11. Alex
11
Alex
Alex sat down on the chair Ward had set out for him. "Yes, please help," he'd agreed wholeheartedly. "But do everything you can from that seat with your weight off that foot."
Alex now stared at the cabinet door he'd just installed. His eyes felt like they'd been rubbed with sandpaper, and no matter how many times he blinked, his vision stayed fuzzy. Was it straight? It wasn't straight. But the level he was using told him it hung perfectly aligned, and it opened and closed like butter, the magnetic touch latch matching up just right. He scooted back to get a broader perspective and squinted.
He'd been working since shortly after leaving Juno's place, fueled by her strong coffee and his desperate need to keep moving, to avoid thinking about how she'd looked at him this morning – wary and defensive, like he was some kind of threat.
"You planning on having a staring contest with that cabinet all morning?" Ward's voice cut through his fog. He leaned against the doorframe of what would soon be the Garden Gate's newly renovated kitchen. "Because I'm pretty sure it's going to win."
Alex summoned up his trademark grin, the one that usually deflected questions and concern. "Just admiring my handiwork. Love this hickory, man. It's gorgeous." He ran a hand over the smooth surface, buying time to collect himself. "Your bride-to-be is going to love you when she sees this."
"My bride-to-be already loves me," Ward said with the confidence of a man who knows what he's worth. "But yeah, she's going to be wowed, that's for sure. She might have picked it out, but there's nothing like seeing it all put together." Penny had been kicked out of the kitchen yesterday when they'd started on the project, because Ward wanted her to be blown away by the end result.
"Where are the ladies today?" Alex asked, hoping Ward would start talking about his fiancé instead of drilling Alex on how he was doing. His friend had been shooting him assessing looks more and more often these days, and although he didn't come right out and ask, Alex got the feeling the questions were coming. Things were always tough for him around the anniversary of Jason's death, but there were other circumstances pressing down on him, and Alex wasn't coping as well as he usually did, and he was well aware that it showed.
Ward eyed Alex quizzically. "You don't know?"
Had Ward already told him and he'd just forgotten? Sheesh. He chuckled and shook his head. "It's your womenfolk, Ward. Why would I know where they are?"
Ward shrugged and crossed his arms. "Oh, I don't know. Maybe because you spoke with one of the said womenfolk just this morning. Early. Right after fixing her blowout."
Alex's hand slipped on the cabinet door, and he had to catch himself against the counter. He covered the fumble by reaching to pick up a drill bit he'd dropped several minutes ago. But when he didn't immediately say anything, Ward went on, his tone droll, almost goading.
"In front of Juno's place. Before dawn. Where you'd been sitting in your truck in the dark for—"
"Right. Mrs. Becker." Alex cut him off. "She needed help with a flat tire," he said, not meeting Ward's eyes.
"And you just happened to be outside Juno's in the dark—"
Alex interrupted him again. "You said that already." He shot his friend a bleary-eyed glare, then began peeling the protective plastic sheeting from another cupboard door. "I was waiting to get my coffee. I like it fresh." Ugh. That sounded weak, even to him.
The silence stretched between them, broken only by the distant sound of hammering from somewhere upstairs where the rest of the crew was working. Alex could feel Ward's steady gaze on him, waiting him out, but Alex had years of practice at avoiding conversations he didn't want to have.
He pointed at the door he'd already hung, and casually asked, "Does that door look straight or do I need to adjust the hinges? Got your level handy?" Then he spotted his own level sitting right in front of him. Playing it cool wasn't working today.
He wasn't fooling his friend, either. "When's the last time you actually slept, Alex?"
"Last night." The lie came automatically to his lips. "Slept like a baby."
"Yeah? What kind of baby? The kind that screams every hour on the hour?"
Alex barked out a laugh. "Nope. The kind that curls up in your arms and dreams of puppy dogs and angel choirs."
"Alex."
"Ward." He matched his friend's serious tone, then grinned again. "Look, I appreciate the concern, but I'm fine."
"You're not fine," Ward contradicted. "You're injured, man. And you're awake before the sun comes up and you're driving around in the middle of the night in a sleep-deprived fog, which I'm having a hard time believing is something your doctor would be chill about—or you're parked outside Juno's place like a stalker—"
"I'm not a stalker—"
"Well, you look like the walking dead." He rubbed his clean-shaven jaw. "And what are you doing parked outside Juno's? Again."
Alex's facade cracked. He turned away, pretending to search his tool belt. How did Ward know? Had Juno seen him—worse, had she complained to Ward? Was she afraid to confront him directly?
He felt exposed, called out, and he bristled inside. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Right." But Ward moved further into the kitchen, maneuvering around a pile of discarded cardboard and packing materials. "Talk to me, man. What's really going on with you?"
For a dangerous moment, Alex was tempted. The weight of everything he carried pressed down on him until he could barely breathe.
But then he heard footsteps on the stairs, voices getting closer, and just like that, the moment passed. He squared his shoulders and plastered on his easy smile. "The only thing going on with me is that these cabinets aren't going to install themselves." He turned to the guy who'd just pushed through the protective plastic draped across the doorway. "Hey, Harold."
Harold was an electrician who charged by the job, not by the hour, which was fortunate, since his propensity to talk could double the duration of any project. Clients tolerated his elastic timelines due to the quality of his work.
"Looking good in here, boys," Harold said, bracing his feet wide and hooking his thumbs in his toolbelt. He took a deep breath like he was getting ready to launch into a tale, but Alex beat him to it.
"Hey, Harold, did I ever tell you about my great uncle who died in the electric chair?"
Harold's jaw dropped, taking the bait. "Uh, no. Not that I recall."
Alex shook his head slowly. "Yeah, it came as quite a shock."
Ward shot him a disgusted look, but Harold guffawed heartily over the terrible joke. "Hoo-boy. You had me there for a second, Frampton." To Ward, he said, "Boss, I need you to take a look at things upstairs before I close the walls up." Harold was installing dedicated circuits in each of the new guest bathrooms upstairs.
Good. Ward was needed elsewhere, and that meant he'd leave Alex alone. Besides, it was almost lunch time, and Juno would be bringing their lunch orders. He wasn't going to pretend that he wasn't aching to see her again. Then after lunch, he could bail on the day. Maybe he'd go home and take another sleeping pill. Surely, if he was this tired already, a dose of the benzodiazepine would send him into slumber land.
In fact, downing a six-pack of beer and falling asleep in his Lazy Boy in front of a game sounded pretty good to him right now.
The thought came unbidden, and it scared him how tempting having a few drinks was even after years of sobriety. But that's what sleep deprivation did—it made the old solutions seem reasonable again, broke down the barriers between what he knew was right and what his exhausted brain craved. Just a little oblivion. Just a few hours of not thinking, not remembering.