12. The Logic of Hands
Chapter twelve
The Logic of Hands
Mandy
I am currently wearing a gray t-shirt that could double as a tent and a pair of boxers that aren’t mine and have no business being this comfortable.
At least I have my own underwear on underneath which is its own strange victory.
My hair is twisted into a knot on top of my head with a pencil I found behind the toaster, and I'm pretty sure I have a smudge of graphite on my cheek from a late-night sketching session.
I am a walking billboard for professional collapse, yet I'm standing in Sterling's kitchen, in Sterling’s clothes, like I belong here, watching him crack eggs with one hand while the morning sun aggressively highlights every defined area of his bare back.
It's the efficiency that gets me. He doesn't fumble.
He doesn't hesitate. Every movement is a study in calculated grace, the kind of muscle memory that comes from years of high-stakes precision and living in a space that doesn't permit clutter.
He slides the shells into the trash and reaches for the whisk, his forearm flexing, the white line of a scar on his tanned skin catching the light filtering through the massive warehouse windows.
It's a quiet, domestic display of competence that unleashes those traitorous butterflies into my stomach.
“You're staring again, Sparkles,” he says, not even looking up from the bowl. “I'm starting to think you're just here for a free show.”
“I'm assessing,” I counter, leaning against the cold granite of the island, trying to look far more composed than I feel in his oversized sleepwear. “Assessing. That's what I'm calling it. It's part of my process. I have to analyze the structural integrity of the omelet before consumption.”
Sterling pauses, the whisk mid-rotation, and finally cuts his eyes toward me.
There's a ghost of a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth, the kind that suggests he knows exactly how much he's distracting me.
“Assessing. Right. Would you prefer I provide a detailed visual inventory of my technique, or are you just hungry?
Because you're oscillating at a frequency that suggests low blood sugar or a looming panic attack.”
“I'd prefer you not be so good at it,” I mutter, looking down at the counter where my phone is currently buzzing with the persistent energy of a small, angry insect.
“It makes my inability to boil water without a manual feel like a character flaw. And it makes it very hard to focus on the fact that my life is still a logistical nightmare.”
I pick up the phone. It's a text from my mother, followed immediately by a call.
The timing is impeccable, as if she has a sensor calibrated to the exact moment I feel even remotely settled.
I sigh, the sound heavy and resigned, and hit the green button.
I know better than to let it go to voicemail; Carol Peterson views an unanswered call as a personal challenge to her authority and a sign of imminent kidnapping.
“Mandy, darling!” her voice chirps with a level of caffeine-fueled enthusiasm that makes my teeth ache.
“I was just talking to your father about how wonderful dinner was.
Sterling is such a find. Truly. Your dad said he hasn't seen a young man with that kind of posture since the Bush administration.”
“He's right here, Mom. I'll tell him he has the Presidential Seal of Approval for his spine,” I say, watching Sterling slide the eggs into a hot pan with a flick of his wrist. The sizzle fills the silence of the loft, a domestic soundtrack I'm becoming dangerously used to.
The scent of butter and herbs begins to drift upward, warm and grounding.
“Well, tell him he's invited to the gallery opening on Friday,” she continues, her tone shifting into that high-pressure executive register she uses when she's already made a decision for me.
“It's the new exhibit at the Steiner. Your father and I wouldn't dream of going without our favorite new couple.
It's a formal affair, so tell him to wear the suit I'm sure he owns. Firemen always look so dashing in suits, don’t you think, it's the shoulders, really.”
I should say no. I should tell her we have plans, or that Sterling is on shift, or that I've suddenly developed a rare, localized allergy to abstract oil paintings.
But I'm watching his hand on the pan handle—the knuckles, the tendons, the way the heel of his palm catches the light—and I'm thinking about how those same hands would feel if they weren't on my waist like last night but actually on me, sliding up under the hem of this enormous t-shirt, his thumbs tracing the ridge of my hip bones, his mouth somewhere near my collarbone, and I would make a sound I've never—
"—the Steiner, Mandy, are you listening?"
"Sure, Mom," I say. "We'll be there."
I set the phone face-down on the granite.
Sterling tilts the pan. I watch his wrist. I can still feel the ghost of it—not even the real memory now but the invented one, the one I just made up in the space of four seconds, which is somehow worse.
I just agreed to another evening of his hand at the small of my back, his jaw against my temple, the performance of a closeness I keep setting up accidentally on purpose.
“Gallery opening?” Sterling asks, sliding a plate of perfectly scrambled eggs and toasted sourdough in front of me. “Should I start practicing my 'thoughtful art critic' face? Or should I just nod at things and say 'the use of negative space is bold'?”
“I'm sorry,” I whisper, pushing the eggs around with a fork, the guilt finally catching up to the hunger. “I didn't even process it. I just... I said yes. I can call her back. I can tell her you have a departmental training or a very demanding cat to groom. I can get us out of it.”
Sterling leans over the counter, his face inches from mine.
I can smell the cedar and the faint, lingering scent of coffee.
He reaches out, his thumb catching a stray hair that's escaped my messy knot, and tucks it behind my ear.
The contact is brief, barely skin against skin and because my brain decided to take a vacation to fantasy land for forty-five seconds I lose track of what I was about to say.
“Don't worry about it, Sparkles,” he says, his voice dropping into that low, steady register that makes me feel like the world isn't actually falling apart around my ears. “It's just another gig. We're good at this, remember? We have the history. We have the Jazz Bar Incident. We're pros.”
He says it like it's a mission briefing, but his hazel eyes stay on mine a second too long for mere professionalism.
I want to ask him if he's still performing when the audience is gone.
But I just nod and eat my eggs, the silence in the loft turning heavy and thick with the unspoken weight of the things we aren't saying.