Chapter 8 #2
He doesn’t mention anything about the Doctor, ask me how it went, anything, so I assume he doesn’t know.
Vincent didn't tell him and I won't, and there's something almost restful about sitting with someone who's missing that particular piece of me. It's easy to pretend like my heart isn’t practically seconds from exploding when I’m around him. The small metal sounds, his cut-grass scent, a sense of peace inside me like I’m safe for the moment.
And because it's easy, because I'm tired and starving to know something about someone, I start asking questions.
"What broke it?"
"Element's shot. And somebody"—he doesn't look up—"jammed a fork in it at some point, which is its own conversation."
"Do you usually fix everything yourself?"
"Cheaper than replacing. And I like knowing how things work." A screw comes loose. "Hand me the small flathead."
I look over everything in front of me, find the flathead, and hand it over. "Did you always? Like fixing things?"
"Uhh, yeah. Since I was a kid." Short, but not cold. "Take these apart, put 'em back together. Drove my mother crazy, I'd have the whole—" He stops. Just for a second. Then keeps going, lighter, past it. "Anyway. Yeah."
My mother. The beautiful woman from the photo. Maybe it’s a touchy subject for everyone in this house. I choose not to push on that subject, but I want to know these people. I want to know why one of them is kind to me. So I keep going.
"Where do you even get all this stuff to fix?"
"It's whatever's broken." A dry glance up.
"You'd be amazed what people throw out. Coffee maker last week just needed the reservoir descaled.
Perfectly good machine, in the trash." He fits a screw back into place.
"Drives me nuts. Everything's fixable if you slow down enough to see what actually went wrong with it. "
I think about that longer than I should. "What if it's not, though? What if it's just—done."
"Then I strip it for the parts that still work." He says it easy, no idea he's said anything. "Nothing's a total loss. There's always something worth keeping."
I look at the row of screws under my hand and don't say anything for a second. "You're good at it," I say finally. "Fixing things."
"I'm patient. That's most of it." He holds his hand out for a screwdriver and I put it in his palm, and it's such an ordinary thing that something in my chest goes soft and stupid.
And that's the problem. Because it's easy, because he's kind and I can't work out why, I want more of it.
"What's it like? Having brothers. Having a—" I’m too far into the sentence to deviate now. "A family."
His hands go still on the toaster.
I sense the shift in the air immediately.
"Why do you care?" Flat. Then, sharper, the temperature dropping all at once.
I shake my head, shrugging. “I just–”
"Listen, you don't get to sit in my kitchen and interview me, okay?” He raises his voice and pinches the bridge of his nose. “I'm not one of your—I'm not here to be your fucking friend. Christ. Enough with the damn questions!"
His voice echoes around us, drowning out the gentle sounds of the radio.
I flinch—my whole body jerking back. I reach forward to catch myself on the counter and the screws scatter to the floor. My heart lurches up hard—and then I'm just frozen, staring at the counter, and my eyes are burning, hot and fast.
How stupid… how fucking stupid can I be? Pushing him, pushing him. What did I expect to happen?
"Sorry," I get out, barely. "Sorry. You're right."
I bend down and start picking the screws up off the floor, one-handed, my injured one not quite steady, and I put them back in their line biggest to smallest. I swallow the painful lump in my throat and work overtime not to let a single tear drop down my cheeks.
The lesson lands clean. Don't ask. Don't reach. Be small, be useful, be quiet, take up no room. I let the shell close back over me like water.
The kitchen's gone silent. When I finally risk a glance up, Calder's not working anymore. He's watching me, and there's something awful on his face—like he just watched something happen that he can't unsee, like the size of my reaction told him something the questions never could.
"Hey." His voice is different now. Careful. "It's—that was—" He stops. Drags a hand through his hair. Tries again. "You can ask about the toaster. If you want."
"It's okay." I keep my eyes on the screws. "I don't need to."
He opens his mouth, shuts it. Something works behind his eyes until he sets down the screwdriver. "Alright," he says. "Come on. Get up."
He gathers all the pieces and stray parts for the microwave and moves everything to the side. Even my tiny collection of screws.
I nod and slide off the stool onto my feet, not looking at him.
"I'm making dinner." He's already moving toward the fridge, pulling things out, giving me his back, giving me room. "It's early, I don't care. And I'm not doing it while you sit there looking like that." A pause. Then, quieter, not quite an order: "Will you help me?"
"Okay," I say.
I don't wonder why he's asking. He said get up, so I get up. That's all this is now and I won’t forget it.
We cook.
He hands me an onion and a board and a knife. "Small dice. Doesn't have to be pretty."
I nod and start cutting awkwardly around my injured hand. I do a shitty job but make up for it by going over the onion over and over again until the pieces are small enough for his liking.
"There's a stool right there if you want it."
I stay standing.
"Suit yourself." A minute later: "You want the radio up?"
I shake my head.