5. Darwin
“CAN I HELP YOU?”
The keys to Galactic Guild dangle precariously from one finger as I approach the door, arms laden with an assortment of industrial-grade cleaning supplies, purchased last week as weaponry in my war against The Smell.
It’s the early hours of afternoon, hours before school lets out, and the strip mall is a ghost town. Savvy isn’t here yet, and my car is alone in the parking lot. I was counting on not running into anyone, and I certainly wasn’t expecting to encounter a group of strange teenagers.
They’re clustered beside the front door, watching me approach with expressions ranging from awe to disbelief.
The boldest among them, a girl with wild black hair and about a dozen piercings on each ear, steps forward. “Shit, you’re Darwin Wilder, aren’t you?” she gasps, eyes practically bugging out of her head.
I suppress a wince. Fame, at least in certain circles, was an unintended and unwelcome byproduct of my books’ rise in popularity. My publisher, who seemed to believe my face would help sales, insisted on splashing my headshot across every available platform. Thankfully, a small city in upstate New York has a sparse population of science-fiction fans, and I’ve been able to fly under the radar for years.
My standing practice of leaving the house as seldom as possible is also helpful.
I should have expected that luxury to end. Of course, whatever sci-fi fans this town does have would gravitate to a laser tag arena named Galactic Guild. Not only that, but I know for a fact that Stone hosted gaming tournaments, DnD campaigns, and all sorts of events that would almost certainly attract people who read my books.
“Yes, I am.” I attempt a polite smile that must look more like a grimace, setting down the bottles of disinfectant so I can fumble with the keys Savvy (with obvious reluctance) entrusted to me last night. The black latex gloves I’m wearing make the job difficult, but the kids are too busy exchanging wide-eyed looks to notice.
“Did you buy this place?” asks their leader, her voice going high with excitement. “Did you know Stone?”
“I did, and yes. He was an old friend.” The key turns in the lock, and I stoop to grab the bottles before shouldering open the door. I expect that to be the end of the conversation, but it isn’t. All five teens follow me inside.
“We’re not open,” I point out unnecessarily. There are boxes of supplies and tools all over the place, and the lobby is lit only by the glow of the grimy Pepsi coolers.
When I flip the lights, it gets worse.
After I left last night, Savvy began ripping up the stained carpet around the snack bar. By the looks of it, she got bored halfway through and switched to changing fluorescent light bulbs, which also isn’t finished.
I force myself to take a long, steady breath, focusing on the feeling of the air filling my lungs and leaving them instead of the hot panic crawling up my spine.
“So, did Harcrow really die in The Reckoning of Kaul?” asks another girl eagerly, and I turn to face them. As tempting as it is to tell the group to leave, a distraction wouldn’t be unwelcome.
I exhale heavily and nod. “The series is over. So yes.” There are some nods and approving murmurs to this.
Another chips in, “What about Delfi? Is she going to be happy being an empress after working as a rebel for so long?”
I blink. “I think it’s more—” “But when Nemo pulled Kaul?—”
“No dummy, Jorin pushed Kaul!”
“Nemo’s last name is Jorin, idiot! Did you even read the books?” The bickering intensifies, and so does the throbbing in my temples.
“What are you all doing here?” I finally demand, raising my voice to be heard above the debate.
Five sets of eyes look to me. “Stone always let us play DnD in the back room,” says the girl with the ear piercings, and her bottom lip trembles. “We haven’t been able to since this place closed. Luke and King’s parents are total dickwads who think we’re worshiping the devil or something, and my mom’s apartment is super small, and?—”
“I get it.” I hold up a hand to stop her.
It doesn’t surprise me in the least that Stone gave these kids a safe place to play. Hell, a few decades ago, he and I were the ones desperately trying to hold a campaign together when all our parents thought we were better off playing football.
Grief and guilt twist bitterly inside me, a physical pain I’m still not used to.
For weeks, I’ve been prowling around the house, my compulsions resurfacing in the wake of Stone’s death and the completion of my series, canceling one therapy appointment after another. Gone was my life’s work, and the only true friend I’ve ever had. Is it any wonder I was ready to attack the walls?
Now, if only I could so easily rationalize Savvy’s effect on me.
I’d thought it was a fluke, a reaction brought on by isolation and whatever mental break I was suffering from when she showed up on my doorstep.
Coming here last night… For the first time in my meticulously ordered life, I didn’t have a plan. Not really. Mostly, I wanted to prove to myself that I could leave the house if I really wanted to. I also wanted confirmation that it wasn’t attraction I felt toward Savvy. Because it couldn’t be.
I’ve spent days convincing myself of all that, but it only took walking through the door of Galactic Guild to eviscerate my last ties to normalcy. My reaction to her hadn’t lessened; it intensified.
So much so that, within the space of a few minutes, I’d insulted her, almost vomited on her shoes, offered to be her business partner, and all but admitted I’ve been depressed.
