Chapter 8
Chapter
Eight
HIM
I plug the cord back into the outlet and slide the oven back into place. Sabotaging the heating element with no one noticing was no easy feat in such a small apartment. But fortunately, I learned a thing or two from my time as a freelance repairman—like how easy it is to get in and out of people’s houses with a little tinkering .
I also learned a thing or two about human nature through observation. People can be predictable creatures of habit, always preferring to stick to a schedule rather than risk any deviation. This is because schedules provide a sense of control and predictability in an often-chaotic world. And that predictability makes my job easier, that’s for damn sure.
Gathering my tools, I look around to make sure everything is in order. Stilling my breath for a few moments, I listen for any sounds of movement. But there’s nothing aside from the soft breathing coming from my Little Finch’s bedroom. It’s dawn, and the sun is just beginning to rise. Her alarm won’t go off for a few more hours.
Quietly, I make my way out of the kitchen and creep into her bathroom. I open the cabinet above the sink and find mostly run-of-the-mill things: vitamins, bandages, birth control, and sleeping pills. Having trouble sleeping, Little Finch? Then I notice it in plain sight—her prescription medication tucked away behind the bottles of supplements. I grab it and unscrew the lid.
I have to be careful; the last thing I need is for her to come in here while I’m swapping more of her pills with placebos.
After shutting the cabinet, I tiptoe out of her bathroom and into her bedroom where she sleeps peacefully, unaware of my presence. I stand by her bed, watching her. I contemplate reaching out to touch her face, but now is not the time for such a gesture—not when she still has no idea who I really am.
My heart aches as I take in the sight of her, a longing deep within me that I’m unable to fully comprehend. Then I slip out of her window and step out into the sticky summer morning air. As I ascend the fire escape, my thoughts linger on her. Someday, she will find out about my feelings. Find out that we are meant to be. But for now, I must stick to my plan.
I head home and start getting ready for work. Today is the Fallbank Annual Craft Fair. I have to write an article about it, but more importantly, Gwen will be there. And after she finds out her oven is no longer in operation, I’ll be the one to swoop in and offer to help her out.
I am a splendid cook, after all.
I turn into the parking lot of the Fallbank Community Center. The organizers have moved the craft fair indoors for the past few years. Too many weather-related incidents in the past because of the increasingly temperamental Pennsylvania weather, I’m told. William claimed it had been a total disaster four years ago, something about a tornado warning.
Right now, I find myself wishing a cyclone would drop on top of the facility as I search for a place to park. After several minutes of circling the lot, I finally find a spot. Is this event always this busy? And here I thought I arrived early enough—not that I want to stick around longer than necessary. But Blake is a diligent worker who goes above and beyond.
I sling my bag around my shoulder and step out of my car. Fastening on a friendly smile, I nod at the couple walking past as I walk toward the community center. There are a few souls brave—or foolish—enough to set up their booths out front underneath the awning. People mill around and children laugh and scamper about. Internally, I sigh, knowing that this is going to be a long day.
Entering the building, I make my way to the gymnasium, where the fair is already in full swing. Limited recreational activities in small towns make events like these major draws. Through the halls, I weave around the people browsing and purchasing handmade crafts of all kinds. Occasionally, I force myself to look interested to avoid drawing unnecessary attention to myself.
As I’m about to go into the gym, a voice calls out my name from down the hall. “Hey, Blake!”
It’s Colton Avender, the freelance photographer that the Chronicle hired for the event. He looks relieved to have caught my attention and his expression perks up as he jogs toward me. I can’t help but notice how his brown curls stick to his forehead, suggesting he’s not used to the humid weather. And even though we’re about the same height and age, our similarities end there. His fashion sense is abhorrent, with a striped shirt haphazardly tucked into his form-fitting jeans.
At least I try to look professional , I think.
