Chapter 7
Byron was doing his best to be casual, going about fixing up the easiest section of the hallway first, but every time Abigail emerged from the kitchen or the living room to do something, he would whip his headphones off and ask if she was all right. She welcomed his check-ins—it was good to see that despite their very tense previous encounter, he was still willing to be in her home, and she was able to actually speak when she saw him. The way he had leaned in over her still popped up in her mind without warning, and, again, while it wasn’t unwelcome, it was inconvenient.
The thought had struck her as she stood from the table in the kitchen where she had spent the morning drawing and making lists. Her sketches were getting better, though they still weren’t good enough for her to want to show Sid. There was movement at the doorway in the corner of her eye; she looked up to see Byron hovering awkwardly.
"Hey, what’s up?" she asked, smiling.
He gestured over his shoulder. "I’m about to pull down the rest of that drywall, it might be a little loud. Also it’s about to get very dusty so I figured that maybe I’d make a cup of tea before it gets too much of a health hazard to drink it in there?"
Abigail smiled, "Sure, I’d love one. What are you thinking?"
"Well, honestly, I’m pretty tired, so a strong black tea with sugar is probably what I’m angling for."
"You sure you wouldn’t prefer a coffee?" Abigail asked, laughing.
He smiled, "Nah, I like that we seem to always drink tea together."
She felt her smile falter. What did that mean?
"Oh," she said, flustered, "well, I mean... I do drink coffee, I mean—if you only do the tea thing because you think I don’t...?"
Byron’s smile widened. "No, I know you drink coffee, but I like that we seem to have this little tea ritual whenever I’m over. So, tea?"
Abigail nodded, still feeling flustered, and turned his words over in her mind. He liked having a tea ritual with her? As in, he liked that they spent time together drinking tea? Or that they had something special...? She felt her cheeks flush at that thought and scolded herself. He hadn’t meant it like that, she was certain of it... wasn’t she? Oh lord, too many questions. Abigail shook herself slightly as she realized that he was looking at her expectantly. She had obviously missed something.
"Sorry, what?"
"Did you want the same, or shall I make you something lighter? I know you’re trying to avoid some of the stronger ones..."
That was kind; she had been avoiding the stronger teas since one had triggered a flashback of Jacob.
Abigail shook her head. "No, that’s all right. I’ll probably take it a little weaker than you, though—ease myself back into things."
Byron nodded his agreement and moved to start the tea making process, leaving Abigail wondering if she should think of something to say or just let the quiet sit between them. Their last interaction had been... tense.
"So... I don’t know if you can say anything..." she ventured, earning a sharp glance from Byron, "but... did your friend tell you anything about those other photos?"
He looks weary, she thought as she watched him carefully pour the water before answering.
"I can’t say anything, really, or at least I couldn’t say anything," he answered, "I haven’t heard anything back at all, probably because I’m retired."
"Oh," she replied. She hadn’t really thought about that, although now that he had said it, she realized that it was pretty obvious. “Sure, of course. Sorry. It’s just..."
"No need to be sorry," he said, "it was a weird day and I’m sorry I can’t say more."
Abigail slowly pondered those words. He couldn’t say more... She didn’t feel his hesitation or awkwardness the way she had when she had asked about why he didn’t like Bee. There was a reason; she was sure of it now, because this refusal to elaborate felt more genuine.
"Sure..."
"You don’t sound sure?"
He was looking at her expectantly, and she debated whether she wanted to push this particular button.
"I was just thinking about how you sound different when you lie..."
He barely flinched but he did flinch, ever so slightly, and Abigail noticed it.
"Really?
"Yeah... you seem genuine right now," she explained, "like you really would say more if you could, but there isn’t anything to say."
"Right now? As opposed to...?"
"When I asked you about Bee and why you don’t like her."
A part of Abigail’s mind was yelling at her—why was she like this!? They’d been having a nice conversation and she had to go and drop a social bomb on it!? The other part was quietly smug as Byron shifted from foot to foot, looking guilty.
"Abby... It’s like I said, it’s not that I don’t like her—I just... I can’t explain, okay?"
"I see that... but I think you want to," she said, the pieces falling into place.
He glared.
"I can’t," he said, "and I won’t. Please don’t push this..."
Abigail’s resolve softened. He wasn’t mad at her—he seemed sad. She nodded.
"Okay," she said, “total subject change?”
