8 - Silas #3
“I draft NDAs in my sleep,” Lane waved him off. “Trust me, unless your contract specifically covers 'spilling tea during a mid-game beer run,' you're legally cleared to tell me just how badly Dax screwed up.”
“Who said I screwed up?” he muttered.
“The lead-in to this topic,” Lane replied with a raised eyebrow.
Dax scoffed. “It was nothing major.”
“Bear wanted to meticulously scope the old copper lines with a camera first,” I explained, ignoring the glare Dax shot me. “But Miller here got bored waiting. He grabbed a Sawzall and sliced clean through the main riser because he thought he knew a shortcut.”
Lane gasped dramatically, then giggled with delight.
“It was a calculated risk,” Dax mumbled, scowling at his hand of cards as though they were to blame.
“He flooded the entire crawlspace with four inches of rusty water,” Bear chimed in, deadpan as flat as a midwestern highway. He turned his head to face Dax, looking as annoyed as he did the day it happened. “You blamed the pipe for being ‘structurally uncooperative’.”
Lane now burst into unabashed laughter, nearly dropping her cards.
I chuckled, and as I looked over at Dax, I could’ve sworn that some of that misery he’d had etched on his face all day had started to crack.
He looked a bit less tense, and I was happy that, even for a moment, there was some of his old self beneath all the recent attitude.
It was nice to see him look familiar again.
And against it all, Lane’s voice, a bright sound echoing in the room.
“So what you’re saying is that Dax plays cards like he handles power tools—with blind aggression and no backup plan?” she asked.
“Hey,” Dax said, sounding indignant but there was a twitch at the corner of his mouth. “The pipe was uncooperative.”
The rest of the round played out with more casual laughter and a few stories shared between not just us but Lane too. I was learning more about the infallible Nancy Mercer, who featured prominently in Lane’s stories much like the three of us recurred in one another’s.
Hazardous work buddies, in their own way, really.
I loved listening to Lane talk. Whether about some unbelievable case she was still chewing on, or even her college days, she had no shortage of interesting things to say. It helped that, when she was really excited about something, her green eyes turned bright and a soft pink flushed her cheeks.
Or, when she was really paying attention to something someone else was saying, she leaned her chin in her hand and tilted her head to the side, locking in with genuine focus.
At one point, she’d gone to get a bottle of wine and some beers and I instantly jumped up to help, barely paying attention to the shared look between Dax and Bear.
I wanted to do more for her, though. I wanted to sweep away the wayward strand of hair from her neck.
I wanted to run my thumb across her flushed cheek and feel the warmth of her blush.
I wanted to properly study her eyes in the different lighting and see how many different shades of green were hidden there.
But instead, I just helped her juggle glasses and bottles.
We finished the beers by our third round, and I stopped Lane from getting up again when she offered to get some more.
But before I could offer, Dax interrupted.
“I got it,” he said.
She offered him a grateful smile, then went back to debating Bear about whether the city’s ancient drainage infrastructure or the local ward alderman's zoning corruption was more to blame for the basement water issues.
I watched as Dax moved like a ghost to the kitchen. I knew that he probably wanted to be alone and away from the talking and noise. But I also knew that somewhere along the line, that little glimpse of the old Dax had slipped back behind his mask and I needed to know what was up with that.
So I followed him, excusing myself from the table.
He was leaning against the counter, aggressively tearing the cardboard packaging off a fresh six-pack of beer. Yeah, something was definitely off here.
“Damn, what did Lane’s beer do to you?” I asked, trying to lighten things up.
Dax barely acknowledged me, wedging a line of bottle necks between his fingers. “Not enough, actually.”
He made to move past me but I grabbed his arm.
He wrestled out of my grip but didn’t leave just yet.
I tried to spot the old Dax somewhere beneath the scars and the wall he kept up for everyone, even me nowadays.
I searched for the little kid I used to play tag and build hideouts from cardboard boxes with. He wasn’t there.
“Look, man, I don’t know what you’ve got going on in your life right now. But if there’s anything I can help with…” I let the sentence trail off, unsure of how to even finish it.
Dax’s jaw ticked.
I waited until the very last second for him to say something. But when he did, it was just to add another brick to that wall.
“Yeah, you can help me out with something. You can butt out of my life and mind your business. That’ll help.” Then he turned around and stalked back to the living room.