25. Hidden
25
Hidden
I put my glasses on, then pulled up the security camera footage on my phone. Victor parked on his side of the garage. In the wide shot, Sal’s car was still behind mine in the driveway.
So, he didn’t leave? My heart levitated at the prospect he was still here. I rolled out of bed and tripped on his pants.
Oh my god. His pants.
Sal was in my house without pants. And my brother just walked in. Talk about ‘decent.’
“Fuck,” I hissed, snatching up his clothes. “The one day he comes home early.”
I thundered to the living room. Empty. “Sal?” The tea kettle whistled, so I dashed into the sunlit kitchen, nearly colliding with my brother. “Oh, geez, watch where you’re going,” I said, my heart racing as I clutched Sal’s clothes.
Victor’s voice rumbling with morning gruff. “What are you doing?”
“Nothing," I said.
The tea kettle screeched.
My chest tightened, as did my grip. “Making tea,” I amended. Nonchalant. Breezy .
“And doing laundry?” He arched a brow at the crumpled clothes hugged to my breast.
“Yes.” I pushed past him to the laundry room between the kitchen and the garage.
“That's a small load. Are those pieces important?”
“I forgot them.” I shoved the clothes inside the washer, then guarded it from his prying eyes. “Why? Did you get cat hair all over and need to do a load? Because this one is almost full.”
“Is it?” He smirked, his eyes narrowing with mischief.
“What are you smiling about?” I scowled. “Kat must've sent you home early. I figured you’d be devastated without your phantom limb.”
“Oh, nothing like that.” He strolled into the kitchen to switch off the cooktop.
As soon as he slid the kettle off the heat, it quieted, and so did my mind. Where was Sal? Hiding in the pantry? The guest bath?
My brother headed to the pantry door. “What flavor tea did you want?”
“I can get it,” I said, hurrying to beat him there.
“Don’t trouble yourself,” he purred, grasping the handle. Damn his long strides. “It was so nice of you to put two mugs out, anticipating I’d want something. What a kind, thoughtful sister.”
“Yep.” I huffed. He must’ve known I had a guest. The car was out there. Besides, it wasn’t like I could hide Sal’s nakedness without throwing myself in front of him, and that would only exacerbate my brother’s mockery.
Victor slipped into the closet and pulled out two bags of black tea. I peeked beyond the door to check if Sal was crouching or anything, but there was no sign of him.
“Looking for something?” My brother teased, pouring our tea.
“No. Just reconsidering the organization.” I shut the door.
He added a dollop of milk to his mug, then stirred, the spoon dinging. “So, how was your evening? ”
“Lovely.” I blinked and tilted my head, mirroring his mocking smile.
“So glad to hear it. Anything you’d like to share?”
“No. Not really.” It wasn't like he’d told me much about Kat at first except that he ‘met somebody,’ although his dreamy smile and far-off look had said everything.
“Hmm.” He shoveled a few ice cubes into his mug, then sipped it. “By the way, if you’re looking for your boyfriend, he should be in the basement.”
“What?” I stiffened. “What did you do to him?”
“Nothing,” he deadpanned, batting his thick lashes. “But you’re not the only one with access to the security cameras.”
“Fuck,” I said. My asshole brother was toying with me while my friend was freezing. I snatched Sal’s clothes from the washer and rushed to the basement. Why couldn’t he have crammed himself in the pantry? “Sal?” I called, flicking on the stair light.
“Yeah?” he croaked.
Shit. He sounded far enough down that he'd have seen my workspace. I stormed down the stairs towards his pale, half-naked body standing in front of my workshop table.
His eyes shone with shock as he turned to me. Or was it fear?
I held his clothes out. “My brother already knows you’re here. We should head upstairs.”
He pointed to a prototype spider limb and the wall of blueprints. “What’s–”
“Old project.” I tossed the clothes at him.
He hunched over to catch them with his stomach as a mitt. “This is–”
“Nothing,” I said sharply.
“The Widow.” He shifted to shield his privates. “Did you…make The Widow? ”
At one point, I’d have been proud to admit it. Now, my stomach tied itself in knots. “I made the mech at the theater, yes.”
He stepped closer. “Why didn’t you say anything when we posed with it?”
