Page 42 of Under Locke & Key
“You want to be there for your friend. She came out to support me at your request, so I’ll do the same. I’ll be there.”
“You’re the best. Has anyone told you lately that you’re the best?” Logan asks.
That’s her loss.Rachel’s words clang in my mind. “Not quite.” But not far off. Hearing that . . . hearing that I’m something that would hurt to lose fizzes inside of me.
“The set up starts at the park and runs along the riverwalk. I’ll meet you at the big oak at ten.”
“Big oak at ten. Anything else I should know?” The pain is a throb that sends sharp stinging bolts through my fingers when I try to straighten them out. Turns out punching the metal legs of a bolted down chair is a colossally bad idea.
“Do you own anything rainbow?” Logan asks.
“No? Should I find something?” I manage between trying to push my knuckle against my mouth, as if kissing it away like my mother would’ve when I was younger will actually do something.
“Don’t worry. I got you. See you there!”
Before I can ask or worry about what that means, Logan has hung up and it’s becoming increasingly clear that the rest of today’s work is a wash. My knuckles are busted. Kissing away the pain didn’t work but my mother will have some peroxide or something to clean it at the very least.
Locking up behind me and plopping down heavily onto the driver’s seat, I take the long way home. If that happens to include a jaunt past a particular blue door, that’s no one’s business but mine.
If my parents are surprised to see me home at a reasonable time, or entering through the front door instead of escaping up to the garage apartment, it’s overtaken by their concern once they see my hand.
“Bryce Locke Dawson,” my mother admonishes, running water over a paper towel to press on my knuckles.
“What happened?” my dad asks from his perch on the bar stool at the kitchen island. His owlish eyes blink at me with worry behind his glasses, brows drawn low, and I realize with clarity that this is probably what I’ll look like when I’m older. Give or take a few things I inherited from mom.
Someday I’ll be sitting at my own table, with or without someone else to share it with, glasses perched on my nose and my face lined with all the emotions I let slip past my facade.
“Got into a fight with one of the theater chairs bolted to the ground. The chair won.”
My dad barks out a laugh and my mother just shakes her head, tutting as she rushes over with the first aid kit. Cleaning the creases of my knuckles, bruises already forming, the cuts sting as she passes an antibacterial over them.
“How’s the renovation going?” Mom asks, bent over my hand.
“It’s slow. I underestimated how much needed to get done, but I hope I can still make it work by December. Six-ish months should be enough, in theory.”
“I can’t believe it’s been two months already. How’s it going? How’s that girl you hired getting on?” My dad manages it between bites of mini pretzels, always grazing.
“Woman, Dad. She’s a woman, not a girl, as I’ve mentioned before. And it’s . . . going.”
I stare down at my hand, my mom slathering on some kind of ointment then pressing gauze to my knuckles, before bandaging them up. I’m sure it’s overkill but being cared for feels so nice I’m not going to argue. Besides, it gives me the excuse not to answer my dad’s last question, and I can only hope he doesn’t pick up on me avoiding it.
My dad huffs, the meaning behind it indecipherable, and when I turn to him again he schools his face into something neutral before offering me some of his pretzels.
My mom pats my forearm, apparently finished with her impromptu nursing. “You should invite her over for dinner.”
She must anticipate that I’ll protest because she carries on without a moment’s hesitation in her mom voice, “I’m sure she’s lonely away from everything and everyone she knows. Dulaney might be coming home to you, but she’s still finding her footing.”
Theresa Dawson throws in a sharp look to emphasize her feelings and I wilt under her gaze.
“I’ll ask her if she has a preference on time or any kind of food issues.”
My dad laughs at how quick I folded and when my mother trains her sharp expression on him he sobers immediately, winking at me as soon as she’s gone back to her task of staring into the refrigerator as if dinner is going to jump out at her if she looks long enough.
“No one tells you when you’re growing up that the worst part of adulthood will be trying to come up with meals, every meal, every day, for the rest of your life,” Mom grumbles, opening drawers, condiments clinking in the refrigerator door.
“What I’m hearing is, we’re going out for dinner.” My dad pops another pretzel into his mouth, eyes twinkling with hope.
My parents play this game constantly. She’ll try to be responsible and he’ll be waiting in the wings to enable whatever thawing she eventually shows. It works because mom gets what she wants without feeling like she has to ask for it—something both she and I struggle with—and dad gets to pretend all the good ideas are his.
