Chapter 9
Fable
“Push in a little farther. It’ll fit,” Theo assures me. Molten lava floods my cheeks as I follow his instructions, pushing until the quick-connect slides into place. “That’s perfect.”
The back of my neck prickles with warmth, and I’m going to blame it on how close we are.
With both of our heads inside the small cabinet, our knees pressed together, and our arms brushing every few seconds, it’s a wonder I’m even hearing his words at this point.
If I don’t get some distance between us, I might overheat.
I tried holding my breath for a while, to avoid inhaling his summer-sunshine scent, because it’s doing weird things to my brain—like making me wonder what kind of soap he uses and if I can buy the same one—but then I felt even more lightheaded.
I’m doomed either way. Letting him into this house might be my downfall.
“Looks like you had just enough pipe left to make it work.” He slides his fingers over the connection, his forearm flexing a few inches from my face. I have the irrational urge to sink my teeth into it.
“Yep. Great,” I chirp, clearing my throat.
Mocha eyes lock with mine in the dim cabinet. “We should be good to go this time. Where’s the main shutoff to the house?”
“Outside.” I slide back and gulp down some fresh, not-Theo-drenched air. But when I go to stand, he places a hand on my knee.
“You stay. Make sure everything looks good when I turn it back on.”
While he’s gone, I collect the scraps of PVC from under the sink.
Turns out I’d made so many cuts to the pipe coming out of the wall that we barely had enough left for the new shutoff valve.
If I’d cut any more, the next step would’ve been to take apart the drywall behind the cabinet and replace the whole pipe in the wall.
So admittedly, maybe letting him in here wasn’t my downfall.
As long as I don’t have to spend any more time with our faces three inches apart.
“How’s it looking?” he calls, walking back down the hallway.
I peek under the sink. “Good.”
He plants his hands on the doorframe. “Use your fingers. See if it’s wet.”
The lava is back in my cheeks. I lean under the cabinet before he notices. “Everything seems good.”
“Perfect. Then turn the valve to let the water through.” He kneels beside me and reaches over my body to the faucet, and for a moment all I can see are gray scrubs and strong thighs.
A stark reminder that I was 1,000 percent bluffing with the ugly scrubs comment.
I swallow, snapping my attention back to my task.
Water flows softly through the pipe and Theo says, “Okay, check for leaks. Even the tiniest bit.”
I touch everywhere I can and listen closely, but everything seems dry. “I think we’re good.”
When I slide out from under the cabinet, that lopsided grin is aimed at me, dimples on display and hair curling playfully at his temples. He sits back on his heels, his broad shoulders taking up most of my tiny bathroom, and I’m painfully aware it’s only the two of us here.
“You did it,” he says brightly.
“We did it,” I correct. “Thank you.”
He glances behind him dramatically. “Did you just . . . thank me? Has the world ended? Are you really Fable?” He grabs my shoulder desperately. “Are you being mind-controlled?”
I roll my eyes, but I can’t stop my smile. “I take it back then.”
“Oh, no you can’t.” He stands and reaches for my hand, helping me up. “I’m treasuring that thank-you for the rest of my life. Getting it embroidered right on these scrubs you love so much.”
“It’s truly extraordinary how quickly you can shape-shift from decent to infuriating.”
“I have a gift,” he muses.
Together, we fill the shopping bag with trash and set the tools on the counter, then he follows me out to the living room. I walk quickly toward the door, hoping he won’t ask any questions about the state of the rest of the house. If I’m lucky, he’ll mosey right out and go on his merry way.
But my luck is shit these days.
“What’s the story with the stairs?”
I turn to find him surveying them. He picks up one side of a broken board and examines where it’s still partially connected to the frame. When he sets a hand on the railing to lean closer, it falters under his weight. He pulls back. “Shit. Fabes.”
“I know.” I busy myself with rearranging the books in front of the fan.
Rounding the steps, he stares up at them from underneath. “I think every single one needs to be replaced.” Dread sinks heavily in my stomach. That was a lovely two-minute span of feeling like I’d made progress on the to-do list. “Did Gramps build these?”
“No. I think they’re original.”
He wiggles a few of them, standing on his tiptoes to reach higher, and that’s when a pop and snap echoes through the cabin. It ends in a bleak silence. We both freeze, Theo with a newly loose board in his hand and me with a waterlogged book in mine.
All I can do is stare. This place is crumbling right before my eyes. That fissure in my heart splits wide open.