I’ve never spoken to another person like that. Ever. As a child, my parents joked I had more secrets than the Pentagon. Even Stone never pushed me to open up any more than I did to him. God knows romantic relationships were off the table, so I’ve stayed closed off and never questioned it. My objection to most of the human population isn’t only because of my disorder, but it hasn’t helped matters.
So, after forty-five years of this, what is it about Savvy Laurence that is making me say and do things I’ve never even considered before?
Christ, I don’t remember the last time I touched another person, even with gloves on. Yet the weight of Savvy’s hand in mine didn’t make my stomach roll or sweat gather on the back of my neck. I didn’t feel the burning urge to scrub my skin until it’s red or pour antiseptic over the places she touched.
The ugly, confusing truth is that I liked it, and I have no idea what I’m supposed to do with that. I have more than a fair amount of experience in distracting myself from mental spirals, but abandoning thoughts of Savvy isn’t happening.
I clear my throat, gazing around at the assembled teenagers. “Listen, I’ll talk to my business partner, but I’m sure she won’t have a problem with it once we reopen.”
“When’s that?” asks the smallest of the group, a boy whose neck seems to be fifty percent Adams apple. They’re all grinning, though, and exchanging wide-eyed, significant looks.
“No idea.” I move past them and reopen the door. “Soon. Hopefully. There’s a lot that needs to be done.”
The checklist Savvy has going is intimidating, to say the least.
They’ve hardly begun filing back outside when the smallest boy leaps to the side. A second later, Savvy appears, a massive box wedged under her chin and a pencil sticking out of her messy bun.
Pausing in the doorway, she frowns over her box at the group of teenagers. “Is one of you Caleb?”
There are a few confused mutters, and one of them pipes up, “Uh, no?”
Savvy nods, satisfied. “Okay. Good.” She strides past me, and a beat too late, I realize I ought to have taken the box from her.
I’m positive I feel eyes following me as I trail after her to the snack bar area, but when I tear my eyes away from her to check, the teens have gone. The door closes, and suddenly Savvy and I are alone.
“What was all that about?” she asks over her shoulder, already busy ripping packing tape from cardboard.
Is she trying to avoid meeting my eye?
I clear my throat, hating that it bothers me. “Apparently, your father let them play DnD in the birthday party room when nobody was using it. I think they were checking to see if we’d let it continue.”
“Oh yeah, he told me about them. Of course they can play. Maybe we should look into adding some formal tabletop rooms.” Her voice is determinately casual, and—yeah—that can work. I can do casual. No problem.
I can not notice the way her T-shirt clings to the curve of her waist, or how those stretchy shorts she’s wearing do nothing to hide the shape of her ass. None of that is relevant or welcome. An adolescent crush doesn’t translate to reciprocated attraction nine years later, especially not for a man twice her age who’s been too busy battling his own malfunctioning brain and obsessing over fictional characters to learn how to connect with actual human beings.
A man who hurt her.
That day has haunted me for years, but the longer we went without seeing each other… I thought she’d be embarrassed about the whole thing, but would ultimately forget it. I thought that reaching out and apologizing would soothe my conscience, but would do nothing for hers.
I never imagined it would be nine years before I saw her again, or that those words I spat in anger and shock might have wounded her so deeply that she still struggles to meet my eye.
Does she know those things weren’t really about her? She doesn’t believe them, does she? Or think that I do?
I rock back onto my heels, struggling to piece together the best course of action while the shock of my painfully real attraction is still so fresh.
“What are you doing?” I ask, purely to distract us both from the uncomfortable silence. “Do you need help?”
“Uh, I don’t think so.” Savvy tosses what appears to be the instruction manual onto the pile of packaging trash on the floor. “It’s just the new vacuum cleaner. I looked into fixing the one that’s here now, but it looks like a small creature made a home in it, and I don’t think there’s any coming back from that.”
A nerve in my forehead twitches. We’re standing amidst at least half a dozen partially completed projects, but as infuriating as I find it that she won’t finish one of them first, I keep my mouth shut. Savvy has her way of doing things, and I have mine. I sure as hell am in no position to give orders or ruffle her feathers so early on.
Still, I’m uncomfortable. For such a large room, the stillness makes the air feel oppressive and heavy. I’ve been here for less than five minutes, and already I’m itching to step back outside, or better yet, get in my car and return to my safe, familiar house with its expensive air-filtration system.
To distract myself, I flip on the lights in the massive arcade room and they flicker to life, illuminating the space in black light. Closest to me, a row of claw machines stand dark and silent, their ghostly contents barely distinguishable.
Stone is everywhere.
I see my late friend grinning over his shoulder at me as he empties quarters from the pinball machine into a bucket.
His booming laugh echoes over the voices of excited children, shaking his head as he reaches over the prize counter to hand a little girl a stuffed dolphin that’s twice her size.
He’s sitting at the snack bar, where his daughter stands now, gray faced and telling me his wife left him.