He grins widely, like he’s an old friend of mine from high school or something. His demeanor is off-putting, but I maintain a warm smile as he pulls his camera from his bag. “I’m glad you’re here. We have a lot to get done.” He holds it and caresses it like it’s a beloved pet. “So, where do you wanna start? I already snapped some pics while I waited.”
I grab my notebook from my bag and survey the area, tapping the pen against my leg. “Let’s start there, in the gym. We can walk around, talk with some vendors. That way, we can get some interesting stories and photos.”
Colton, his freckles glowing, seems happy to oblige. He follows me into the gym as I navigate introductions with the vendors. While I take notes and shoot questions at them, he takes photos here and there. Though his presence is annoying, it’s thankfully not a burden. I’m not much of a team player, and I’d rather get enough material without interference. Thankfully, people are more than willing to talk.
Finishing the article should be a breeze.
After recording some funny anecdotes from a couple peddling their lurid photography, Colton chats with them about lenses and other nonsense as I go to the end of the gym—where I see a table with two women behind it. Gwen is one of them. As I approach, Jennifer Breck looks up from her jewelry and smiles shyly. Gwen and I briefly make eye contact as she handles a customer.
“H-hello,” Jen greets, fumbling over her words like a scared rabbit.
“Hello, Miss Breck,” I say, doing my best to put her at ease. “I’m writing an article for the Fallbank Chronicle, and I was wondering if you’d like to explain a little about your craft.”
She pauses for a moment before she responds, taking a deep breath. “Well, my craft is all about creating unique art pieces using items from nature. Like leaves, stones, and wood. Many from the nearby woods and riverbeds. I love to let the materials tell me what they want to become—like I’m having conversations with them.” Her face flushes, her chin dipping from embarrassment. “I-I know that sounds weird.”
“No, no. I think it’s really interesting,” I say, jotting down notes. “Please continue. How did you get started in this craft?”
She smiles softly. “My mother was an artist. She taught me everything she knew about crafting with nature. And soon, it became my passion. I guess you could say it’s in my blood!”
I chuckle, and she joins in with a playful giggle, appearing to feel lighter. I write everything I can down, about the different stones she works with, their metaphysical benefits, and how she incorporates them into her pieces. She radiates excitement from every word, her passion for her craft momentous. She then grabs a box from underneath the table and pulls out a necklace.
“It’s gorgeous,” I remark truthfully. It seems to almost sparkle in the light, radiating a sort of ethereal glow. “How much is it?”
“Fifteen dollars,” she replies. “I know, it’s a lot, but?—”
“I think you’re underselling yourself,” I say, grabbing my wallet from my pocket. I hand her a twenty-dollar bill. “Keep the change, Miss Breck. Think of it as a tip for being such a good interview subject.”
Gwen stares at me with unexpected tenderness as Jen wraps the necklace and puts it in a delicate gift bag.
“Thank you so much!” Jen says.
“You’re welcome, Miss Breck. You deserve it.” I give her a warm smile. “Your art is really special. Good luck with your future projects!” We bid each other farewell, and I turn to Gwen, who is still watching me with that same look in her eyes. “Something the matter? ”
“Nothing,” she answers after a moment of consideration. “I just think you’re a good person.”
“Thanks,” I say, trying to remain humble. “I try.”
She chuckles, but her face goes taut. “It wouldn’t hurt if more people followed in your footsteps.”
We stand there for a few moments, her gaze never leaving mine. Part of me wants to tell her everything will be okay, and that whatever cloud is hanging over her can fuck right off. But before I can say anything, a group of kids comes running past us. They’re laughing and joking around, seemingly oblivious to the heaviness in the air between us.
The moment shatters, and she steps around the table. “Do you want to go somewhere?”
I blink, unsure of her meaning. “Sure. Where do you want to go?”
“Outside,” she answers, glancing at Jen. “Do you mind if I take a smoke break?”
Jen shakes her head. “No, go ahead. I’ll be okay.”
Gwen walks away from the booth, and I trail behind. Colton is munching on a fancy artisan cookie from a food vendor when I tap his shoulder. “I’m gonna go take a break. I assume you’ll be fine on your own?”
