2. Darwin
THE TROUBLE WITH DREAMS is they take up a lot of space.
You spend years of your life working, striving, and bettering yourself, for one singular purpose. It’s all you think about, all you want to think about, and the only thing that matters. Everything else comes second.
You don’t make friends, because you’re too busy. You don’t start a family, because it would be selfish.
You don’t find hobbies, because they would occupy time that should be used for the dream.
And you never stop to consider what will happen if you make it to the finish line. It never occurs to you that the weight of all those sacrifices might suddenly fall squarely on your shoulders, taking up all the room in your mind that was once occupied by the very dreams that created it.
The irony isn’t lost on me.
Things were good when I was working. My compulsions were manageable. There were entire days, weeks even, when I felt like I was in control of my mind. No gnawing fear, no sick twists of shame, or hands that went raw from too much washing.
I was normal, or at least as close to normal as I’ve ever been. Even with healthy coping mechanisms for my brain’s more frustrating idiosyncrasies, I was still an antisocial borderline-recluse with control issues and—as my agent has declared on more than one occasion—a stick up my ass.
Stone’s was the only company I actually enjoyed, apart from my own.
My friend was content to take me as I was, never asking for more than I could give, and never offering up more of himself than I wanted. He seemed to have a sixth sense about when I found myself becoming isolated or lonely, and would appear at my door with a six-pack of beers, a new video game, and all the enthusiasm he had when we were fourteen.
It’s been almost a month since he died, and in that time, things have begun… slipping.
I have begun slipping.
Maybe I’d have been able to get through it with my sanity intact if it was only losing Stone. That wasn’t all, though. No. In a poetic twist of fate, the final book in the series—the dream which miraculously came to fruition and dominated my entire adult life—was published only a week before I got the news that my friend was gone.
It wasn’t a surprise. I’d known he was going to die, had known the moment he told me about his diagnosis that I’d soon have to face a world without Stone Laurence.
Receiving adequate warning didn’t make the blow any less devastating.
Foolishly, I thought I would be okay. After all, I spent most of my time alone, and preferred it that way. I hadn’t accounted for reaching the end of the story I’d dedicated my life to telling, and acknowledging it had filled a much larger place inside me than I realized.
Stone was gone, my dream achieved, and whatever shaky foundation I built my mental health upon has been falling away, bit by bit, ever since.
The fact I’m standing in the middle of my kitchen on a Tuesday afternoon, holding a sledgehammer and staring at the basement door, is obviously a sign that the last piece has finally crumbled to dust.
I doubt many stable, fully functioning adults are so bothered by their home gym smelling like sweat that they decide demolishing the drywall is a reasonable solution. It’s not reasonable. I know it isn’t. The room has probably smelled the same for years, and I had no trouble dismissing it as a moderately unpleasant fact of life.
Unfortunately, knowing something objectively isn’t enough to stop it from bothering me. For weeks, The Smell has felt as real as I am. It crawled beneath my skin, buried into my subconscious, and all attempts to resist ended the same way: with me staring at that door, furious with myself.
I was determined today would be different.
Even with the last of the books complete and no new writing prospects, I still had work to do. Years ago, a major television company purchased the option to adapt the series, and filming is now about to begin. It’s a valuable opportunity, and one I should take advantageof,regardlessofthe questionable state of my mental health. There are requests for interviews, requests for comments, requests for me to review other books. There’s more than enough to occupy my time, and all of it’s more productive than scrubbing every inch of my basement for the third time in three days.
That door in the corner of the kitchen had become my personal Pandora’s box, and as long as I didn’t look at it, I would be fine.
Things began promisingly. I made my coffee, careful to keep my eyes on the task at hand. While waiting for the pot to brew, I read an article on my phone about olfactory hallucinations and left a bad rating for the grocery store, who delivered my order with non-organic hummus. The Smell was there, like a shadow lingering behind my more ordinary thoughts, but I didn’t acknowledge it.
I was pleased with myself.
But, as I went to retrieve my favorite mug, I made a critical error. I failed to account for the glass on the kitchen cabinet. Glass that, regrettably, reflects the door.
Gritting my teeth, I stared at it, willing myself not to move.
