Page 12 of Forging Chaos

“Come in,” I shout, hoping I left the door unlocked.

She slips in and sinks onto the couch beside me. “God, what a day. I was at the law clinic this afternoon. You wouldn’t believe the things human beings do to one another, Odin. It’s horrifying.”

“I forgot you work at the law clinic.” I adjust my posture so I’m facing her as best I can.

Thora nods. “I mean, it’s volunteering. But yes.”

I nod, too. “Yeah. You helped Wyatt get his shit together. Turned his whole life around.”

Thora purses her lips. “Honestly, I just check people in for the most part. It’s people like your mom who are actually doing the work. They’re the ones who change lives.”

“Okay, but you’re there helping. Someone has to check people in. Right?”

She makes a face at me, like she wants to stick out her tongue or leave rather than accept appreciation. I grunt. She must think I’m a gorilla. Maybe I’m just hungry. I hear a sound and stare at her. “Was that your stomach?”

Thora looks sheepish. “Yeah. I’m going to grab dinner after we finish our draft.”

I frown and shake my head. “We should eat. My parents brought soup.”

“Soup?” She looks like she never heard of it before. Or maybe she’s not used to parents who make food. Her family sounded bitchy when I knocked on her door this morning.

“Yeah. I’ll share if you heat it up for us.”

Her face lights up. “Deal. You’ve got clean bowls and stuff, right?”

I flip her the bird, and she cackles, yammering at me about mean landlords and terrible employers while she heats soup on the stove.

She carries two steaming bowls to the couch, a pair of spoons tucked into her back jeans pocket. I stare at them. Am I supposed to reach in and pluck them out, thus touching her ass? Does she want me to touch her ass? She was ogling mine earlier…

“Hello? McFly?” Thora waves a hand in my face. She sets the bowls on the coffee table beside my boot cast and must have been asking me something.

“Say again? Sorry.”

“I was asking where you keep the napkins.” She glances around and, spotting a roll of paper towels, strides toward them to rip off a few. The question about the spoons is answered when she pulls them out with one hand, tucks a paper towel into my hoodie pocket, and hands me a bowl of soup, all in one smooth motion. Seeing my impressed face, Thora smiles. “Bartender skills.” She grabs her soup and sits beside me, close enough that I can smell floral perfume above the garlicky aroma of my dad’s minestrone. “Oh shit, this is good. Your parents made this?”

I nod, slurping some of the broth. A surge of emotion hits me along with the flavors on my tongue. Dad started cooking when he retired from pro hockey to raise me and my brothers.Not sure why I feel like sharing, but I blurt, “My dad stayed home to support my mom’s judicial career.” Thora’s eyes go wide. I take another bite of soup, and she matches my movements, silently waiting for me to tell her more. “Mom’s on the Commonwealth Court now, but she did family court for a long time. She’s Juniper?—”

Thora gasps, cutting me off. “Juniper Jones, is yourmom?Holy shit. She’s a hero. I met her at the student law clinic a bunch of times. She’samazing.She remembered that I was going for the Rhodes scholarship. She’s your mom? Of course, she is…”

I eat more soup, but I’m not sure how to respond to all of that. I’m more used to people freaking out about my dad. I guess there are more sports fans in my social circle than…are court fans even a thing? Law fans? “You want to be a lawyer?”

Thora nods and sets her empty soup bowl on the coffee table with a clang. “I’m definitely going to be a lawyer. I told you why I’m going to England, right? To study international approaches to child welfare and recidivism for nonviolent crimes? Your mom is the star of a bunch of case studies I’ve read for class. Didn’t she start in sports law? That always seemed out of character to me…”

I finish my soup and stretch forward, batting Thora’s hand away when she tries to help me reach the coffee table. I might not be able to do much, but I can set my own fucking bowl down when I’m done eating. I pop my evening pain meds into my mouth, swallow, and explain, “Mom had to switch jobs sort of abruptly, and my Uncle Tim had an opening.” I turn to face Thora, adjusting my cast to sit sideways on the couch. “Can we be done talking about my family now?”

“Hm. Sure.” Thora reaches for her backpack and pulls out the laptop, which is really more of a barely portable desktop machine on its last legs. “Let’s crank out a draft.”

She has, of course, written most of it already and included way too many footnotes and parenthetical asides, which I delete until she acknowledges that my version is much more streamlined and effective. We get most of a draft down while she gets us more soup. By the time she leans back with her hand on her belly, I’m exhausted but still hungry. This would be the perfect time for me to make a joke about eating my next course…between her legs. But it wouldn’t be a joke. Not for me, anyway. I scratch my neck. “I have to do something else. My head is spinning.” I make my way to my feet, and Thora looks concerned. When I frown at her, she schools her features. “I’m not fragile, you know.”

“Ha! I can see that. I just…want to be helpful. That’s all.”

I rest my knee on the couch, so I’m not putting weight on my bad foot; like a good patient, I scratch my neck. I haven’t shaved in a while. Maybe I’ll grow a beard now that I don’t have to wear a helmet over it. She continues to stare at me like I’m fragile until I stretch and sit back down on the couch. “All right,” she says, looking at her phone. “Let’s map out a plan to finalize this and practice our oral presentation.” She clacks away, sending notifications to me, which I ignore as the meds kick in and begin to dull the throbbing in my lower leg.

I must be dozing off because Thora startles me by resting a hand on my shoulder. “Hey,” she says, and I don’t like the soothing tone in her voice. I like it better when she’s mean to me. “I’m going to head out.”

I try to respond, but all that comes out is a grunt. She stands up and then bends to grab her backpack, and my lizard brain overtakes my rational mind, and I rest my palm on her backside. I don’t squeeze or rub. I…hold it like a firm little watermelon, all for me

Thora glances back over her shoulder, a laugh in her eyes. “Can I help you?”

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