Page 66 of Under Locke & Key
“Was it a date?” The twinkle in my mom’s eye is a little alarming.
“In a way.”
My mom backhands my shoulder to scold me for being so vague. They share a look, that weird silent communication between them that comes with thirty-plus years of marriage, and the grin on my father’s face is borderline diabolical. “It was Rachel.”
My cheeks flame and I take another sip of water to try and play it off. “That wasn’t a question.”
“We didn’t need to ask. It’s all over your face.” Frank Dawson laughs like I’m the funniest joke he’s ever heard and my mom shakes her head at him.
“For the record, we really like her. She seems like a lovely woman—smart, driven, but still kind and approachable,” my mom says.
I can’t help but feel like my mother listed those first two attributes, ones that could have been ascribed to Stephanie, only to make sure she could juxtapose them with the qualities Rachel has that my ex lacked.
Clearing my throat, working up the courage, I nod. “It’s barely anything. We’ll see what happens, especially considering the escape room. Which—speaking of—how bad is it?”
The mirth on their faces disappears. “It’s not great. Crunching the numbers, accounting for operating costs for the first three months, repair and renovation costs, you’ll have to open by the end of August or beginning of September in order to make it work. And that's with the diminished room count I mentioned. Do you think that’s doable for you? Six weeks or so? Since you’re working on most of this yourself?”
My temples radiate with a headache that’s rapidly formed. Between being overheated and stressed there’s no avoiding it.
“Do I have a choice? I’ve already sunk half my savings and the money from the house sale into this. I’ve signed a year-long lease on the building and we’ve gutted one and a half rooms already. No, I’ve just got to push through. I might just have to ask for help wherever I can get it.”
My mom pats my hand, no doubt having noticed it’s turned into a fist. “Your dad and I are here and although we aren’t as spry as we once were, give us some painting or organizing. Heck, Logan will probably come as well if you told him what’s going on.”
“And there’s Rachel. She’s already been amazing from what you’ve told us and what we’ve seen,” Dad chimes in.
“I just don’t want to ask too much of her. The lines are blurring between us and the last thing I want is for her to think I’m exploiting that change to get more work out of her. She’s been such a help. I couldn’t do it without her.”
“Just make sure you show her that. I know you struggle with articulating what you’re feeling. Like me, you’re a person of action when words fail. I’m sure she already knows, but keep showing her how much her work means, and how much you admire her as a person, and you’ll be fine.” My mom’s statement has me huffing out a shuddering breath.
Because she’s not wrong. Expressing my emotions in the right words has never been my strong suit. Which is a freaking joke when considering I suck at picking up physical or other subtle cues myself anyway. Communication is a struggle. No wonder I missed my marriage falling apart when I leaned on Steph’s words alone.
“Yes, but also, she deserves more than that. I have to at least try to say it as well as just showing it. I don’t want to make the same mistakes again.” It seemed unfathomable to me when Steph first asked for a divorce that I would ever want to be with someone again—to put myself in a position to be vulnerable and potentially get hurt. But maybe things are changing.
“Good. But for what it’s worth, Rachel isn’t Stephanie. And you aren’t the man you were with Steph. You’ve grown. I’ve never seen you this confident or sure of yourself. Even when doubting this endeavor, you’re pushing through. I’m proud of you.” My dad looks suspiciously emotional, a bit of moisture shining behind those glasses of his.
“Okay, okay. Enough mushiness. My food is getting cold and I need to get over to the theater as soon as possible if we’re going to kick this thing into high gear.”
The rest of the meal is less heavy, small comments and plans that have no big bearing on anything. The stress of it all is already clawing up my throat and I can’t let myself panic two days in a row. Once I’ve helped my mother load the dishes, and freshened up, I drive back over to the theater.
Hey, I’m back over at work if you’d like to join.
I understand if you don’t. It was a rough morning.
But I’d love to see your face. It’s been too long already.
Rachel
Give me thirty to get ready and head over!
I try to keep my cool while I unbolt the chain on the doors and get set up for the day, preparing to finish gutting the second room. I’ve got a little under two months to pull this all together before money falls prey to time and I can’t afford not to finish. By the time I’ve ripped up another row of seats, Rachel arrives with a cooler bag full of water bottles and snacks.
“I figured we were going to be here for a while, so I brought provisions.” Her cheeks heat as she holds the bag up, the first thing either of us have said since I left her bed this morning.
“You’re amazing. I’d hug you but my hands are dirty.” I hold up the evidence, black streaks and dust on my hands and forearms.
“Not just your hands. You’ve got some on your forehead from wiping sweat.” She laughs at me, sets the bag down, and gives me a quick peck on the mouth before straightening up with her game face on.
“So, what’s the plan?” Rachel asks, prying more of the glued down wall covering. This time she’s got the stripper and scraper ready to go.
