Chapter 11 #2
Paul softens, eyes on the baby. “She is good for Claudia. Gave her purpose when the world tried to knock her out cold.” He glances back at me. “If you care, do it right. No half steps.”
“I do not half step,” I mutter.
“You better not. She does not have the luxury.”
That hits. No fancy speech needed.
After a second, Paul shifts gears like he just declared war and now wants tea. “So. You eat yet?”
“Ordering dinner. It—”
He cuts me off, “You getting me fries?”
“You want fries?”
He frowns like I asked if he wants oxygen. “I always want fries.”
“Done,” I say. “Salty or sweet potato?”
He points at me. “Boy. Do not gentrify my potatoes.”
I laugh. “Regular fries. Got it.”
He nods, satisfied. “Good. And tell Dash if he drills into my trim, I am haunting him.”
“He already drilled.”
Paul mutters a curse.
Savannah stirs and lets out a tiny sigh. I press my hand over her back, steady. Paul watches, expression softer again.
“You look natural with her,” he says quietly.
“She fell asleep head to heart. That is all.”
“No,” he says. “That is not all. Not for men like you.”
There is a beat. A very heavy one. Then he claps once, loud enough I flinch and Savannah grumbles.
“Alright. Go save Claudia before Dash starts rattling off screw sizes like that impresses anyone.”
I chuckle. “You don’t like tool talk?”
“If I wanted to hear a man brag about screws, nails, and inches, I would turn on cable news.”
I choke on air, turning away so I don't actually laugh into Savannah’s sleeping head.
“Dinner soon,” I say.
“Bring ketchup packets,” he calls. “They never give enough, and I am not begging for condiments at my age.”
I walk out shaking my head, baby tucked close, heart doing... things it has no business doing.
“Hey, kid,” he calls to me, and I turn as he sits in his recliner. “The nugget.”
“Shit,” I chuckle as I walk over and hand her to him.
“Never had one of these,” he smiles down at her. “The wife always wanted a dozen.”
“Looks like she may have sent you one,” I say before turning and walking out.
“Must have been one hell of a hit,” I hear him chuckle and pause as he continues. “Let’s make sure he doesn’t teach you how to count. She sent me you three, and I’m guessing, two more, the sassy one and the little book lover.”
Fuck that hit.
I step into the foyer and find Dash standing in front of the door, hands on hips like a suburban dad confronting a raccoon in the trash. He is shaking his head so hard his hair flops like a golden retriever after a bath.
“What,” I ask, dragging my hand down my face. “What is your problem now?”
“This door hates us,” he mutters. “It is like, emotionally spiteful. Nothing is lining up. The frame is crooked. One hinge is drunk. Whoever hung it originally did not believe in math.”
I check. He is right. The door sits like it is trying to join Cirque du Soleil.
“Fine,” I sigh. “We take it off. Gonna need some shims to level it.”
Dash brightens up just like he did when Koa and I talked him through changing the lock the first time. “Off the hinges.”
We pop the pin out with a little bit of muscle. Struggle, the damn things have been in there forever.
As he lifts the door, Dash groans, “Bro, this thing weighs like our combined childhood trauma.”
Claudia holds up her fist and he taps it.
“More like your ego,” I grunt as we set it aside.
Claudia appears with a scrap pile. Of course she does. “I found wood shims.”
I blink. “Where?”
“Old pantry shelf in the mudroom, there is a ton of decent scrap wood. I saw it when Paul gave me the tour.”
I nod, “Good looking out.”
She kneels next to us, and I block an instinct to tell her to sit, rest, breathe, anything. Instead, I hand her a level.
“Okay,” I say, my voice low so I don't sound like a patronizing dick. “We shim behind the hinge side to pull the frame plumb. Watch the bubble. It needs to sit centered. Not bouncing like Dash when he gets one of his hair-brain ideas.”
“They all turn out genius.” Dash grins, then pauses. “Well, mostly.”
Claudia laughs in a soft focused way as she focuses. “Bubbles in the center.” She slides the shim.
“Perfect.”
“Now,” I continue, “we put the door back on the hinges. Except we have to notch a hair more on this mortise, so the hinge sits flush.”
She holds out her hand. “Chisel.”
Dash looks around like one might magically appear. She points. “Second drawer. By the junk screws and that weird Allen key thing that fits nothing.”
