Page 45 of Under Locke & Key
Our clipped words might sound cold but I’m filled with a heat that won’t diffuse. Every second of her hands on mine, and something about the bite of pain and the softness of her touch, is torture in the best way.
“How?”
“Renovations. My hand slipped while I was working and . . .” I shrug, because what else is there to say when the result is evident.
“Was someone there with you?”
I can’t lie to her, and she sees it in my hesitation to answer anyway, so there’s no point even trying.
“Bryce.” There are leagues wrapped up in that one word. Disappointment, worry, frustration, hurt. “If I’d have known you’ve been doing it all alone . . .”
“It’s my responsibility. There’s absolutely nothing in your contract about physical labor. I couldn’t possibly ask or expect?—”
Before I can keep defending my choices, she’s talking again. “Screw the contract. You got hurt and I bet you drove yourself with that hand. It could have been broken. No.” She shakes her head, dark hair swinging with the movement and I want to touch it so badly, see if it feels as soft as it looks. “No more. From now on if one of us is going to be at the theater, both of us will be there. I can help with the reno, or program while you’re working. Heaven forbid you were up on a ladder and fell or something.”
Her seriousness and stern words, the way she sounds almost protective nearly do me in and I have to deflect before the emotion overwhelms me.
“Oh, and you’d know all about ladders and falling.” My mouth quirks up on the side, the reference to her ill-advised decorating technique.
“That wasonetime.” She rolls her eyes and her mirth is back, light spilling through the crack in my chest.
“I think it’s a good idea, hon. You shouldn’t be there all alone. And if you need help with anything, please let us know.” My mother’s voice pulls me out of the moment and I realize with startling clarity that my hand is still within Rachel’s grasp and I had completely forgotten we were even in the middle of a dinner.
Rachel covers her shock better and carefully extracts her hands from mine, nodding at my mom, pleased to have backup.
“It’s settled then. You’ll take two weeks to rest your hand before you eventhinkof doing more, and when you do, I’ll be there.” The promise and threat in there makes my stomach flip and I grin like a fool, covering it with a bite of my food when I catch my dad’s eyes on me.
“Next Monday,” I urge. I can’t afford to wait much longer than that.
“That’s only ten days.” I try to give him a stern look but he just smiles and I give in after a bit. “Only if you go to urgent care or something and have them do a proper X-Ray and tetanus shot. Think of the workman’s comp you’d have to pay out.”
This time I roll my eyes at her. “I’m the workman and the boss. I’d have to pay myself.”
“OSHA violation then.”
“I’ll go if you stop threatening me with lawsuits.”
“Next Monday it is.”
We share a smile and then the check’s arrived and we’re saying our goodbyes but I’m still thinking about the way my hand tingles from her touch. She shakes hands with my parents again, avoiding my injured one so it becomes some strange squeeze instead, closer to holding my hand than anything else.
She sweeps from the restaurant much the same way she entered it, only this time the air is thinner,lesswithout her here. Or perhaps it’s just me deflating after all of the excitement.
Walking to the car, I’m lost in my mind. I buckle up in the back, ignoring the pain in my hand and catch my dad’s eyes in the rearview mirror. It’s not until we pull up to the urgent care in town that I know has late hours that the silence is broken.
“We really like her.” My mom says it so simply, as if remarking on the weather or something just as inane, but we all know it isn’t. Her favor isn’t easily curried, and for her to feel sure enough to speak for my father as well, it means something. The fact that sheneversaid anything even close to this about Stephanie gives it even more weight.
“Not that it means anything, because she is just myemployee,” I stress as I get out of the car. “But that’s good to know.”
“If you step back for a moment, take in the big picture, you’ll notice that the lines you keep drawing in the sand between you are too small to mean much.” My mom’s words halt me, halfway to the doors and tossed from the car window. “Call her whatever you like, employee or not, maybe it’s time you think about just what it is holding you back. Because your father and I both know it’s not some contract that’ll run out within six months.”
Swallowing past the dryness in my throat, the tumbleweed of thoughts whirling within my mind, I have nothing to say. Because they’re not wrong, and I’m scared to look too closely at that. But maybe it’s time I stop being so scared. Who exactly am I holding back for?
“I’ll be out as soon as I’m done,” I say in lieu of an actual answer and step into harsh overhead lighting—antiseptic, and a throbbing in my hand, head, and the traitorous heart hidden behind the cracked mess in my chest. Terrified to feel its insistent beat, thrumming with the thought of Rachel and what could be. Quiet, but there nonetheless.
I held his hand.I held his hand in front of his parents and probably made a complete fool of myself. And I’ve fixated on it for days. It’s time to call in reinforcements because I am so far out of my depth and in over my head that I can barely breathe without thinking about his scent and how I’ve missed it. All day Friday, and culminating in a moment of weakness where I woke up on Saturday, flushed and aching from a very vivid dream.
He was right there, so close his warmth seeped through all my clothing and my mind ran away with the image of us that close, that heat at its apex between us. He opened the door, metaphorically and physically, and I’ve been locked in my apartment with nothing but want and conflict inside of me since.I need you to be sure, he’d said and it stilled me. Because as sure as I am that this thing, this arcing energy between us may be magnificent to explore, I am not sure that I’m ready.