As if he can hear it happen, Theo walks toward me, brows dipped with concern. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to break it.”
I blink back the burn in my eyes. “Not your fault.” My voice cracks on the edges. “It was bound to break anyway.”
His hands fold around my shoulders, and he lowers his head to meet my gaze. “It’s okay, Fabes. I can fix them.”
I swallow back the emotions bubbling up my throat. “No. This is my project. I can do it. I need . . .” I straighten my spine. “I need to do it myself.”
Theo’s expression sharpens. His gaze tracks over my eyes, my cheeks, my mouth, and down to where his hands still cup my shoulders. It feels intimate in a way that should be uncomfortable. I should be pushing him away and asking him to leave.
But there’s something safe and nostalgic and warm in the small space that separates us, and I can’t find it in me to step away.
“Let me help you,” he whispers.
A hollow feeling worms its way into my chest when I remember the words I heard him say at the hardware store. The words he probably didn’t mean for me to hear.
But what if I need your help?
I didn’t let myself acknowledge it at the time. I shoved it far away, under a rock, in the next county, where I didn’t have to think about that soft plea threading through his voice.
But it comes crawling back to my mind now.
He needs my help.
And when I needed his this morning, he showed up—left work, got supplies, and was here in a handful of minutes. He dropped everything for me.
Glancing around the cabin, I catalog all the work that needs to be done.
The railing, steps, hallway, the now-soaked drywall in the bedroom.
Between needing to do the labor but also needing to be at work to pay for supplies, I can’t keep up.
I’m spinning in circles. But with two of us working on it . . . maybe it’s feasible.
It could be mutually beneficial. It doesn’t have to mean I’m letting him fix everything for me. I’m basically paying for it with my time. I think? It’s not the same as my parents cleaning up my messes because he’s getting something out of it. This time, I would be working for the help. Right?
I meet his gaze. “Do you know anything about insulation?”
He releases my shoulders. “Some. Why?”
“What about drywall?”
“I’m decent.”
“And stair railings?”
He turns to look at it, then back at me. “What is this about?”
I wait for a beat. For a sign from the universe—a divine voice, a lightning strike, or the ghost of Christmas past—anything to warn me this is a bad idea. But it never shows. “And what did you tell Arthur about . . . us?”
Pink stains his cheeks. “I haven’t told him yet. He wasn’t at work yesterday afternoon, but I promise to tell him the truth today.”
I walk to the kitchen and fill the kettle, needing something to do with my hands while I gather possible plans.
Theo joins me. “What are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking . . . about a trade of sorts.” Turning the knob on the gas stove, I watch it ignite.
“What kind of trade?”
I wave a hand around the room. “A-frame work for . . . girlfriending?”
Hope flares in his eyes. His answer is immediate. “I’m in.”
“Well, I don’t know if I’m in yet. I’m still thinking.” Blowing out a breath, I reach for my spiral notebook on the counter. “What exactly does the fake girlfriend role involve?”
“Um . . .” He leans back against the counter, crossing his arms. “I hadn’t really gotten that far into it.”
“What was your plan then?”
He drags a hand through his hair. “I didn’t have one yet.”
The kettle squeals and I grab my hand-painted cat mug from the drying rack, dropping an Earl Grey tea bag inside. Theo opens a few cabinets until he finds a forest-green mug and sets it beside mine. I give him a tea bag as well.
We work in silence making tea together, and once our mugs are ready, I motion toward the living room. “Come on. I have ten minutes before I need to leave for work.”
After moving the rest of the wet books, I nestle into the corner of the couch, tucking my legs under me.
When Theo sits sideways on the opposite end, I tighten my grip on my warm mug, hoping it’ll calm my racing pulse.
Whatever I’m on the precipice of right now, it feels big. And slightly terrifying.
Maybe I’m just nervous that someone is here at all. I’ve kept this place to myself for months, not wanting anyone else to see that it’s a husk of what it used to be when Gramps lived here. It’s a space for grieving. Being alone. Thinking. Letting the darkness swallow me up sometimes.
But now Theo’s here, sitting across from me in this quiet, barely furnished room, beside piles of unfinished projects and haphazardly stacked boxes of books, with a cup of tea on his bent knee.
Morning sunlight floats through the wide windows at the front of the A-frame, reflecting off his smooth, sharp jaw and making his eyes shine even brighter.
And this place somehow feels less lonely with him in it.