What did it matter if the basement smelled like sweat? It’s a gym, for fuck’s sake, and now that Stone is dead, the only people who ever visit me at home are my agent, my publicist, and my PA. All of who only show up when absolutely necessary and know better than to venture past the office. The Smell isn’t likely to be noticed by anyone but me, and it’s ridiculous to be affected so strongly by my own body odor.
It doesn’t matter.
The sick, twisted feeling in the pit of my stomach, the one that already knew what had to happen, said otherwise. It did matter. The Smell had won; I had lost.
Funnily enough, total annihilation hadn’t even been on the table before this. There were other, more reasonable, measures to be taken. Painting was an option, or replacing the floors. I hadn’t tried either, but had run through three bottles of bleach, thrown out the curtains, and put all the exercise equipment on the back patio.
When I stormed into the garage in search of medical-grade disinfectant, my gaze caught on the steel-topped tool instead. There it was, hanging innocently on the wall, and it occurred to me that demolishing the walls might be a more appropriate course of action.
The Smell has to be in the drywall.
Ergo, if I get rid of the drywall, The Smell will be gone. If The Smell is gone, I’ll be fine.
I’m just reentering the kitchen, filled with a vicious satisfaction at the prospect of ending this for good, when the sound of the doorbell makes me freeze. I glance down at the sledgehammer, then toward the entryway, distracted because who the hell would be here?
Curiosity temporarily pulling me from my path of destruction, I set the tool on the kitchen counter and stride through the house just as another chime cuts the silence.
For fuck’s sake, did they think pressing it a second time would make a difference? Either I’m home or I’m not.
Irritated beyond belief, I wrench the door open and glower down at the pink-haired woman who’s already turned back toward the aging sedan in the driveway. “Can I help you?” I snap, not bothering to disguise my impatience. She came to my home uninvited and interrupted me. Why should I be polite?
The woman’s shoulders stiffen and, for a moment, I think she’s going to keep walking.
I’ve opened my mouth to make some harsh comment about her wasting my time, but then she turns around and something deep inside me pulls taut.
“Savvy.”
Though I know her instantly, the sound of her name on my tongue feels wrong. The last time I laid eyes on this woman, she was eighteen and little more than a child. Even then, she’d been a force of nature: beautiful, intelligent, and wild. I’d felt unsettled by her, a light wind disrupting the waters of my obsessively orderly life. Now…
Now, instinct tells me that Savvy Laurence is no light wind; she’s a tornado.
“Hi, Dar.” The corners of her lips lift in a tight smile.
Dar.
Savvy’s the only one who’s ever called me that, apart from family members, and my frosty relationship with them means I haven’t heard it in years. Not since the last time she walked out of this house—since I sent her out of this house.
It seems to take much more effort to swallow than it ordinarily would because—fuck me—she’s changed. Stone’s little girl isn’t a girl anymore, and the beauty of the woman on my doorstep is impossible. Her face has lost its roundness, her body is fuller in certain places and narrower in others and, fuck, were her eyes always that big?
For the first time in recent memory, I don’t have a scathing retort on the tip of my tongue. Hell, at this point, I would settle for the ability to speak, but that’s gone too.
She’s astonishing.
We stare at each other, respective memories of our last interaction hanging in the air between us. Stronger than ever before, regret twists bitterly inside me.
“It’s good to see you.” Casual. Good. Yes. What happened was a long time ago, she was young… I’ve done my best not to think about it, and she’s probably written the whole thing off as an embarrassing, youthful mistake.
I refuse to examine why that suddenly bothers me.
Her eyebrows pull together, apprehension playing out right across her face. I’d forgotten about that, how expressive she always was. Stone used to call her his open book.
At the thought of my friend, a fresh wave of guilt crashes over me, so heavy it’s suffocating. Savvy might be a grown woman, but she’s Stone’s daughter, his only child, and here I am looking at her like—well, like I’m allowed to look at her at all.
“I’m sorry to come here like this.” Her voice is casual, even friendly, but I don’t miss the way her hand tightens on the strap of her bag. “Do you have a minute to talk?”
Savvy doesn’t need to be shown where to go. In nine years, the house hasn’t changed, and she slips past me, careful not to catch my eye, and heads right for the kitchen.
Blowing out a shaky breath, I pause to compose myself before following.