He steals a glimpse of Gwen, his face a mess of confusion, and shrugs. “Yeah, I’ve got it handled. I got some more pics to take, anyway.”
I roll my eyes and catch up with Gwen, who effortlessly makes her way through the crowd and exits out a side door. Leading me to a small concrete patio near some trees, she sits on the bench and motions for me to do the same. She produces a pack of cigarettes from her pocket and offers me one. I shake my head, and she takes out her lighter.
“Thanks,” she says, lighting up her cigarette. “I needed the company.” She takes a long drag and exhales the smoke.
I study her, watching her as she takes another puff. So she smokes again; that explains the faint smell of tobacco in her apartment earlier. Seems like she’s replaced her nail-picking habit . “If there’s something on your mind, you can tell me. Or if you need to vent …”
She looks at me, contemplating her words. “I suppose it couldn’t hurt to let off a little steam,” she says, taking another drag before pushing the smoke out in a long stream. “First, I woke up this morning and my fucking oven stopped working. Second, this jerk keeps coming into the video store just to be a pain in the ass before closing time. Third …” She pauses, clutching her pack of cigarettes with white knuckles. “Someone keeps … harassing me. And I ended up spending money I don’t have at the pawn shop yesterday on a taser.”
I saw her and her coworker, Nick Campbell, walk into the store during one of my rounds. When he placed a comforting hand on her shoulder, I wanted to tear his fucking arm off. I suppress the murderous urge to rip the kid apart and lean closer to her. “Hey, don’t worry. Things are gonna get better. We can figure this out—together. You don’t have to do this alone, you know.”
Gwen nods, her lips pressed into a thin line as she gazes out across the parking lot. “I have a microwave. But I don’t want to spend money on soggy, reheated takeout until it’s fixed. It’s out of my budget, and?—”
“No worries, Mia. I can take care of you.” I grin, chancing at rubbing comforting circles with the pad of my thumb on her upper back. “You can hang out at my apartment, and I’ll cook you food until Nancy sorts her shit out. She’s sweet, but a total scatterbrain, so it might be a while.”
Finally, her frown breaks, and she laughs, the sound like honey to my ears. “You a good cook, Mr. Sullivan?”
I beam. “It’s been said.”
We stay like this for a bit, and she doesn’t resist my touch or reject my offer outright. She smokes the last of her cigarette before grinding it out and throwing it away in the nearby trashcan. She looks like she wants to say something, so I decide to prod. Get inside her head.
“What is it?” I ask.
She sighs. “It’s just … The world is a pretty fucked up place right now. And it’s easy to feel like there’s nothing you can do to change it. But you—you’re proof that one person can make a difference. I think that’s important.”
I smile. “Thanks. That means a lot.”
“I mean it, though.” She puts a hand on my knee. “You’re a good person, Blake. And I’m glad you’re in my life.”
Oh, you have no idea. Not at all, my Little Finch . I rest my hand on hers. “Me too.”
Crimson colors her cheeks before she abruptly stands and stretches. For a moment, it looks like she has something else to say, but ultimately decides against it—for now. “I think I should head back inside. See you tomorrow?”
Her proposition is almost shy, and I can’t help but grin. “If you want, you can come over to my apartment later and I can make you dinner. Maybe we can watch some scary movies ?” I wiggle my fingers, emphasizing the words, hoping that it’ll keep her mood light.
She laughs and grins. “Sounds like a plan. I’ll bring the popcorn. See you at seven?”
“Deal,” I say, watching as she walks back to the community center. “See you then!”
A rush surges through my chest as I soak in the warmth of her smile. I’ve been wanting to spend more time with her, so obviously I would not waste the opportunity to seize upon her misfortune—even if I was the one to cause some of it. I can’t believe she told me she’s glad I’m in her life. And that she wants to come over to my apartment and watch scary movies.
Fuck, I can’t wait .