“Yes, please,” Byron replied, a small smile on his lips.
“I finally went upstairs…”
Abigail wondered what in the world made her choose that subject to change to when she would have to conceal half of the reason why. Maybe he won’t ask why…
“Oh? What changed?”
Damn.
“Just needed to,” she said.
Technically, it was not a lie—she had needed to. It felt strange to be discussing it so openly with Byron now. She hadn’t exactly tried to hide the fact she’d been avoiding going upstairs and he knew she’d been sleeping on a couch in the living room the whole time she had been in town, but talking about it openly felt different.
“And is there something up there you think you want to be changed? I’d have to take a look to let you know what can and can’t be changed—I don’t know this place inside as well as the outside.”
There was a warm sensation in her stomach; of course, he was thinking about how to help her. The idea made Abigail smile, which mildly annoyed her because a part of her brain was screaming that this was only slightly above the bare minimum.
The way he smiled back at her might have had something to do with it, she reluctantly admitted to herself. He pushed a cup of tea across the counter to her with a questioning expression.
“I don’t know, I guess I’m just getting kinda fond of the place.”
“Fond of the place?”
“Don’t make fun of me! I’m fond of it, okay?” Abigail replied, laughing, “I probably shouldn’t be, what with the horrifying dreams and discovering half my life was a lie… but I think I like it here. I don’t feel pressed in on all sides like I do at home. Since I’ve been here, I haven’t had a single conversation about the dreadful burden of having three cars, no one has asked me why I kept working after having the girls, and I haven’t received any dirty looks over the food or drink I’ve ordered.”
Byron raised an eyebrow as he sipped his tea, “are those problems you often experience at home?”
“Yeah, actually, they are,” Abigail said, shaking her head, “I eat too much and drink too little.”
“Not at all, from what I’ve seen… You've always stuck to soft drinks whenever we’ve had beers or a bottle of wine on movie night.”
He was right. Abigail had never been a big drinker or partier outside of a few notable times in college. She never went out of her way to hide it and didn’t mind when people assumed she was in an Alcoholics Anonymous program because at least it might help reduce the stigma around it.
“Yeah, pretty much,” she said, “I figure I have enough challenges for my brain and memory to work through. Adding alcohol to the mix seems like a bad idea. It’s not like I won’t have a glass of champagne at a wedding or sip someone’s cocktail when they say it’s the best thing ever, but… functionally, I’m a teetotaler.”
“That makes total sense,” Byron said, before quickly adding, “not that it needs to make sense—or that it’s my business either way!”
Abigail laughed, “It’s fine, Byron, don’t worry, I’m not offended. You never questioned it—or interrogated me about it. The number of people who think it’s all right to ask ‘why?’ when I say I don’t drink is wild to me, though… what if I was an alcoholic? Or if someone I loved was, and it killed them? How is that a party conversation?”
He nodded somberly, “yeah… I won’t lie, I think I’ve probably done that at some point or another. Out of curiosity or banter, the drinking culture I grew up in was strong and I’ve known several alcoholics. It’s a rough thing.”
His eyes met hers across the counter, and she could tell he was genuinely sincere in this moment. She could have sworn she felt a tingling connection between them. There was no way she should be feeling this giddy over such a serious conversation but the way he looked, leaning his elbows down on the countertop, the muscles in his shoulders pulling his shirt taut as he held his tea in both hands. He had carpenter's hands, she realized; they were rough and nicked in places, with tiny white scars adorning several of his knuckles.
“So, did you want to head upstairs to the bedroom?”
She blinked at that—had he really just said that or had she imagined it? As she took in his casually amused and questioning expression, she realized she had been staring.
Staring.
At his shoulders.
And his hands.
To the point where she had actually lost track of the conversation.
Good Lord, what was wrong with her!?
“Sorry, what!? I, uh, think I got a bit lost there!” she blurted out, hoping he wouldn’t think the conversation had upset her.
“That’s fine,” he replied smiling, “I was just saying did you want to head upstairs and check out the bedrooms to see what needs changing?”
“Right! Yes, of course,” she replied, “sounds good to me.”
She stood from her seat and gripped her tea cup firmly. She needed to concentrate on not spilling it all over herself as she realized that what she had first thought he said sounded pretty good to her, too…
Abigail swallowed hard against the lump in her throat. She might actually be developing a full-blown crush on this man, and that spelled trouble.