The room is somehow smaller with Savvy seated at one of the island stools, shoulders stiff and eyes glued to a spot over my left ear. There was a time when she’d sat in that same place, her feet on the counter and a bowl of popcorn in her lap, quizzing me about my current work in progress.
I knew how to make her laugh.
“How are you?” I ask, because it seems like the correct thing to say to your late friend’s daughter.
Her hands fold neatly on the counter. “Good. And you?”
Suddenly conscious of my own, I shove them into my front pockets. “Good.”
“I heard about the show. Congratulations.”
“Thank you.”
We’re being painfully formal. Ordinarily, I have no problem with letting people linger in awkward, stilted silence, but as Savvy’s eyes fall to the sledgehammer still sitting where I left it, I ache to fill the chasm between us.
Putting people at ease isn’t something I have much experience in, but before I can even make an attempt, Savvy seems to summon her courage. “Dad owed you money.”
I hesitate, trying to wade through my disjointed thoughts. “Yes. He did.” I’d never hesitated to lend Stone money, although I probably should have. My oldest friend wasnt an especially adept businessman, but Stone and Galactic Guild had been there for me when making a living as an author was still a far-fetched dream.
I worked there just after he bought the place with an inheritance from his parents.
At the time, Stone was newly married to his high school girlfriend, and she was pregnant with Savvy. Meanwhile, I was sinking further away from reality, losing myself in my own imagination and growing increasingly obsessed with the story I was trying to tell. My obsessive tendencies were escalating, beginning to affect my behavior and not just my thinking.
I wasn’t a good employee. My disorder wasn’t as debilitating as it would be later—before I got a diagnosis, medication, and therapy—but it was still there. Not many people are looking to hire an eighteen-year-old high school dropout who would ignore customers to write nonsensical notes to himself or spray down their workspace with disinfectant precisely six times every thirty minutes.
My family had written me off, but not Stone. My friend believed in me, accepted me, and I wrote my first bestseller in between handing out prizes at the arcade ticket counter. How was I supposed to turn my back on him when I could afford to help?
Then there was Savvy, the closest thing I had to a niece, who depended on her father’s business.
Savvy, who was bright and bold and deserved the entire world.
Savvy, who I couldn’t let suffer for Stone’s mistakes.
Savvy, who sits in front of me now, a stranger.
Her eyes lift to the ceiling, as though she’s trying to keep herself from crying.
“The agreement was between me and Stone. I don’t expect you to pay his debts,” I assure her, hating that she expected I’d hold her to it.
After an age, warm, caramel eyes lower to meet mine. “You bought half the business.”
I stare. “Are you selling?”
“No. I can’t.” Her voice cracks, desperation beginning to bleed through the carefully composed, stoic facade. “The market is bad, and the building is too far out of town to be desirable. It needs upgrades. There’s… debt.” She shakes her head miserably. “It’s a mess. Stone was an idiot. Basically, our choices are fixing everything up and making Galactic Guild profitable or losing a lot of money.”
“I see.”
She blows out a long breath, and I can tell she’s trying to pull herself back together. “You’re the last person I want to be asking for money from. You’ve done enough for Dad over the years, but we’re both in this mess he made, and”—her bottom lip trembles—“I can’t afford to do all the repairs and everything on my own. There’s no way.”
Reaching into her purse, she pulls out a folded piece of paper and slides it over the counter to me.
I want to read it. I should read it. There’s nothing stopping me from reaching out and picking it up. Except the memory of her bare fingers touching the paper, and the clawing weight of fear that comes with it.
Motionless, I stare down at the paper, willing myself to just fucking pick it up. Seconds tick by. It’s my second self-imposed test of the day, and now, I know it will be the second failure too.
Im in no condition to help anyone.
The sensible thing to do would be to cut my losses now and walk away without wasting another penny on my late friend’s behalf. I don’t owe Savvy anything. We haven’t spoken in nearly a decade, and god knows we didn’t part on good terms.
Objectively, I should turn her away.
Objectivity is apparently not on the menu for tonight, because as silence stretches between us, I realize I don’t care about what I do or don’t owe Savvy. I care about the worried, exhausted look on her face, and struggling under the urge to fix every last problem in her life so she never feels this way again. It’s an obsession. I’m familiar with those, as they’ve dominated my entire life, but this one is different.
Taking care of her isnt something I want to resist.