This place was Stone’s home, a place of magic in his eyes, and that’s why it made it so long, even if my friend was the world’s shittiest businessman.
We didn’t talk about Galactic Guild in his last days. Though now, in retrospect, I know he must have felt horrible guilt for the financial situation he left Savvy in. I’d offered to come to the hospital, to brave the city and hospital super germs to visit him, but he’d assured me Savvy was there and I… I hadn’t wanted to distract from her last days with her father.
As far as I’m aware, Stone never knew what transpired between us nine years ago, and I didn’t think his death bed was a good place for that story to come to light. I don’t regret it. Especially now, when I’ve seen firsthand what nearly a decade of silence can do to buried pain and regret. And the very non-platonic feelings my surrogate niece now inspires in me.
Blinking away memories of Stone, I stare around at the still room. There are at least six games with “out of order”signs taped to them, and a bucket of dirty water stationed below what is clearly a roof leak. Everywhere I look there are problems, and, for the first time since I so rashly offered Savvy my help, I’m second-guessing if I can do it.
This place is overwhelming, and who the hell am I to try and fix anything? For fuck’s sake, only a few days ago, I was prepared to take a sledgehammer to my basement drywall to get rid of The Smell. Galactic Guild has far more and worse problems.
Then there’s the fact that the woman in charge of solving them is a human tornado, likely intent on my destruction.
Stupid. So unbelievably, undeniably stupid. What the hell was I thinking? Panic is tightening in my throat, obstructing my breathing, and so is the urgency to go home and scrub every inch of my body. I need to get out of here.
“Are you freaking out?”
I spin around. Savvy is standing just behind me, her arms crossed and a wry smile playing on her lips. Even her beauty isn’t enough to distract me.
“We need to hire professionals, Savvy,” I tell her, shaking my head. “This is too much. It doesn’t matter how much it costs—I don’t care—but we can’t…” I gesture around. It doesn’t matter where I point, it will be toward something that needs fixing.
Far from looking relieved, or even affronted, Savvy just stares up at me. My mostly unused heart flips when a slight, understanding smile curves her lips. In the black lights from the arcade, her hair looks like it’s glowing, and I—What was it that sent me spiraling? It seemed so important a moment ago, but now I’ve lost the thread.
“It’s good for the plot, Dar,” she says simply, and I hear the startled laugh coming from my mouth as though it’s someone else’s.
I’m reeling. Of all the things she could have said… My heart beats faster.
Years ago, when a fifteen-year-old Savvy interviewed me for an English project, I’d explained my writing process. I’d joked that when things would inevitably go awry, it’s good for the plot, because I’m at my best when there’s a problem to solve.
I can’t believe she remembers that.
Having my own words used against me is something of an occupational hazard, but not like this. Never like this.
“Come on.” Savvy nods back to the snack bar. “There’s a million parts to that thing. It’s terrible. I could use your help.”
I find myself hoping she’ll loop her hand through my arm like last night, but she doesn’t.
Mutely, I follow her, preoccupied by that moment.
Until a few days ago, I was comfortable in the way my mind worked. It was familiar, triggered by the same things and calmed by others, but now everything is off. I’m obsessing over things I’ve never even considered before, feeling things I thought I couldn’t.
And, at the center of it all, is Savvy.
Change doesn’t come easily to me, and I’ve avoided it as much as possible for my entire adult life. This woman has been back in my life for less than a week, and everything is different. She’s a tornado. I should be hunkering down in my basement, but instead I’m driving right into it yelling, Take me!
I stoop to rescue the owner’s manual from a pile of discarded packaging on the floor.
Savvy’s already unpacked all the parts and attachments, and I move to her side, scanning through the assembly directions. “It’s not so bad,” I tell her, reaching for the first part I need and kneeling to attach it as directed.
As I look up in search of another, my eyes catch on a tiny flash of black ink under the arm of her cut T-shirt.
She has a tattoo? Of what?
As my eyes fall back to the vacuum, Savvy huffs, “It looks like the inside of The Drake.”
It takes a moment for her words to sink in, but when they do, my hands still. I look up at her. “You read my books?”
She crosses her arms, a dull flush painting her cheeks, and her eyes fall to a clipboard on the counter. When she finally replies, her voice is too casual to be entirely convincing. “Yeah, of course I did. You knew that. For my fifteenth birthday, I bullied you into giving me an advanced copy of book four, remember?”
Yes, but I’ve published three books in the years since—since. The book she just referenced came out seven years ago, and, judging by that blush, my little tornado knows it. I would have expected that she wouldn’t have wanted to read my words with how we left things.
She did, though. She read them, and that fact alone makes me happier than any high-profile review or landing on a bestseller list.
“What did you think?” I’m pushing my luck and, based on the waspish look I get in response, Savvy agrees.
“I think I’m going to go crack the bathroom door and pour a bucket of bleach inside to see what happens.”
As I turn back to the vacuum, I’m smiling. “Sounds like a plan.”