Page 25 of Rules to Love By

“I have no doubt he does it on purpose.”

“He likes to get a rise out of people.” Eli’s gaze intensified. “Any way he can.”

“Did you just warn me off your cousin?”

“That wouldn’t be my place.” Eli eased past him for the kitchen and took glasses down from a cupboard. “Would it?”

“No.” Marcus watched him over the bag he’d placed on the table in front of him. “It’s not.”

For all he should be annoyed at the intrusion, he couldn’t help the disappointment when Eli muttered “Right,” as he thunked the glasses onto the table.

Wishful thinking there, Marcus.He kept his eyes on his task as he sorted out the sandwiches.

After they’d eaten, Eli turned his attention to the pile, then to Marcus. “Maybe we should clean out the storeroom first so we can put things back in as we count it.”

“If the storeroom was better set up to store things, I’d say yes. But it doesn’t even have shelves.”

“It has one.”

“A shelf. It needs more. It needs proper lighting, and at the very least, a coat of white paint on everything. Although I would argue for drywalling in the stairs to keep out more of the dust and closing off the low part at the end from the rest, then creating a small door or drawers on the outside of the stairs to access that small section more conveniently.”

“That’s a really good idea.”

“I have them occasionally.”

“You don’t say.”

Marcus felt Eli’s gaze on him but kept his firmly on the piles. “Also, we need to talk to your dad about what he wants to keep.” He toed a pile of plastic Sale signs with prices from the eighties. “The wooden ‘Shave and Haircut for $2.00’ is nostalgic kitsch we might be able to use. These are junk.”

“Okay, so then we sort. Actual inventory over there.” He pointed to a spot under the picture window. “Everything else on this side. Then we sort ‘everything else’ into what’s useful or interesting from what’s not. Let’s Marie Kondo the shit out of this.”

He jumped right in, shifting boxes of shampoo and hair straightener.

“If I were a betting man, I would say you were trying to avoid the actual inventorying part of this venture,” Marcus said as he shoved the plastic signs closer to the top of the stairs with one foot.

Eli glared daggers at the laptop.

“Did it do something to you?” Marcus asked, half expecting electronic smoke to billow from between the closed halves.

The box Eli was pushing hit the wall with a muted thump as he straightened. “I’m not the best typist in the world.”

“I see.”

“Or speller.”

Marcus nodded. “Okay.”

Eli scratched at the nape of his neck so hard Marcus heard his nails scrape through the kinky curls from across the room. He glared at the floor, looking like he was in pain.

In three long strides, Marcus was next to him. He pulled the hand away, then covered the nail marks with his palm. “What’s going on?” He kneaded lightly, encouraging Eli to lift his head.

“I’m… actually dyslexic.”

“Oh!” Marcus squeezed his nape one last time. “Okay, then. New plan. Instead of piling everything here or there, then having to un-pile it, count it, and re-pile it, everything goes to the middle. We count as we sort.” He picked up the computer and waved it. “You count, I type.”

Eli stared at him.

“What?”

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