Without another word, I reach into my back pocket and pull out my wallet. “Here.” I take out my credit card, the one with an ungodly high limit that I rarely use, and slide it over the marble counter toward her. “Do whatever you need to.”
Savvy blinks at me, looking disoriented by this turn of events. “That’s it?”
“Did you want me to argue with you? The situation seems fairly straightforward.”
Savvy scoffs, leaning back in her chair. “I don’t have any management experience. Emptying the quarters out of the pinball machines for Dad was about all I learned how to do. What makes me qualified to do all this?”
I tilt my head to the side, studying her. “Should I say no?” Her mouth pops open in horror. “Of course not!”
A lock of pink hair has fallen over her face, and I imagine what it would be like to reach out and tuck it back behind her ear.
What the hell is wrong with me?
Shoving away the dangerous thought, I force a tight smile. “Well, then, you’re in luck. You’re intelligent, Savvy. I have no doubt you’ll figure everything out.”
Her gaze falls to where I’m gripping the edge of the countertop, and I see her eyes widen in horror. A moment too late, I realize what she’s looking at.
My hands.
Hands that are scrubbed raw and cracked from the number of times I’ve washed them over the last few weeks.
I shove them in my pockets, but it doesn’t matter. She’s seen.
Tense silence falls between us as shame crawls up my body. “I’m sorry to show up like this.” There’s no mistaking the bitterness or hurt in her voice, and a whole new chasm of regret cracks open inside me.
“I’m glad you came.” It’s the truth, but Savvy’s expression doesn’t change. She doesn’t believe me. Why would she? Time is supposed to heal all wounds, but this one was never allowed to. I sent her away, and, just as I asked, she never came back.
Until now.
I hid from the damage, buried it, and now it’s reemerging, fresh and bitter and terrible as ever.
How could I not have tried to fix our relationship in all that time?
How could I have said those things in the first place?
“I should go,” Savvy says, already getting to her feet. All I can do is watch mutely as she slips the credit card into her bag, carefully avoiding my eyes. “I’ll send you an email with weekly updates.”
I nod, trying to ignore the dangerous tugging in the center of my chest as the sun from the kitchen window catches in her bright hair. “Sounds good.”
Should I apologize and try to ease some of the tension between us, or let things stand as they have? Seeing her shouldn’t change a thing, but it has.
I don’t want her to go.
The quiet and stillness I’ve always craved, the comfort of my carefully controlled environment, and the privacy to spiral as I see fit no longer hold the appeal they did only ten minutes ago.
I’m an author. A good one. My career was made from my ability to find the exact right words, yet my dead friend’s daughter, this woman whom I’ve loved as a niece all her life, has robbed me of every last one of them. I have no idea what to do to begin fixing this or if I even should.
All I know for sure is that I want to.
As she strides past me into the hall, preparing to leave, I call after her, “Savvy?” Her shoulders stiffen as she pauses, looking quizzically back at me. I swallow. “Could I ask you a bit of an odd favor?”
“Uh.” Her eyebrows pull together. “I guess?”
I nod to the basement door, and suddenly, my pulse is racing. “Could you open that and tell me what you smell?”
Savvy hesitates, nibbling on her bottom lip. I can see she wants to get out of here and probably avoid me for another nine years, but I must have bought myself some good will. Slowly, she moves back into the kitchen and crosses to the door in question.
Something lodges in my throat as she pulls it open, bracing her hands on the doorframe so she can lean forward, giving the space a little sniff. Her eyelids flutter. “It’s nice.”
My fists tighten in my pockets, stretching the irritated skin. “Nice?”
She nods, a pretty, pink flush painting her cheeks as she closes the door and turns back to face me, her expression guarded. “Yes. I like it.”
Oh.
A dark and unfamiliar feeling is rising inside me, one I’m positive I’ve never experienced before and wouldn’t be able to name if my life depended on it.
I want to say something else, want to draw this out for even another few minutes. Savvy has already resumed her escape, though, obviously just as keen on leaving as I am on keeping her here.
“I’ll keep you updated,” she promises without looking at me. Her footsteps echo off the high, white walls as she moves out of sight, picking up pace when she hits the entryway, as if she can’t get away from me fast enough.
I wince as the door closes with a heavy thud. She’s gone.
And she’s taken all the warmth in the room with her.