I hand her the chisel and mark the wood with a pencil. She leans in and carves the extra sliver. Clean. Steady. Focused. Girlboss carpentry edition.
We remount the door. It swings perfectly and is now straight.
“That is clean,” Dash breathes.
“Wood glue in those stripped screw holes,” I say, holding up the tube. “Tap a dowel, cut flush, re-drill pilot holes.”
Claudia takes the glue from my hand, tongue peeking from the corner of her mouth in concentration. Which is rude. Heart attack-inducing. She fixes each hole, and I grab the screw gun. Dash hands me the drill.
“No,” she says. “I do it. Teach me.”
Teach me.
“Alright.” I reposition her hand on the drill like we are in a steamy Home Depot commercial. “Firm grip. Straight angle. Let the bit work. Do not force it.”
She sinks the screw. Perfect. Then the next. Then the last.
Dash whistles. “She is going to replace us.”
“She already did,” I say before my brain can stop my mouth. Claudia pauses. Looks up at me. There is a moment, just a second, that I see pride in her eyes and it’s stunning.
“Keypad next,” she announces, breaking the tension.
We mount the keypad and the deadbolt. She drills the final screws, clicks the final latch, and steps back.
The lock beeps. Door shuts. Turns smooth.
I exhale. “That is pro work.”
She bumps my shoulder. “We made a pretty great team.”
I nod. Then ruin it by staring one second too long. “Yeah. We did.”
“Now I am starving,” Dash announces like he did manual labor for seven hours instead an hour.
“Promised Paul fries.”
“We are getting Italian from Via Lupo, and he wants French?” Dash blinks. “That man is testing international relations.”
Claudia shoots him a look like she is not sure if he is joking or an idiot. I chuckle. “He is joking.”
She exhales. “Okay, good. Because I was about to Google if Italian fries are a thing.”
“They are. They are just called potatoes.” Dash nods sagely and pulls his phone from his pocket. “Alright, place your orders, teams.”
“Two orders of fries for Paul and get both him and me chicken marsala. I’d also like Rigatoni vodka. Garlic knots. Large Caesar. One is never enough.”
Dash types. “Two orders of fries. Got it and the rest. You really think salad counts as balance?”
“Shut up and order.”
He salutes me with his phone.
Claudia steps forward and takes my phone to look at the menu. “Eggplant parm. Side of broccoli rabe. Cup of the pasta fagioli. And… tiramisu.”
Dash stares. “If you can eat all that, I am going to be totally impressed.”
“I am breastfeeding,” she replies sweetly. “I could eat a house if I wanted.”
Dash holds up his hands. “Say less. Respect.”
I grin. “Good choice on the tiramisu.”
Her gaze flicks to mine. “You like tiramisu.”
“It is sacred. If they do it wrong, we riot.”
“Noted.”
Dash clears his throat loudly. “Anyway, I want chicken parm. Penne with sauce. Garlic knots. Caesar. Oh, and a cannoli. Actually, two cannoli. Actually, three because self-care.”
“You gonna eat all that,” I ask, “or whine halfway that you want more?”
“One time,” he mutters. “One time I was emotionally dehydrated.”
“Order the extra parm,” I say. “You regret it every time you don’t.”
He taps away. “For the record, delivery says one hour wait. That is tragic. I will just go get it.”
Claudia looks relieved. “Bless you. I would have chewed through drywall by then.”
“Can’t have that.” I wink.
She nudges me with her elbow. “I earned carbs.”
“You earned anything you want.” It slips out too soft. Too real. She freezes, flicks her eyes away, cheeks warming.
Dash pockets his keys. “Alright. I will go now. Keep the child alive and the house standing. And do not do anything I wouldn’t do.”
“Leave,” I tell him, pushing him toward the door.
He grins. “On it. Be back in thirty.”
He heads out, and as the door shuts, Claudia and I stand in the foyer.
“Eggplant parm,” I say softly.
She rolls her eyes and brushes past me, intentionally. “I need to feed my child before I eat sauce.”
While she does that, I grab a few things I know are hers, a diaper bag, a giant water bottle that’s pink, and Savannah’s car seat that seems to travel up and down the stairs with her. Clicks into the stroller, so I take that too.