“It’s not much of an accomplishment.” I shrugged, wishing I could fold into my own skin. My pajamas weren’t long enough to pull over my head without looking ridiculous. Why did he even care about that eight-legged monstrosity? Now, it moved less than an inflatable person outside a car dealership.
He gestured to my schematics. “It’s big. Literally, but also as a gig.”
I crossed my arms and looked away. “My brother and I couldn’t agree on most of the perimeters. He complained that its size and location made it…dangerous.” I'd ignored him. Even when she malfunctioned. My lungs compressed, and I sniffed.
“It was, though, wasn’t it?” Sal asked softly.
“It’s none of your business. We need to go back,” I snapped, hurrying away with my hands pinned under my arms. The world blurred behind tears. I stumbled over the edge of the stairs, unable to catch myself, and bashed my knee. Pain radiated through my whole being.
What the fuck was wrong with me?
“Hey, are you okay?” Sal asked, the flap of fabric and irregular footfall suggesting he ran after me with his pants halfway up.
I trembled, frustration wracking my tightly wound chest. “I still don’t understand what happened. Kat insisted the mech was possessed, but that didn’t make sense. I did all the calculations. I double-checked weight limits. Reinforced joints.”
“No one doubts you made something totally kickass. Hell, most of it survived the crash,” he said, placing his palm on my back.
“Yeah, but my brother almost didn’t. ”
Admitting it aloud on my knees, then seeing my reflection in Sal’s shocked gaze broke something in me. Tears leaked down my flaming cheeks. No wonder my brother wanted to get away from me. Sweet Sal would too. I clenched my chattering teeth, trying to keep myself from blubbering. A chill ran down my spine, and I doubted it was from the basement.
Sal handed me his bright shirt. “Here, this is old. You can even blow your nose with it.”
I squeezed my eyes shut and dabbed my face with the sturdy, wild print. My lungs expanded at the aroma of Italian spices baked into the cotton collar. Why was this so calming?
The rustle of denim suggested he properly put on his jeans. He was leaving. Of course he was. I scooted over so he could pass without brushing my tender knee and offered up his damp shirt.
He took it. Then, inexplicably, he wrapped it around my shoulders, took my hand, and sat beside me.
Something about the small gesture pried me open like a screwdriver. I hadn’t had therapy in ages, not since my parents referred me to someone who didn’t help, probably because I never fully trusted our confidentiality. Who was to stop them from using my pain as a dinnertime anecdote under the guise of a ‘study’ they read like my parents? When I tried to talk to Mom or Dad, they offered opinions instead of tissues. ‘Well, you can focus on the problem, or you can focus on a solution,’ they’d say. Bullshit therapy-speak.
At least Sal would listen. And he wouldn’t tell anybody. Not even if I snotted all over his T-shirt.
I hiccupped and wiped my cheeks. “After the crash, I was sure Victor was exaggerating, punishing me for insisting nothing was wrong with my creation. Or his relationship. All I cared about was keeping my secrets and dignity. But then I saw the bent staircase. And the video. ”
In the security footage, he’d rushed to save his girlfriend, and she’d fought to protect him.
What had I done? Stayed home. Too scared to face anyone or the fact I fucked up.
I broke into a sob and covered my face with his shirt.
“Aw, sweetheart.” Sal squeezed my hand, his tone completely devoid of irony.
“I should’ve come over right when he called me. I should’ve fixed things.”
“Hindsight’s twenty-twenty,” he said.
Why was he being so nice to me? I glared at him through tears. “What are you talking about? I fucked up. I could’ve killed someone.”
“But you didn’t,” he said, his eyes clear.
“I let my fucking social anxiety interfere with my job and my family again.”
“You’re still working through shit.” He brushed his thumb across my knuckles.
“I failed at literally everything. I was supposed to take my life back, my passion. Now, I’m fixing laptops at True Tech," I lamented.
“There’s nothing wrong with that."
“No, but it’s not what I want,” I said.
He glanced at my work desk, then up the stairs. “If you got what you wanted, would you be holed up in a room all alone, not even a stuffed turkey to talk to?”
“Not exactly,” I muttered.
In an ideal world, I had an uncomfortable longing for someone like him to be beside me. Okay, maybe him, specifically. But the chance of our relationship failing was even worse than the spider mech's. How could either of us take that risk?