Page 52 of Under My Skin
The word stands out like a red flag, and I feel like I’m back in school doing worksheets where I have to circle which word doesn’t belong. The dead don’t get the luxury of present tense.
Resisting the urge to drag my hand over my face, I gesture for her to take the lead. “All right. Show me the bathroom, and then I’ll run to the store and get a new key.” I know why she can’t find where Dad put it. It’s because she still hasn’t gone through his things the way you’re supposed to when someone passes away. A few months after it happened, I tried to help her. We had a plan of which rooms we’d conquer first, and I was ready to take time off from the shop to help her every step of the way. I think we started with the laundry room because that seemed harmless enough, but even finding random things of his in there sent her spiraling. She kept taking breaks, or she wouldn’t part with something that was basically junk simply because it had once belonged to him. I figured it was too early. I thought maybe she just needed a little more time, but that was a year ago now, and I’m not sure anything has changed.
“Thank you for doing this. I’m sorry I’m such a mess.” She leads me up the stairs, and I frown at her words.
“Don’t apologize. I just wish I knew you needed help with so many things.”
Looking over her shoulder, she smiles. “Oh, I know how busy you are. I didn’t want to bother you with it all.”
“I’m not that busy, Mom. Just call me.” She thinks I’m busy because I haven’t been visiting. I’ve probably even turned down a couple of invitations by seeming busier than I was and suggesting we meet somewhere to catch up instead. My hand grips the railing a little harder at the thought. I’m letting her down. I’m the only one here for her to count on, and she’d rather live with an overgrown lawn, a radiator on the verge of malfunctioning before winter, and a clogged sink.
“Okay, okay. From now on, I’ll call you.”
I’m not sure I believe her, but going forward, I’m going to do a better job of checking in. I have to. Because if my dad saw the state of his wife’s house right now, there’s no way he’d be proud.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
LUCY
The streetin front of Copper Ridge Tattoo Co. isn’t nearly as busy tonight compared to Friday and Saturday. The shop is dark, and it’s almost eerie how quietly it sits after seeing it so full of life the past two days.
Simon finished packing up his room before me, so I told him he could head home. I’m the one who rarely gets the chance to visit with Mom and Dad since he lives here anyway. I wish I could say today’s visit gave me more closure about their separation, but I might be more confused than ever.
Lunch as a family felt almost identical to how it always has. There was no squabbling, no snide remarks, no resentment. Just two parents having lunch with their adult children even though they’re about to go their separate ways. Dad still made terrible jokes, and Mom still shook her head in that affectionate way every time he’d say something ridiculous. Simon didn’t seem weirded out by any of it, but it all felt fake. It has to be fake, right? If they really felt so fondly toward one another, they wouldn’t be doing this.
Pushing away the thought, I step down the short alleyway that leads to the back of the shop. If it wasn’t for Everett’s bike parkedhere, I’d think the place was empty. At least the door is unlocked like he said it would be. “Everett?” I call out to the dark shop floor. Shuffling comes from above, and I look up to find a faint glow coming from the top of the stairs. “Hey, are you up there?”
“Yeah.” Everett’s gruff voice comes from somewhere up above. “Sorry, I should have left the light on. Come on up.”
Holding the railing, I make my way up the wooden stairs. It isn’t too late, maybe a little after eight, but between the dark shop and the quiet street, it feels closer to midnight. “You said you wanted to run a few things by me?”
As soon as I get to the top of the stairs, I take in the scene in front of me. One standing lamp in the corner of what will one day be the living room is the only source of light. Not much has happened over the weekend with construction, but all the drywall is done, and there’s a large patch that’s been painted. In this lighting, it looks almost black, but I know it’s the dark blue I suggested.
On the floor in front of the wall is brown paper protecting the floor, a small can of sample paint, and a brush. Everett kneels on the floor a few feet away, picking up different papers scattered across the floor, and stacking them back into a shoe box.
“I painted it this morning,” he says without looking up. “Before we went to your parents’ house.”
“Is that where you went so early? To pick up paint?”
Still not looking up from what he’s doing, he shrugs. “I’m always up early.”
Something’s off about him. The calm, easy demeanor that has felt like a beacon for my own chaotic mind is nowhere in sight. In its place is a frazzled version of Everett. His dark hair is a little more tousled, his eyes tired, and there’s a six-pack on the floor next to him with one bottle already taken out and open.
“Did everything go okay at your mom’s house?” I might not know much about what he did with the rest of his day, but he wasn’t like this while we were in my room this morning.
Once all the papers and cards are securely back in the box withthe lid on it, he sits back against the wall, his elbows resting on his knees. “Yeah.” Reaching for an unopened bottle, he holds it by the neck, offering it in my direction.
“Thanks,” I say as I sit across from him and reach for the beer.
Before I can pull my hand away, his fingers overlap mine, holding the bottle in place. The warmth of his calloused hand sends a wave of heat through my entire body, but I stay completely still. With his free hand, he reaches for a bottle opener and pops the top. It isn’t until he lets go of my fingers around the glass, that I remember how to speak.
“How’s your mom?” I ask hesitantly. It somehow feels like the wrong thing and the only thing to ask.
He picks up the bottle next to him and takes a sip. When he’s done, he doesn’t set it down again. Instead, he lets it hang in the balance of his fingers as he casually rests his elbows on his bent knees. “Good. Fine.” Rubbing his free hand over his face, he adds, “Better now, I think.”
I thumb the label of the beer and nod. “And you?” I glance up to check his reaction.
He holds my stare with the bottle resting at his lips like he was about to take another sip but stopped. “I’ve been better,” he finally says before tossing back the rest of the beer.
