2. Chapter 2
Chapter two
Chuck
Once he had Colby set on the right path for his geometry homework—that was a hell of a workout for his aging brain—Chuck stopped at the top of the stairs and looked in the little mirror there. He was…not quite haggard, but he never seemed to have time to quite take care of his looks the way he would have liked. So he had a bit more scruff than usual—especially noticeable since he was prematurely graying, but exclusively in his beard—and wasn’t actually certain when the last time was he exfoliated, so he wasn’t his shiny best. And now he was heading downstairs because, after a year trying everything on his own, he was finally admitting that he wasn’t enough to get the place put back together.
He’d tried. Eventually, he’d tried. The first month or two after Andrew passed, he was…broken. A shitty father, and definitely not a good housekeeper. It took everything he had just to get back up and go to work again, and that left too much pressure on the boys. Once he finally pulled himself back together, the house was…wrong.
And it was still wrong. This was supposed to be their house, and Andrew had always been the one more focused on keeping it shiny, sparkly, and ready for company. Chuck had…less aesthetic sensibilities. He kept the kitchen working, kept things tidy enough no one tripped, and that was about it. The boys didn’t seem to have any complaints. Probably because I’m not on their asses to clean their rooms . They used to argue from sun-up to sundown with Andrew over that.
Chuck looked at the picture of the two of them from way too many years ago, when he wasn’t graying and Andrew wasn’t a pile of ashes in a ceramic urn in the living room. He’d failed to keep the house nice, to keep it a home for the boys after Andrew died, and now there were people downstairs to help. He had to remind himself they were helping so he wouldn’t freak when they changed stuff.
Chuck kissed his fingers and pressed them to Andrew’s face in the picture, then headed down the stairs to three cameras, a bunch of bright lights, and a slew of people sitting around his living room.
A thin, white woman with large eyes approached him, followed by a guy in all black. She held out her hand. “Eliza Kaplan. I’m the producer. We’re just going to hook you up with a mic, then we can start. Unless you want to swing out to hair and makeup. Totally your call.”
A delay and a chance to clean himself up. “Tempting, but I don’t want to hold you up any more than I already have.” Apparently that was some kind of signal, because the guy in black slipped something onto his waistband. Chuck laughed awkwardly. “Not even going to buy me dinner first?”
“Never heard that one before.” The man ran a wire around and handed it to Chuck. “You can run that up your shirt and hook it to your collar. So you don’t think I’m feeling you up.”
It was just a joke. Mostly. Chuck took the wire with a nod and ran it up, where he clipped it to the neck of his sweater. Then he looked at Eliza. “All good?”
“I’m ready if you are.” She spun her finger through the air above her head and, in just a couple seconds, all the cameras shifted into position, pointing toward the middle of the living room where six men and one woman were seated. He’d looked them up briefly, of course, when he applied for the show to come in, and then again when he got word that he’d actually been chosen, but his brain was suddenly overwhelmed with so many people in the house with him and he couldn’t remember anything.
Luckily, one of them stood and waved him over, a heavier set guy with brassy blond hair. “Hi. Chuck? I’m Mason.”
Chuck nodded and extended his hand, then pulled it back since he wasn’t sure this was the kind of thing where a handshake was right, then stuck it back out again even though it was totally awkward. Luckily, Mason took the handshake, then gestured toward a chair left open.
Andrew’s chair. Which Chuck hadn’t used in a year. No one had.
“I’m…I’ll stand.”
A couple of seconds of silence followed and Chuck immediately wished that he could melt into the floor and simultaneously kick everyone out and forget this whole idea.
“If that’s not a good place to sit, we can adjust.”
Chuck turned his gaze toward the voice. A relatively thin, white guy with his hair buzzed short. His hands were folded in his lap and he looked up at Chuck with blue eyes.
After a couple more moments, Chuck nodded. “Thank you. I don’t want to be a problem, but…I just don’t want to use that chair.” He knew he would have to talk about Andrew with them at some point, but this seemed like it was too soon. He needed to adjust to everyone being in there before he bared his soul on camera.
The guy with the buzzed head moved off the couch and sat cross-legged on the floor, and Chuck wanted to melt into the floor for a whole different reason. “You don’t have to sit on the floor—”
“I know. They’ve got tons of folding chairs if I wanted one. I don’t. My back and hips like the flat surface. You’re doing me a favor.” He extended his hand up to Chuck. “Take a seat. And my name’s Robinson, by the way. Robinson with the fucked over hips.”
His hand was callused when Chuck gripped it, and in spite of his somewhat slighter frame, his grip was firm. His gaze was equally firm, penetrating through Chuck and, in spite of the uncomfortable squirming in his belly, Chuck took the vacated seat on the couch and looked around at everyone.
“He really does sit on the floor a lot.” A guy with sharp features and dark hair nodded to Robinson. “Even back in high school, he’d park it on the floor instead of taking a chair. Couldn’t do it myself.” He waved curtly. “Name’s Aras. Electrician.”
They went around and did all the introductions, but Chuck found his gaze slipping back to Robinson again and again, looking for any signs of discomfort. He didn’t see any, and he knew he couldn’t keep his focus there the whole time. He was pretty sure that, if he hadn’t already gotten a baseline of who they all were from their VideoHead channel, he wouldn’t be able to keep track of their names with how little he was actually paying attention.
Thankfully, he did have that baseline, so he knew it was Evander who leaned forward to get his attention. “So, what’s the core of what you’re looking for? I know that’s kind of a broad question, but it’s a place to start.”
That at least was something he’d actually thought about. Constantly. Ever since he’d applied to be on the show and for months before that. Once he’d started to pull out of the depths of his grief, it was the first place his attention went. Their wonderful house was wrong, and he wasn’t equipped to make the changes it needed. He wasn’t even equipped to identify the changes that needed making.
“I want it to be a home again.” It was cheesy, and a new wash of embarrassment and awkwardness flooded through him, but it was the most concise way to put it. “Ever since Andrew…passed away, I feel like this space doesn’t work the way it used to. And I know you can’t bring my husband back, or make it not hurt. But…something’s got to change.”
Shifting motion caught Chuck’s attention out of the corner of his eye, and then he felt a hand on his knee. Robinson rubbed his knee. Just a quick touch, some eye contact, and a nod before he pulled his hand away. He didn’t stop looking at Chuck, though, and there was something older in his eyes. He couldn’t be more than thirty, thirty-five, but there was something tired in that eye contact.
A tiredness that Chuck recognized from the mirror.