely pleased. I haven’t shown my work to anyone outside my online critique group since college. I’m usually too shy to talk about it, even to my closest friends. It’s kind of lovely to receive a surprise compliment.
“You ought to let him read something, sweetie.”
I shoot a furious glance at Mom, but fortunately Gabe leans back in his chair and says, “No, no, I wouldn’t presume! I mean, I would be happy to, but I totally get that works in progress are private.”
I tip my head to consider him. Is this the same sleazeball who made off with my drunken friend after Steven O’Connor’s graduation party? The spoiled rich kid whose family practically owns this town, while mine can barely afford to live in it? Is he a psychopath, or a sweetheart? Can you ever really know for sure? I realize, though, that I have been enjoying his company in spite of myself. I have been so tense for weeks—years?—that I feel like an armadillo curled into a defensive, armored ball who is just now wondering if it might be safe to relax. But it isn’t, I remind myself. I still have every reason to be wary of Gabe Wilson.
“We got those papers you asked for,” I say, changing the subject. Gabe nods, wipes his fingers on a napkin, and follows me to my purse in the front hallway. I try not to stand too close to him as he looks through the bank records relating to the loan.
“Yep, just as I suspected. They never sent the preforeclosure breach letter. I started a letter—or you can write it yourself, you’re the writer—” He looks up at me from the papers with a smile on his lips, the first hint I’ve seen of the affable grin I remember. God, he’s still so cute. Why does he have to be so cute?
“No, no,” I smile back, in spite of myself. “If you want a twenty-first-century update to Parable of the Sower , I’m your girl, but you’d better handle this.”
“I’d be happy to. I’ll show you my draft when I’m done.” He hands me back the papers.
“Thanks,” I say, and mean it.