24. Sabrina #2
Ivy had already lost interest in the adults, her attention captured by the equipment in the corner of the studio. She ran over to examine the robotic arm I’d been using for precision work, Sir Squishington dragging behind her.
“What’s this thing?”
“It’s a robotic arm,” Killian explained, getting up to join her. “It helps Mommy with her experiments. When she needs to hold something very still or move something very precisely, she can use this instead of her hands.”
“Does it have a name?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Everything needs a name.” Ivy studied the arm seriously, her head tilted to one side, her expression grave with the weight of this important decision. “I’m going to call him Uncle Clank.”
“Uncle Clank?”
“Because he’s clanky. Listen.” She pressed a button and the arm made a small mechanical sound. “See? Clank. And he’s like family because he lives in Mommy’s special room and helps her with her work. So he’s an uncle. Uncle Clank.”
I started laughing. There was no stopping it.
The laugh built from somewhere deep in my chest and burst out of me, and I laughed until tears streamed down my face and I was making undignified snorting sounds that I would have been embarrassed about if I could have stopped long enough to feel embarrassed.
“Mommy, are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I gasped, trying to catch my breath. “Uncle Clank is just a very good name.”
“I know. I’m good at names. I named Sir Cuddles too, remember? And Sir Squishington. I’m an expert at naming things.”
“You really are.”
Tessa had disappeared and returned with two paper bags from the place on Main Street that made the good dumplings, and somehow we ended up sitting on the studio floor eating out of containers while Ivy introduced Sir Squishington to Uncle Clank.
“They’re going to be best friends,” she announced through a mouthful of dumpling. “Sir Squishington is teaching Uncle Clank how to give hugs. It’s hard because Uncle Clank only has one arm, but Sir Squishington has eight, so it balances out.”
“Robotic arms aren’t really built for hugging,” Killian said.
“Then you should build a better one. One that’s soft and can hug people when they’re sad.”
“I’ll add it to my project list.”
“Good. Uncle Clank will be the test subject.”
The afternoon light was golden through the windows, spilling across the floor where we sat, turning everything warm and soft.
I looked at my daughter with her ridiculous octopus, at my sister-in-law picking through the container for the last potsticker, at my husband sitting cross-legged on the floor of the studio he’d built for me, and I felt everything settle into place in my chest.
This was what I’d wanted. This was what I’d been fighting for, even when I didn’t know how to fight anymore. A family. A life. A place where I could be all the different parts of myself without having to choose.
Killian caught me looking and smiled, and the expression on his face made my heart stutter. He was looking at me the way he had back when everything was new and I was still the most interesting problem in any room he walked into.
“What?” I asked.
“Nothing. Just you.”
“You’re going to have to do better than that.”
“It’s the only answer that matters.”
Tessa made a gagging sound. “You two are disgusting. I’m going to take Ivy outside before I get diabetes from all this sweetness.”
“Come on, Ivy,” she said, standing up and brushing dumpling crumbs off her dress. “Let’s go see if Grandma has cookies.”
“Does she have cookies?”
“Grandma always has cookies.”
They disappeared, Ivy’s chatter fading as they headed toward the main house, and I was left alone with Killian and the remains of our dumpling feast.
“I should clean this up,” I said, starting to gather the containers.
“Leave it. I’ll get it later.”
“We can’t just leave food containers on the floor.”
“We absolutely can. It’s our studio. We make the rules.”
I laughed and stood up anyway, because old habits died hard and because I wanted to grab my notes from his desk while I was thinking about it. There was a specific analysis I wanted to revisit, and I’d left the hard copy in his drawer.
“I’m going to grab those papers from your desk,” I said over my shoulder. “The notes from my original methodology. I want to cross-reference something.”
“They should be in the left drawer, near the back.”
The left drawer was crammed with documents, a chaotic mix of his work and mine that had accumulated over the past few weeks. I rifled through them, looking for my familiar handwriting, pushing aside printouts and reports and random scraps of paper.
My hand closed on a page that didn’t belong.
I pulled it out, frowning at the unfamiliar handwriting. No, not unfamiliar. Killian’s handwriting, which I’d recognize anywhere after years of deciphering his terrible penmanship on grocery lists and birthday cards.
I looked at the heading.
Things I Hate About Sabrina.
I read it again, certain I’d misunderstood. But no, it was right there in his messy scrawl, a list titled with my name and the word hate in the same sentence.
The warmth that had been building in my chest went cold.
I picked up the paper and walked back across the studio, my footsteps slow and deliberate, the document held in front of me so he could see what I’d found. Killian looked up from where he was stacking the empty containers, and his expression shifted when he saw what I was holding.
The color drained from his face so fast I thought he might pass out.
“Fuck,” he whispered.